I’d like to begin by clarifying that the following chronicle has been revised and approved for publication by the poor woman involved, whose name has been changed.
Last week, I took one for the team -which team, I still don’t know-, and had lesbian sex. It was good, but weird. She came. She came in that stunning way of cumming that women have. Yes, that way in which they raise their head and pulse their phone’s home button, and check the time while they whimper “Yes, Indeed!” in response to your question of “Are you cumming?”

I had seen, let’s call her Valentina, briefly, before, at another party. We had two friends in common. Tonight, we “hit wave”, which is a pathetic translation of the porteño idiom for having good sexual chemistry. We kissed a couple of times, and I asked her for her number. She recited it to me, with her chin on my shoulder. She told me she had been sleeping with women for the last couple of years. I asked her if she had experience dealing with short, acne ridden men with practically no phallus, to which she responded “No, but I’ve been pretty close.”

We went out on a date. Everything went alright. We met near my house, and then traveled by train to a nearby locality. In the second floor of a gallery that the economic crisis emptied, we carried out pseudo-sexual acts that bordered on illegality.

Next time we saw each other, we did something akin to fucking. Here is where the lesbianism bled into the seams! Everything, until then, had been more or less straight.We went to a “love hotel”, whose reception was in its car entrance, and consisted of a booth of opaque glass and a screen. A rude woman conversed the whole thing through, with me. We chose the second cheapest. We’d be there for four hours. We slid the money and our Ids in a little retractile platinum basket. We were assigned room 36, where I took off my clothes and whispered in my lover’s ear, in my both raspy and nasal Leonard Cohenesque voice, “Fuck me, Tina, fuck me like one of your lesbians”, to which she took me in her soft lesbian arms and buried her tongue in my mouth. Things evolved to a Pokemon point in which I ate her pussy. It was the first pussy I had ever eaten. It smelt like the sea, but tasted like it too. I was frankly disgusted, disappointing, and disappointed. A heterosexual friend of mine had once told me that, if it were economically viable for him, he’d spend the whole day with his face buried in a cunt. I don’t share the sentiment. Perhaps, my problems are not with vaginas in general, but with this particular vagina. Who knows? Perhaps some vaginas bear the wonderful taste of dick. Perhaps, I’ll only ever be able to attempt heterosexuality by dating transgender women who have kept their genitalia intact. I’ve met many elegant, sophisticated, intelligent trans women of slender, angular figures. Some of them might have been sexually suggestive towards me, without me ever knowing. It wouldn’t be rare. The other day, I understood an advance a woman made at me, six months ago.

I’m used to rough, direct approaches. I’m used to sweaty males who start their conversations by grabbing their interlocutor’s junk and spitting in their mouths. Yes! Rough and hot! Even on the subway, even at the bank.

Anyhow, these are all my complaints regarding the eatery, for eating pussy happened to be tremendously easy. I thought that it was going to be confusing and horrid, but no. I found everything, the clit was there, above the whole that you fuck. Everything was great, very easy to find. It was like a meal ordered at the barbecue place that’s three blocks from my home- what you have to put in your mouth is absolutely revolting in taste and smell, but everything is easy to find. If you order a burger and potatoes, for instance, the meat medallion will be there, out there to be seen, the potatoes will be obvious at first sight – Everything was fine, very easy, very findable.

She had recently returned from her vacation, so she was suntanned. She was hairless too. I don’t understand how women have so very little hair. They shave, of course, that I know. I have shaved too. But I regrow the tepid jungle between my ass cheeks, in two days, more or less. Those bastards either shave every day (which would explain the wage gap), or just don’t regrow hair as quickly. Now I get why they’re cold all the time. After a while of sticking my whole hand in her cunt (move that my female friends would later on deem “brutal” and “unnecessary”, and regarding which a homosexual male friend would declare: “That’s not how you fuck women! [sic] you mad faggot!”); she asked me to penetrate her. We used a condom, of course. I find this a due clarification, almost a PSA. Pussies are tight, and oddly textured. Penetration tends to put me in an animalistic trance, during which I fuck properly, and then, after ejaculation, of course, return to my senses. It was good for a couple of minutes, then she asked me to stop, and I remembered all those Salon articles I have read, and pulled out. Then I laid by her, as she hyperventilated and stared at me dreamily. “No, let me rest for a while.” I remembered my childhood. I remembered going to the beach with my father, and, after an hour and a half of jumping the waves, having the old man pull my arm, and lead me back to our tent, trembling, telling me that it had been enough.

I asked her if she was alright. “Yes”, she responded, closing her eyes as to not see her own lies. “I just need to– rest for a while, you see.” Lying by her, I stared at the grey grainy wall above us, where a graphite sketch of a woman hanged. After a while, we carried on, and after a couple of minutes, she asked me to pull out again. She excused herself in camaraderie, “You’re going so fast that I need to rest, I’m throwing you a flower, man”. I stood up, I don’t quite remember why, and, covering her cunt, (which was absurd, for I had already seen it), she told me she was worried that I wasn’t having a good time. “Are you?”, I asked, and sat on the bed, by her side. “Yes”, she said,”but I fear that you don’t like my pace.” I took both of her legs and moved them so they’d be diagonally away from me, and I’d be able to sit closer to her. “It’s weird”, I said. She giggled. “I’ve come to hotels with girls, and paid for a whole night. We had sex, then we fell asleep, and, when we woke up, we finished things up.” Frankly, I was concerned.

My concerns

  1. Why do lesbians sleep between the commence and the end of the sex act?
  2. What are this phenomenon’s repercussions on the lesbian economy?
  3. I knew, due to previous erotic exchanges that this lovely young woman and I had had, that this doesn’t happen during masturbation. Does the pattern of lesbian arousal during masturbation differ from that during a sexual encounter?

After a while, we continued, and before, yet again, asking me to stop, she produced a yell slightly louder than those that had preceded it. “Did you cum?”, I asked her. “No”, she said, pulling in her thick red lips. “I don’t know if I ever cum, it comes a time when I’m just fine, and I stop.”

Yet another concern

4. The orgasmic concern.

This sounded to me like bullshit, so I surveyed my female friends. Of a representative sample of ten friends of mine, 70% had never had an orgasm with a man, 20% had had multiple orgasms while with men, and 10% responded “If you want to use me for a blog post, you better pay me”, and made assumptions about the state of my foreskin.

However, we carried on, in short leaps, during which she stared at me dreamily, and I spewed racy horrors. This way, it went. She masturbated me, I ejaculated, it was all over. We showered in haste, as, through speakers that neither of us had seen, a recorded woman announced that our turn would end in fifteen minutes.

Afterwards, we had coffee. We chatted on affairs of no importance, and split the bill, and walked about, and then, to her bus stop. “I’ve already told you, but you are very sensual. Do you know that?”, she said, staring at me dreamily, once more. “Yes, baby, I am”, I whispered in her ear, “for I am a scientist”, and we kissed.

I found lesbian sex enjoyable, yes, but confusing, oddly paced, and concerning. Was it better than gay sex? Yes, because there are tits involved, and I’m a big fan. One could argue that, during male homosexual intercourse, the armpit licking and the dirty talk make up for the lack of tits. That is to be contended in a future piece. Am I willing to evaluate my experience as an encounter with an individual, not with a whole demographic, and to not make blanket statements under the false belief that very particular intimate quirks of an individual are those of a tremendously diverse group of people? Of course not!

Photograph of Bettie Page being spanked, probably taken by Irving Klaw.

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