The last time I had any hot girl-on-girl action wasn’t hot in the least, and I’m not even certain that the thing that was in bed with me was a real, live, human girl. I’m pretty certain that some awful, white-trash swamp monster and her charming husband got into the house while we were unawares. It kept speaking pigeon French and asking me for my prescription medication.
She had a vagina.
Of that much I am certain.
Taking that traumatic evening out of consideration, the last time I had true girl-on-girl action with someone who was most definitely all woman was… gosh… February?
It’s been a while to be sure.
Ideally we’d find a lovely gal to play with on a regular basis. A friend, a lover… all of that. A fully bisexual gal, and none of that “pillow princess” or bi-curious bullshit that’s so rampant on Craigslist right now. If there’s one thing I love more than getting fucked, it’s getting fucked while I’m eating pussy seconded only by tasting my own pussy on another woman’s mouth.
Women are just so soft, and they smell nice, and they’re pretty to look at.
I recently had a conversation about why I objectify women and how that relates to my bisexuality. I fully believe the fact that my father had Penthouse, Playboy, and Hustler magazines randomly boxed up around the house when I was little is where it all started. I started masturbating when I was four, and I never thought about boys. I thought about boobs. Big boobs. Little boobs. Boobs in lingerie. The whole vulva area didn’t do much for me until I was in my early teens. Then I had the glories of Cinemax After Dark soft core that I could kind of unscramble with a fine tuning button on my bedroom TV’s remote. Snowy boobs.
I remember the first woman-on-woman scene I ever saw. It was one of those movies where the bored housewife becomes a high-priced escort. A woman in a tux and top hat hires her for her services and they make soft core love.
I cried when I saw it.
I couldn’t believe women were allowed to do that.
I could touch boobs? Boobs that weren’t mine?
It was around that time, fourteen or fifteen, that I started fantasizing about being in the same room as couples who were having sex. One fantasy in particular involved having a panel in my bedroom wall that would slide aside to reveal a couple fucking really hard. The harder they fucked, the more the woman’s tits would bounce. Bouncing boobs.
I didn’t really understand my own bisexuality until I was in High School, and even then I was so very closeted about it. A girl kissed me when a group of us were being dropped off from a party and then told me she wouldn’t tell anyone so my reputation at school wouldn’t be marred. Another girl kissed and groped me in the basement of an old school auditorium where a community theater production was going on.
The first time I was really with a girl I practically date-raped her. She was straight and very very drunk and forlorn over a breakup. I was supposed to be consoling her. Instead, I took off her pajama bottoms and went down on her. I don’t remember if I made her come. I do know she didn’t talk to me after that.
She’s my pharmacist now.
I went on a few dates with a nice Jewish girl, but nothing physical ever happened. She’s happily married now. I went on a few dates with a girl from New Zealand who tasted like cigarettes. My husband and I ended up having something of a three-way with her later on.
It’s been a random parade of women since then- women and couples and the occasional single guy.
Sometimes I try to count how many people I’ve had sex with, and then break it down into how many men and how many women. It’s foggy, truly. There’s good sex and better sex and some heart break. There’s even the girl who got away.
There’s always a girl who got away.
I miss girl sex.