Venus retrogrades into Pisces, my solar 5th

Remembrance of romances past.

Pussy or Bust
One Woman’s Journey To The Isle of Lesbos

With every new trauma comes new syndromes. In my post-traumatic break-up stress, I developed a case of widow’s vagina — a fruitless desire for sex with only the one long gone. The prognosis was uncertain and symptoms included feeling dirty and wrong at the thought of anyone else in me. My body still longed for him, as if I were a cherished altar where only he could pray. I wasn’t ready to have his genital imprint wiped away by a rubber-wrapped eraser. Of course, it was unhealthy, but what was I to do? The fact remained that I was going to get horny and at some point, I was going to have to move on. If I couldn’t deal with another’s cock, how could I keep a kosher casserole and still satisfy my biological urges? My only option: to eat pussy.

It was the perfect solution. I could get my rocks off, but keep my vagina free and clear of anyone who could mar the territory. Besides, as a woman, having lesbian sex seemed like a rite of passage in understanding and embracing your womanhood fully, which is why many women did this during their college years. In college, I had my hands full with cock. Pussy was uncharted territory and a necessary trip. I had gone to the extremes with cock, by falling in love with one. To have another, without the emotion, would have been too empty at that point. If I were going to keep the juices flowing, and avoid becoming the place where tampons went to die, I would have to keep trying. So, I began my journey to the Isle of Lesbos.

I set out on my voyage, via the Internet. I was so excited, so fascinated. I had no idea what was going to happen. They say you never know until you try. Perhaps my lost relationship was just a sign, to switch me into a new direction and I would find a whole new slice of life that would be what I was secretly craving the whole time. Maybe I was wrong and my soul mate was a woman. There were so many new answers to find — so many new dialogues to begin. Plus, I never tried internet dating, like so many of my friends had, and couldn’t wait to have my own insane stories of the freaks I would meet or all the wild sex that was rumored to be going on. It was perfect; on the Internet, I could just state my needs and see what I could get.

At first, I only answered ads. It was amazing to see how many women out there were like me. They called themselves “bi-curious.” How fitting, as most were just that — curious. When it came down to it, most of them fell to the wayside. It was a survival of the bravest, and only few reached the opening at the end of their fantasy. The various stages of bi-curiosity were as followed: just looking was one level; answering or creating an ad was level two; keeping the repartee going was the level three; setting up the date was stage four and showing up was the final frontier. To say the least, it was an aggravating numbers game.

I answered every bi-curious ad, to cover as much ground as possible. It was fun ping-ponging my e-mails for sex. I got pictures too. One woman wrote, saying she was a former model, and kept emphasizing she was so much hotter in person. She wasn’t my type, but good for her and her confidence. I apathetically went with it. If anything, I could make jokes about how I was a modelizer. Of course, the joke was on me. She asked me to meet her, then kept sending more photos, and asking if I thought she was beautiful. It was soon apparent that her bi-curious fantasy was having other woman tell her she was hot. I refused to give in, and besides, a hosiery ad for Dubuque’s K-Mart does not a model make.

To avoid any more bullshit, I took matters into my own hands and placed an ad. It read as followed: No social misfits please — serious about bi-curious adventure!

If you are serious about wanting to meet up with another bi-curious woman, then respond. Think hard, if you are freaked out by actually eating pussy and fondling tits, then pass this listing!

I want to explore my sexuality and I don't want to waste time on gals that e-mail and say they want it, but then flake out when it gets down to it!

I want it and I want to have fun. I’m new to this, so I am looking for the same or anyone that is willing to just take the reins and do me the way a woman should be done! If this sounds like you--then write me!!!!

Jackpot, I got 13 replies immediately. The 13 then turned to 8, as 5 wanted to bring their boyfriends. One even wrote, “My boyfriend is harmless, he would just want to watch.” I said no to any of these women. They weren’t serious about eating pussy; they were only serious about pleasing their boyfriends. I was no one’s entertainment and I wanted to do my snacking in my own privacy.

Then there were the other set of bi-curious women that were stupidly unaware that attempting to date another woman would mean new rules and no roles. Use to dating men, these woman were expecting some form of male chivalry — the phone calls, the compliments, the chase, etc. It was all the games I refused to play and found embarrassing to watch other woman do, as I felt it was demeaning to everyone involved. I wanted pussy with no dicking around! I thought it was pathetic that so many people had so much time to send their ugly mugs out into cyber space, trying to grasp for sexual attention of the virtual kind.

Through all the landmines, there wound up being only one girl to take it all the way and meet me in person. I was so excited that I was going on a date, it didn’t matter she was the worst looking of the bunch. If anything, she could be my partner in crime to cruise the bars. While the Internet was a great place for researching social disorders, I knew it wasn’t going to get me laid fast enough. I had to be in it to win it; get me to where the party was and women who are not afraid to fuck other women were, and I’d work it from there.

The date was originally going to be a drink, but after trying so hard to land a date, I caved and agreed to dinner with her, but suggested going to a lesbian bar after. From her picture, I knew the probability of scoring was low and figured: why should we both waste a night without the possibility of sex? She, being a knowledgeable bisexual that was interested in showing a neophyte the ropes of lesbianism, suggested a place, the bar most girls in the city go to initiate themselves to the scene. It was the Ellis Island of Lesbos, and I had just found my raft to this promise land.

Over dinner, we talked about women. She claimed she was bisexual, but not one kind word of men was said. However, when she went on about women, it was all about how she loved the lips of women, their scent, and the way they walked, how women talked — everything about woman she loved. I felt like a fraud sitting there listening to her and made up some lie of how I got excited when I first saw a girl my age with breasts in 5th grade. Although she knew my past was with men, she had no clue I had no sexual fantasies about women, just mental curiosities and a horniness that I just wanted quelled without ruining my penile imprint. Midway through dinner, she leaned in and told me she was on the rag.

Poor thing, like it was even an issue. She probably thought my bi-curiosity equaled be-ignorant and that I would let my guard down with any woman, as I would do anyone just to experience the pleasures of sisterhood. No dice. I took my chemistry meter to and fro the lands of hetero and homosexuality and no one would get past my golden arches without ringing that bell. When it got down to it, I really didn’t know what kind of woman would appeal to me — if any could. I figured I wanted a girl like me, mild in taste and size, but full of energy. Yes, it sounded like I wanted a masturbatory tool, but what other reference could I go on? Who I connected with would be the one.

At the club, the same poseur feeling went on as my date cornered me into a small area of the bar, which gave me a bird’s eye view, but no access. If I didn’t know what was happening, I could of easily mistaken the bar as a scene of a large bachelorette party. There wasn’t an overt sexual energy in the room, like one would find in a male gay bar or even a straight bar. In a male gay bar, the sexual energy is explosive. There is nothing more primal and sweaty than a room of horny men all out to score; you can feel everyone’s hard on. At a straight bar, there is the nervous/sexy mingling going on, as gender politics have created a miscommunication wedge, making their mating ritual awkward. At the lesbian bar, the sexual energy was subtler. I had to be submerged in it to get into the flow, but my date was trapping me in the corner. I got out by saying I had to go to the bathroom — and at lesbian bar that means you might be gone for 30 minutes, as an all woman bathroom means a long wait and a great place to check out others. Once free from my date’s clutches, the mood started to sink in and the energy of the room took over. The possibility of hooking up with a woman was real, as the notion of gender was like trying a new sex toy. It wasn’t what was in-between someone’s legs that could excite me; it was their energy, presence, bravado — who they are and what kind of experience I could share with them. There were so many types of woman at the bar, and so many fascinating stories. Who could deny that there wouldn’t be at least one woman who I could have a full on sexy and sweaty rendezvous with, complete with a tossing of limbs and scratching of backs.

Scoping the crowd, several women stuck out. I gave my date hints all the while. I didn’t want to be a total pig and ditch her. I asked her whom she would fuck and pointed out the women I would fuck. Uncinematically, I wasn’t drawn to the lipstick lesbian types — I wanted the ones that straddled the sexuality line, the woman with some butch in them. Their assertive sexual energy caught my attention, and for a novice like me, the pretty girl butches were obviously reminiscent of the sex I was inclined to, but without the filler. I spent most of the night window-shopping, and being chained to an unappealing date. Sleep began to start looking like the only thing I would bag that night. I made one last effort to hang in and went to check out the music on the dance floor. When crossing rooms I was swooped into the presence of this over-the-top woman that was laughing boisterously and holding court over the pool table. Her dark brown eyes exuding a powerful force that made me come hither to her sexual magnetism. She was regal, womanly, playful and irresistible. We exchanged names and she got right to the point: she saw me and thought I was hot. I thanked her and told her I had a date, but I wasn’t into it. Her response, “Tell her to fuck off.”

Never had I met someone with such balls. She was great; her confidence; her audacity; her determination and her charisma. My date peering from behind a curtain, soon wound up coming over to try to mark her territory. She awkwardly sat off to the side as I talked to my “new friend.” The date eventually said she was tired and wanted to go home. I said okay and see ya. She then dragged her feet and asked me if I was going. I told her no. I felt a tinge of guilt for coming with one girl and leaving with another, but she was only an Internet date and there were no strings attached. She took an extra long time buttoning her coat and slowly slinked out of the picture. As soon as the virtual ball and chain was out, I started wildly making out and it felt straight out of the movie Bound. The chemistry ignited and there was no thoughts involved. Too hot to handle, we decided to go. The destination was my place, as it was only 5 minutes from the club. We went outside and jumped into her pink car.

We raced down the street, in our anxious lust-filled state. We made out at every stoplight and rambled facts about ourselves, to personalize the moment. To add to the perfection of this surreal moment, I found out I landed an OB/GYN! A lesbian gynecologist? I couldn’t believe my luck! This woman loved pussy — she lived for it, devoted her life to it — even wanted to drive around in a car the color of it!

With no time for parking, we pulled right into a garage, then to my apartment and had our clothes off within minutes. As if I were deprived of woman my whole life, I went nuts. I was fondling her breasts, sucking and feeling them as if my life depended on it and then just went right on down and ate her out, making her moan like a kitty in heat. There I was, right where I said I wanted to be and it was nothing how I felt it would be. I felt a sense of liberation, a new doorway opened. I saw colors I didn’t notice before. It was intense and who would of thought I would be such a natural. She came within minutes and I felt so proud to have made it happen. To get a man off is basic, to get a woman off takes some skill. If I had balls, they would of felt as if they were made of steel at that moment.

I thought the sex would feel like foreplay, the same way I knew it and loved it...but it wasn’t. It was different — as I knew what sensations she was feeling as I was doing it to her — making me feel the exhilaration back. I got lost in it and the nostalgic feeling of crossing new sexual ground reminded me of when I first sucked cock. Losing your virginity in any sense of the word is purifying and made me feel reborn. She then took her turn and threw me down. She grabbed a hold of me and then said, “Do you want me to fuck you? I want to fuck you.”

She fucked me, inserting her fingers in, up, and around, intermingling her tongue onto me. I came. I came like I never came before. If a lesbian gynecologist wasn’t going to find my g-spot, who was? She was a pro in every sense of the word. We went back and forth, all over each other until the sun was coming up. With men, you eventually get to sleep. With woman, the night can last forever. We ended the rendez-vous sitting up in my bed, watching the sunlight fill the room as we coughed up each other’s pube hairballs. It was a perfect moment.

In the morning, she fled out the door to get to work on time, but left her number. After, my mind was left reeling from the experience. There were so many things to consider: Am I gay? Could I date her? Was this night just a fluke? What now? I thought about everything and didn’t know what I felt, except that exhilaration you get from scoring a great night of anonymous sex with an energetic and sexually capable stranger. Then, during my post sex clean up routine that night, from under the bed I swept up a diamond earring. Clitorella had left behind her stud.

I considered getting it appraised. If it were real, she would get it back. If it were a fake, then screw it, I would get off without any baggage. I tried cutting glass with it, but couldn’t tell if it worked. Then, after consulting my girlfriends, they were all aghast at the thought of not returning her earring. Of course, if I only stuck to conversing with the men in my life, the earring would have been absorbed back into the apartment.

Three days later, I let go of the indecision and gave her a call. Unfortunately, the sobriety didn’t leave us too much depth. Perhaps we didn’t have the talking on the phone connection. Whatever the case, I had to return her earring and while I was at it, I might as well have as many orgasms as I could. We set a time, place to meet, and said we’d confirm, as the day got closer. It was cut and dry, just the way I preferred. No false modesty to fish for compliments and no ridiculous egotistical mind games.

We met up Saturday night at the bar we met at. I was ready for anything — sex, a relationship, or even love. I wasn’t going to rule anything out. I ate pussy, what else couldn’t be done? As soon as we saw each other, the excitement climaxed. We got drinks; chatted and just waited for the magic to kick in. She told me she didn’t believe that she was my first experience with a woman. I told her it really was. Then she said, “So you just like sex.”

When she put it that way, it was an affirmative, “Yes!” which was fine for us, as it was obvious that our only connection was sex. We decided to not beat around the bush metaphorically, but to do it literally. We sucked down the drinks and hopped back into the pink car, off to her pad — which she insisted had everything, but warned me it was going to be a bit messy since she worked all the time and was never home.

I arrived to find a disaster of an apartment complete with duct tape closing up the worn out carpet spots and a bedroom decorated with framed pictures of women in bikinis from magazine spreads. Take away the feminine products and stacks of bras, and it could have been mistaken for a horny 15-year-old boy’s basement bungalow. While taking in the lack of ambiance, she came in and left me a shot of tequila on the nightstand. She added, “Take your clothes off and get comfortable.”

Five minutes later, she popped back in, wearing a ratty blue terrycloth bathrobe and old man slippers, smoking a cigarette and drinking scotch from a flask. It was the most unromantic moment I ever had in my life. I felt like I was in an after school special, a kidnap victim snatched from a truck stop by a pedophile — or at best, an X-rated Andy Capp comic strip. At least with the men I had been in this situation with, there had been enough women’s lib that made him put out some efforts to create a mood. Trying to add any substance to the moment, I asked her about herself. Her only comment, “I like women, what else is there to know?”

She then turned the lights out and flopped herself onto me.

Completely mortified at her lack of couth, there was no way she was going to get a piece of me. If a man had left me a shot of tequila by the bed and told me to get comfortable, I would of walked out by then. I realized I was allowing more consideration, because of the unexplored ground I was on and took some kind of whacked out submissive role in the situation. I quickly wised up and told her I wasn’t feeling it. She then got upset, telling me how hot she felt, but she wasn’t going to force me. Wow, wasn’t that kind of her not to force me and let me know she was going to be so polite. With that, the night was over.

While coming back from my jaunt to the Isle, I fondly reveled in my one night of passion that was forever a part of my life. Too bad going back for seconds was such a disaster. No matter who I am going to have sex with, I needed more respect than that. Entrance to my pink paradise wasn’t bought over by someone who wasn’t going to put out any effort and treated me like just another piece of ass. It’s not like I showed up for the date in my ratty pajamas and pushed her head down to my crotch. I don’t ever want sex to be that complacent, which could include more trips to the Isle, if the desire struck again. After all, sex is sex and it was good anyway given to me, but not with a pig — which came in any gender — because no matter what, I am a lady on either side of the fence I play, and as a lady is how I want to be treated in whoever’s bed I lay.