My Blog

The first person I kissed on the lips was the girl next door. It was the longest courtship in lesbian history. When her family first moved into the neighborhood, she told everyone her name was Steve. We were six years old. My hair was set in long Shirley-Temple curls and my mother dressed me in dresses or elastic-waist pants with ruffly, ribbon shirts. Steve lived in jeans and her long, dirty-blonde hair hung about her shoulders always needing to be brushed. She didn't look like a boy. She didn't look like me. She held her body differently, sat with her legs apart, seemed to move through space in a way that was foreign and exciting to me. She didn't have dolls and her room wasn't painted pink like all the other girls I knew. She had balls, bats, and gloves for games I didn't even know existed. She was the only girl in my middle-class, white, small-town neighborhood who rode a boy's bike. I called her Steve even after I knew her real name was Pam. She liked it and I liked how pleasing her made me feel.

At eight, we played house in the metal shed in my backyard. I served her milk in small, plastic, pink cups with roses painted on them and cookies on matching pink, plastic plates. She brought me flowers picked from the neighbors' front yards. We made up conversations mimicking the adults around us. She complained about a "hard day" at work, I gave detailed explanations of clothing I'd purchased that day, friends I'd had lunch with, gossip I'd heard, and places I'd like for us to visit on our next vacation. We pushed my cat around the neighborhood in a doll stroller holding hands, pretending the cat was our new baby.

The winters that we were eight and nine, we played space games in the snow. Bundled in our snowsuits, we pretended we were space travelers stranded on the icy moon of some uncharted planet. We built snow fortresses and snow walls to protect our fortresses, pretended our lives depended on sticking together, and stockaded snowballs for attacks by her younger brothers, the planet's hostile native population, against our safe house. I would be taken prisoner by the natives and she would rescue me.

We would take our sleds to the hillside near our homes and I would clasp my arms and legs around her, tell her not to go too fast, not to go too close to the trees. I would tell her I was afraid. She'd tell me to hold on, not to worry or be frightened, and launch us down the hill at the trees, announcing we were going faster than we had ever gone before. I'd scream, cling tighter, and squeal with delight as I hid my face in the back of her nylon, down-stuffed coat. When the sled stopped I'd protest that she did it on purpose to scare me, my heart racing from the thrill. She'd promise not to do it again, mock beg my forgiveness, and coax me into going down a bigger hill. We'd pretend the sled was a motorcycle like the older boy up the street had or an out-of-control spaceship. We'd sail down the hill, through the trees sometimes tipping over, sometimes making it safely out the other side, and sometimes crashing head-first into a tree.

When the cold got to be too much and our clothes too wet, we'd go back to my house and make real hot cocoa with milk and whipped cream. We'd sit in my room in our T-shirts and long underwear and I'd rub her feet until they were warm again. I'd rub her back and the small developing bulges in her arms. I'd sit straddled across her butt -- two schoolgirls in all innocence. Neither of our parents ever questioned or suspected what was building between us. Neither of us ever suspected it either.

At ten, she beat up the neighborhood boys at a single word from me. Sometimes I would have her beat them up because they teased, taunted, or shoved me, but just as often for no other reason than because I wanted her to do it. I liked the idea of her pounding some boy's face in defense of a perceived wrong to my perceived honor. With tears, sometimes real from true assaults and sometimes conjured up by inflicting pain on myself, in my eyes, I would feign helplessness, telling her who did what real or created injustice to me, showing her any marks, and forcing my bottom lip out in a soft pout. I would act surprised as I hurried behind her asking where she was going as she stomped off to my great pleasure and satisfaction after the boy I'd accused.

Standing just close enough to see her muscles tighten as her fist made contact with a boy's face or stomach, just close enough to hear the impact of her fist with their flesh and bone, I watched her humiliate the boy I had accused who was inevitably weaker than her. Seeing the blood and hearing the boy beg for her mercy, which only I, ultimately, could grant; for the answer to his pleas, Steve always turned to me. A nod of my head and he was forced to apologize, and freed; a shake and she would continue to torture him. She was my Galahad, but I was not Guinevere. I was Morgana hiding in an illusion of magic, presenting myself as sweet Guinevere and savoring each moment of the battle, disappointed only by the fact that I could not be an active participant in it.

At twelve, I got a bra and my period. The boys had long since stopped coming anywhere near me, crossing the street to avoid me, for fear of what I would tell Steve. In the summer, Steve and I would lay in the grass on the hills by our houses, her head in my lap -- I would read aloud from Dracula, Frankenstein, or The Deeds of the Holy Martyrs, stopping to spoon raspberry sherbet into her mouth or run an ice cube over the back of her neck and upper arms. I would run my fingers through her hair as I read. She would roll onto her side pushing her face against my stomach. She would request I reread sections she liked. Eventually, she would playfully push me onto my back and wrestle with me, always letting me have the illusion I was winning. Inevitably, to my delight, she would get on top of me and pin my wrists, threatening some horrible treatment, tickling me, rolling both of us linked together down the side of the hill, then releasing me as we laughed.

I would lay my head on her shoulder or chest and she would wrap her arm around me. The smell of her fresh, clean sweat would fill my nose, mixing with the smells of the earth and grass of the summer hillside. Our laughter would stop, our breathing would slow to normal and in silence I would reach an arm across her, feel the bulge of her young, newly developed muscles in her upper arm. My head still on her chest, I'd trace the curve of her muscle with one nail, then two flat finger tips, as she tightened then relaxed it. She would pull me closer into her, running her free hand over the curve of my developing hips. Her small breasts disappeared as she lay on her back. The lines of her body seemed to have stayed the same from early childhood -- her hips barely there, her thighs slim, muscular. My body seemed to be reforming itself shifting inward at the waist, out at the hips and chest. Her hands touched the curves of my hips, the waist, the small protrusion of my lower stomach, and the soft curve of my upper arm and shoulder. My fingers ran over the muscles of her arms and shoulders, the smooth flatness of her stomach, the tight compact lines of her hips and thighs.

Our breathing grew heavier. I would think about lifting my head, looking up into her face. I would imagine her leaning down and kissing me like boys did in movies. Her hand strayed to the curve of my ass, to the bare flesh of the back of my thigh. I froze, stopped stroking her arm, stopped breathing, concentrated on lifting my face up towards hers, but was paralyzed by the warmth of her hand on my suddenly cold flesh, by the tingling between my legs, and the silence that seemed to surround and engulf us. We lay there for an eternity, my head fixed to her chest, her hand cupped just under my ass, her other hand gripping my shoulder as if holding me up, preventing me from falling or rolling away. My fingertips pressed against the upper muscle of the arm that supported me. Our breathing was heavy, rhythmic, our hearts racing in excitement, fear.

Then from some where deep in the silence, she flipped me over onto my back, straddled me, pinned my arms to the grass, looked into my eyes, the full weight of her body concentrated on her pelvic bone pressed against mine. I wanted her to kiss me. I wanted to know what being kissed by her felt like. She released my arms, shifted her weight to her knees and announced she was hot and wanted to go home to go swimming. On the ride home we rode single file, not talking or racing. I shifted my body against the bike seat rubbing my clit against the hard frame under the padding, wanting to touch between my legs, but unable to do so.

At night we would swim in one of our families' pools with only the deck lights on. The water away from the deck would look murky and dark, our silhouettes barely visible, Steve with her T-shirt over her one-piece sports bathing suit and me in a bikini. She'd slash around, jump off the deck, dive into the dark water and grab at my ankles, silently swim up behind me and emerge out of the water lifting me into the air and tossing me, pulling down my bottoms or lifting up my top exposing my new breast or my recently sprouted pubic hair. I would play outraged, indignant, and fend modesty. I'd climb up the ladder out of the pool, wrap a towel around myself and sit on the deck with my feet in the water, pouting and ignoring Steve's show of her aquatic abilities. She'd lift herself out of the water onto the deck next to me, put her arm around me, pull my resistant body close to hers, and coo and coax me back into the pool.

We'd both get into the center of a giant donut tube facing each other and float around in the darkness, our legs entangled and rubbing each other under the water. An occasional knee would rub against a crotch briefly as we floated with our arms hooked on the dry top of the tube. I'd put my head on her shoulder and wrap my arms around her neck; she'd put her arms around my lower back, supporting our buoyant bodies with her upper arms on the tube. She'd pull me close, our bodies touching, our small breasts pressed together, our legs between each other's legs, lightly brushing our crotches. Silent. Nervous. Excited. We floated calmly in the tube protected by the darkness and stillness of the night.

Her hand would slip down the back of my bikini bottoms and cup the wet, tight, young flesh of my ass, trace a pattern around to the line of newly developed public hair then up my side. She'd tug lightly at my bottoms to pull them down to explore my lower body under cover of the water, in the safety of the dark. She'd brush her fingers over my pubic hairs but never went any further. Never separate the fleshy lips or explore what was hiding in the new forest. The whole world seemed to hold its breath waiting to see what would happen next.

I always waited for the spotlight to come on from the house, knowing, but not understanding that if one of our parents saw us like this -- collapsed in an embrace in the tube, our hearts racing -- that somehow, for some reason, we would be in trouble. When the light came on, as it always did, she would release me and I'd slip underwater and silently emerge, with my bottom back in place across the pool as far as one breath would allow me to swim underwater. Steve and I never talked about this; it seemed to happen spontaneously, as if she too knew we would be in trouble if caught. We never talked about what happened those nights in the pool, as if the acts some how belonged to the dark silence of the water.

Steve and I would whisper across the driveway that separated our parents' houses from our open bedroom windows each night planning the next days events and ending with "I like you best, good night." We were best friends, but there was something morean attachment that I didn't have the words at that time to express or even understand. We lived in a small town in Pennsylvania and it was the late '70s. We had only heard the word lesbian used in reference to ugly women who wanted men and women to share the same public toilet, followed by whispered insults of man-haters and child-molesters. No one talked about love, romance, hot ass sex, or masturbation. I felt like the only girl in the world whose nipples were erect, whose clit tingled, and whose cunt got wet. And if I was the only one, then there seemed to be no reason why I couldn't feel this way because of Steve. Hanging over me, however, was the overwhelming sensation that something was wrong, wicked, and evil about how I felt. Somehow in all that sexual silence I understood that if I expressed my feelings for Steve, walls would tumble in on me and expose me as a freak, a pervert, and a lesbian child-molester.

Steve found a girl-on-girl porno magazine in her parents' room, tucked between the mattress and box spring. The pages were well handled and the binding was bent over. Locked in my bedroom, she showed me the pictures of fluffy women with long, red nails, shaved mounds, and larger-than-life breasts. Sitting on my canopy bed in silence next to each other, we slowly turned the pages, examined the pictures. We were 13. When we were done, she stood up, plunging her hands deep into her front jeans pockets. Her eyes fixed in front of me on some mysterious, invisible spot on the pink carpet; she stumbled over the words like they were Latin: "I was wondering, well, if... can we ever try that?"

Thrilled and terrified by what I was being handed and flattered by her innocence in a desire I thought only I felt, I said, "Yes." She didn't move or look up at me. Half-afraid she had changed her mind and half certain she had not, I stood in front of her, placing one hand on either side of her face. I turned her head up so her eyes were level with mine, "I said yes," I repeated.

I let my hands drop to my side and lay across the bed on my back, my legs slightly apart like I had seen women in the movies do. After a few seconds, which seemed like an eternity, she carefully climbed on top of me.

Uncertain what the tingling between my legs was really about, the weight of her body on top of me and the smell of her adolescent sweat made me wet. I let her kiss me. First, soft, closed-mouth kisses like aunts give; then opening our mouths letting our tongues explore; then, long, hard, extended kisses where the flesh of our lips seemed to bond into one and our hips moved against each other's pubic bones in clumsy, semi-rhythmic movement. I stopped her when her hand slipped under my light, summer T-shirt. That was all. For weeks, we danced. Each day she would explore more of me or I'd stop her where I had the day before. I never went any farther on her body than I allowed her to go on mine, even though she never stopped me. Always starting at the beginning with kissing, always making her initiate. The thrill of exploring a body that was not mine and the excitement of her hands on my body were the only thing I could think about. We silently arranged to spend more time together alone. Everything we did was new, perfect, and done for the very first time ever in the whole history of womankind.

sex movies

One day, after a month of slow exploration, as we laid our naked, almost-women's bodies all over each other, on the floor of my room, she slipped one of her fingers inside my cunt. She probed around moving her finger inside and in and out of my opening, pulling wetness out and spreading it on my clit and labia. I did the same to her. Then she moved her body down putting her mouth on my cunt. I put my hand on her head and said no. She didn't stop; she licked my fleshy folds, stuck her tongue and fingers inside of me, and licked my clit in an imitation of the pictures we had. "No," I repeated over and over, clasping my fingers into her hair. "No, no, no," but all of me meant yes and if she had stopped I would have been furious. I felt consumed by her desire to have me in her mouth, her outright refusal to stop, and our innocent passion. On my back with her face between my legs I felt completely helpless and more powerful than I had felt in my life. Her desire to consume my body, to please me, was stronger than her willingness to obey me. She made me come that afternoon, the first time I had come with anyone but myself, and I made her come with my fingers the next day. After that, she never asked and I never stopped her again. We'd rush through the kissing, touching of the breasts, sucking of the nipples to get to the pussies. Eventually, we were both more obsessed with the exploration of my body than with hers. She spent the summer, fall, and part of the winter fucking me in my bedroom, her bedroom, the shed, the field, the neighbor's tree house, under my family's pool deck, under her family's pool deck, and in the dark, cool wine cellar in my basement. I never went down on her, it never occurred to me and she never asked.