The real-life adventures of a girl who is willing to try just about anything.

girl love

Being bisexual

Today is Bi Visibility Day. I am proudly bisexual (pansexual, really). This is why gay rights are so important to me. I am currently in a long term relationship with a man that I love dearly, but could have just as easily been a woman with whom I’d fallen in love. I’ve loved many women (and men) in my past. Bi Visibility Day is a thing because so many of us happen to be in seemingly heterosexual relationships that we “pass” or “blend,” that we’re considered invisible. We are often occused of availing ourselves of heterosexual privelege because of that. I shed my supposed invisibility and make my voice heard to fight proudly for rights for myself and all of my LGBT brothers and sisters. (copied today from my “normal” or “vanilla” everyday Facebook under my real name)

This post has been sitting in my Drafts folder for a long time now, waiting to be written. Today is the perfect day to finally dust it off, polish it up, and publish it!
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She keeps time

I ran into my ex-girlfriend at the grocery store last night. Not my Princess Angel. The drummer. So you know what that means. Yes, that’s right. A trip in the “WABAC (way back) Machine, Mr. Peabody.” (50 Cool Points for that if you catch the reference without clicking the link.)
While my Angel was my first girl love, the drummer was my first girl relationship. It started with a bang and ended with one, too, albeit of a different sort.

In my late 20’s I decided to abstain from men for a period that ultimately lasted about 4 years. I hadn’t permanently sworn off men, or even meant for it to go that long. I just figured out that I had been dating the wrong sorts of men for me. I realized that I needed to get away from the “bad boys” I was meeting. I promised myself I wouldn’t date another guy until I was back in school. My theory that meeting a guy in school would: A. be reasonably intelligent, B. have some sort of goals and/or ambition, and/or C. share some common interests with me if I met him in one of my classes.
I decided to spend time pursuing women to see if I fared better with them. While I had learned that it was possible to truly love another woman, I didn’t yet know that I would be able to actually have a relationship with one. I thought that it might feel as if something was missing. I went on a few dates, but none of them went any further than the first date.
Bea and I were introduced by a lesbian couple with whom we were mutual friends. She was invited over to hang out with us one night at my brother’s house and she and I hit it off right from the start.  She had such a bright smile, a booming laugh, and twinkly, mischievous eyes. Not to mention hips and an ass that made my mouth water, nice and wide!
I don’t remember where we went on our first date a week later, but it was probably Olive Garden because that was one of her favorite restaurants. I do remember that I wore my first-ever “little black dress” and a pair of very hot, strappy black wedge heels. We met for our date at a local music store, and she walked right past me because she didn’t recognize me. I watched her look around for a minute or two, completely looking past me once again before she saw me. “Daaaaaaamn!” was all she could say.
I still have this dress in the back of my closet.
One day I’ll wear it again. After I lose 50lbs.

After dinner we went to hang out with some of her other musician friends. We had a few drinks and got high while we were there, but didn’t really get to talk much. What I remember most about that night was one of the things I did to impress her: I held a live Mexican red-kneed tarantula and let it crawl up my bare arm, although I was at the time extremely arachnophobic. It’s amazing the things we do to impress those we like. (Once I also jumped off a bridge once into a rushing river to impress a guy.) 
At the end of the night she walked me out to my car. Once we were there she told me that she really liked me and had a fantastic time, but that her ex-girlfriend had just asked her if they could give it another chance. She explained that this had been back and forth for a couple years now, but that she loved her ex and had to give it one last shot. Then she kissed me in a way that sent electricity through my body and brought tears to my eyes.
Unsurprisingly things didn’t work out with her ex, but we were kept apart again when she was offered and opportunity to play drums for an up-and-coming band. In Orlando. 
One night while she was living in Orlando, she and I were having some seriously steamy phone sex when I decided on a spur of the moment to shower and drive down to visit her. At 2am. Wearing only a black nighty, those strappy heels, and a black trench coat. I didn’t even think to pack an overnight bag. The look on her face when she opened the door was priceless. The what-ifs of the situation didn’t occur to me until later: What if I’d gotten an flat tire? What if I’d been pulled over? What if my car broke down? 
It was the wee hours of July 4th and I didn’t have to be back to work until the 6th. We fucked until the sun came up before we finally feel asleep. It was when we woke up later in the afternoon that I realized I didn’t even have anything to wear. I borrowed some clothes and shoes from her, then we went to partake of the Independence Day festivities at Universal City Walk. To this day, that ranks as the most dazzling fireworks display I have ever seen.
A few months later she moved back from Orlando and that’s when she and I began to see each other in earnest. Translation: we would go out for a dinner/movie/show/drinks/whatever and then go back to her parents’ house where she was living and try to fuck as quietly as possible. Her parents were elderly, in their 60’s (she was a love child, the only child her parents had together when her mom was 40) so we did our best to keep it down, but it was very difficult. One night we got a motel room just so we could be as loud as we wanted.
I was renting a room from my sister and her fiance at the time, but spent most nights with her. I don’t recall her ever coming to my place. Finally after about two months we decided to get an apartment together, beginning a very tumultuous year and a half.

As was the story with most of my relationships for the first decade and a half of my adulthood, it was centered mostly on sex. Once the sex slowed down, as it will tend to do in most relationships after the “honeymoon period,” the problems arose. I’m not even going to begin to get into any of those issues, because there were many, and that’s not what this post is about.

Those first few months living together were great. We fucked all the time and loudly. For the first time we were able to be completely unrestrained and uninhibited. We also had little to no self-awareness about how much noise we were making. Our building was a quadplex with two apartments downstairs and two apartment upstairs. And apparently the walls were thin.

What brought it all home for us was one Saturday afternoon. We were not fucking, for a change, but we were lounging around in bed. We heard our across-the-hall neighbors having sex. And it was obvious that they were trying to be quiet. The only sounds they were making were some squeaky springs and heavy breathing. Not even any moans or cries. But we heard it all as if it was happening in the room with us.

After that day, we started to notice the other sounds we could hear. We’d never met the guy who lived upstairs, Al (we knew his name from mis-delivered mail), but we could hear his alarm clock in the morning, and hear him padding around his bedroom once he got up and before he went to bed. He never had anyone over for sex as far as we could tell.

He began to play into our fantasies, however. We were excited at the thought of him listening to us up there, his bed directly above ours, maybe stroking his cock. We also used to joke if he thought and/or worried about us from time to time. “I haven’t heard the dykes downstairs fucking for a few days. I wonder if they’re having a fight?? I hope everything’s okay.”

We also had this grand fantasy of having a quadplex fuck-off. The idea was that we would coordinate with our neighbors (none of whom we ever met, now that I think about it), and we would all plan to have a fuckathon at the same time to see who could be the loudest. In our little make-believe ideal, we would also have our windows open to share our joyous noises with the neighborhood, and hope to inspire more.

Under her hands, mouth, and tongue, I learned firsthand exactly what all of the exquisite torture I used to give my Angel felt like. In fact, not long after I had been thoroughly fucked by her several times, I made a lunch date with Angel and apologized profusely for never giving her a break. She got a big laugh out of that, saying that no apologies were required but she was glad I found what what it was like.

I also learned that, while it’s not exactly the same thing, the right dildo can be just as hot and satisfying as a real cock. Aside from masturbation, my only experiences with double-penetration have been with her. She never used an actual strap-on with me, but she did have a nice array of different sizes and lengths and we tried them all.

While the relationship itself was a disaster, she had an indelible impact on my life. I feel her presence in my life every day. Mostly because she had a large role in completely reshaping my tastes in music. When she and I met, I was listening to mostly Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson. She joined a band that would become my favorite band of all-time, Mofro. Through her I learned an appreciate for jazz, blues, soul, and even rap. If it were not for her, my musical tastes would not be nearly as eclectic as they are now. For that, I’ll forever be grateful.

One other interesting thing I wanted to share that came as a result of our relationship was something I like to call the Lesbian Name Game. I actually haven’t thought about it in a really long time until I started writing this. See, the Lesbian Name Game predicts the evolution of a woman’s name as she embraces being a lesbian. You start with a feminine given name which becomes a shortened masculine nickname and eventually ends up as just an initial. We saw this happen many times in the local community. For example, Bernice become Bernie and finally just Bea. Tonya would turn into Tony and then just T. She was actually never known as Bernie (I actually used to call her ‘ma bella Bernicio’ incorporating her middle initial O), but I did go through a Tony phase for a while. While I am no longer consider myself a lesbian, except for part-time sometimes for the right girl, many of my friends do call me T.

My Princess Angel

I originally wrote this last March for my LiveJournal account. It was originally titled, “I’ve got to get emo for just a minute,” hence the opening line. It has been edited to include more intimate content and an update at the end.
Because I just felt a really big crack in my heart. I just got a friend request on Facebook from someone who’s been on my mind A LOT lately. Almost nonstop. Because her birthday is Friday. Not only is her birthday Friday, our BIG DAY is rapidly approaching. What is the BIG DAY? It’s a day in June of this year—the day her son graduates from high school. What is so special about that day? It’s the day that I’m supposed to kidnap her from her current life and whisk her away and she and I ride off into the sunset to live happily ever after. A sweet, naive dream written a long time ago by a sweet, naive, lovesick girl.
She is my Princess Angel. The one who set the bar for all who followed. She is the one with whom I learned that is absolutely possible to love and be completely satisfied with another woman. She is the one with whom I learned passion. And heart-breaking sacrifice.

I met her a few months shy of my 21st birthday. We worked together at a pancake house that was open 24 hours on Friday and Saturday nights. The rest of the week it was open until 2am. Except for Sundays. On Sundays we closed at midnight, just in time for us girls to get off work and head to the bar down the street for some late happy hour drinks. She and I were friendly in a co-worker way. I actually didn’t really like her when I first met her because I thought she was kind of snotty. But she was gorgeous. Naturally-red hair, freckles scattered liberally over milky-white skin, and eyes a color that make you want to lounge on an island in the Caribbean with a piña colada.
One Sunday night that could have been any other Sunday night with the girls, I had stepped away from our table to throw some darts with another girl. I’d left my drink at the table so after I finished my turn, I went back to get it. When I walked up to the table I was just in time to hear the question, “Have you ever been with another girl?” Since I’d arrived at that moment, I was queried by the lovely redhead herself.
Not having heard the rest of the conversation about whether it was “ew, gross!” or “so totally hot!” and not being nearly so bold and fearless as I am now (I wasn’t even old enough to drink in that bar legally), I demurred with a “no comment.” Grinning like I’d just fallen into her neatly-laid trap, she sprung on me. “Ah ha! I’ve got you!” Right away I flipped the question back to her. She donned a coy expression and mirrored my response, “No comment.” Having grown suddenly shy, I somehow managed to extricate myself from the conversation and headed back to the dart boards to finish my game.
I would imagine that there was more verbal sparring between us and drunken flirting, but I don’t remember much of the rest of the time at the bar that night. I also don’t remember under what excuse we were able to get away from the other girls. Amazingly enough, I don’t even remember our first kiss. I think it was probably quick and stolen at some point in the ladies’ room when we happened to find ourselves alone.
However, I do remember the first time we fucked. It was the first time either of us had ever had sex with a woman. We’d both fooled around with girls before, explored our sexuality a bit, so to speak, but had never gone “all the way.”
Looking for a place with privacy, we ended up going to this church at the back of a nearby industrial park. It’s where we sometimes went with the girls to get high after we’d left the bar. There were picnic tables behind the church and we were sitting on one of those, me on the tabletop with my legs dangling off the end as I had a habit of doing and her on the bench as one should sit.
It started so typically, with a massage. It was the easiest, most comfortable way for us to get to what we really wanted to do: touch each other. She’d said that her shoulders hurt so of course I offered my hands. She stood up and moved between my legs, turning her back toward me. Once my hands were on her, they only remained at her shoulders for a short time before they ventured further. When I reached down into the front of her halfway-unbuttoned shirt to squeeze her breasts and find her nipples, she turned around and her lips met mine.
That kiss lit a furnace of desire in me. For months, I had been fantasizing about being with a woman. Every time I went down on my boyfriend, I did my best to imagine what it would be like to be licking pussy instead. Under those circumstances, it’s incredible that I didn’t just strip her and throw her down right there. As it was, I slid off the table, unbuttoned her shirt the rest of the way and covered her neck, chest, and breast with kisses.
It wasn’t long before I’d spun her around, boosted her up to the table and lifted her long uniform skirt while she leaned back to allow me access and give herself over to me. I removed her pantyhose and underwear, releasing the absolutely intoxicating scent of her dripping cunt. A natural redhead, the carpet did in fact match the drapes, as they say. Her red pubic hair was neither thick nor sparse, but curled toward her wet slit. I hesitated not a moment before diving in to pure heaven.
Since then I have likened the taste of her pussy to strawberries and cream but that is obviously more of an associative comparison due to her luscious red hair and milky white skin. I noticed right away that she tasted different than I do, tangier, but in no way unpleasant. I lapped her juices and tongued her clit until she begged me to stop. I don’t know how many times I made her cum, but it was more than a few. I could’ve continued all night, but as we didn’t get out there until after the bar closed at 2am, we could only guess at how late it was. We were both expected at our respective homes and didn’t want to have to do too much explaining.
She took a moment to catch her breath and then we were kissing again. When we broke apart she asked me if I was sure I hadn’t done that before. I assured her that I had not, but I would swear that to this day she doesn’t believe me. Finally we parted ways.
That first time was amazing and a whole new world opened up for me—and us— that night.
The months that followed are a blur of frenzied, drunken sex in no-tell motels, parked cars, bathrooms, wherever we could devour each other. Sunday-after-work girls’ nights were quickly complemented with nights of our own. As many as we could steal together. We both had boyfriends and neither of them knew about our illicit affair.
Although truth be told, I did most of the devouring. In all of the time that we were together, I think she went down on me a total of three times. But that was exactly as I wished it to be. I ate her pussy like a demon possessed, usually resulting in desperate pleas for mercy. One night in particular that I’ll never forget, we were at our favorite cheap, seedy, no-tell motel and the room was completely trashed by the time we were done. The sheets had been ripped from the bed, the mattress was askew, the pillows tossed to the far corners of the room, and the headboard ripped out of the wall. You know how they bolt headboard to the wall in places like that? How they’re not attached to the bed at all? She pulled it completely out of the wall, bolts and all. That was the night I licked her asshole for the first time, as I recall. I still have the motel key from the room that night.
She would beg me to stop, just for a moment, just to let her catch her breath. I would come up for air only long enough to grin at her wickedly. “You know better than to ask me that.” She was never strong enough to push me off because her cunt was to me as spinach was to Popeye. She would struggle and she would fight, but I always won.
It was only supposed to be mutual sexploration. Before we knew it, it had morphed into so much more. It was bound to happen, considering the exciting, intimate bond we’d formed. We were both miserable in our relationships with our men, but she was tied to hers by a child. My boyfriend eventually found out and made the fatal mistake of asking me to choose. Of course, there was no choice. I left him and started sleeping on her couch. It made things so much easier for us for a while because her man worked late nights. We had a few rather scary VERY close calls, one of which resulted of her sneaking into bed in the early morning only after his alarm clock had started to go off, under the guise that she’d had to use the bathroom.
We talked all the time about telling him, bringing him into it. We weren’t dishonest people, we didn’t enjoy hiding things. So one night at the bar where it all began, we pulled the thread that would eventually unravel us. Over margaritas, I played the evil seductress and she played the coy one. “You know how it’s always been my fantasy to be with another woman…”
In all of our planning, she and I had never made any ground rules. We didn’t have a clue what we were doing. We never really thought about exactly how far we wanted things to go. And as a result, they went too far. Her angry, hurt words will echo in my head forever: “I can’t believe you fucked her. You said you wouldn’t fuck her.” I’ll never know if she was more upset that he fucked me or that I fucked him. But what was a guy to do, caught between two hot, young women? Not to mention the fact that he had the largest cock I had ever seen at that time.
It didn’t end immediately, but in a lot of ways it might as well have. By this time, I was completely consumed with my love for her and I couldn’t hide from it any longer. All of our friends/co-workers knew, but the most important people did not. I had been sleeping on their couch for months. Additionally, I had quit the restaurant and was working in a bar with her parents: her dad was the manager, her mom was the service bartender, and I was one of the cocktail waitresses. It was a powder-keg situation that could explode at any minute. The pressure just became too much for me to bear.
I may have forgotten many things over the years, but I will never forget the night I broke her heart. I explained to her how much I loved her and that it was impossible for me to contain. I had to end it. The pain in her eyes spilled down her cheeks in the parking lot of our favorite nightclub. “You knew this is how it would be,” she cried. She got me back a few months later when she brought her new girlfriend into the bar where I worked.
After some time passed, we were able to have a bittersweet friendship. Her man finally got his act together and they got married. I’ve never in my life been surrounded by so many warm, supportive people as I was that day. Both of my hands were held and there were comforting arms and smiles. I stayed strong for her. I could have stopped that wedding, there’s no question, but I would not have won her by doing so. I think it goes without saying that I got obliterated at her reception.
Over the years, we’ve kept in touch here and there. Some times more than others, usually in fits and spurts. We’ve had a tryst or three. Once was a weekend out of town, when we fucked so loudly that the people in the room next door banged on the wall and told us to keep it down. At 5am on a Saturday morning. Did they have to go to fucking work or something? The last of which was a threesome with me, her, and Roland after he and I had been dating for about a year. He remains the only boyfriend with whom I ever shared her.
I always promised her that we’d be together one day. That one day, I’d steal her away. I put a definite time on it long ago: when her son graduated high school, because then he would be old enough to understand and he wouldn’t need her quite as much. He’d be a man. His 18th birthday is April 11th. I don’t have his exact date of graduation, but it’s approximately the first week of June. Every time she and I spoke, this eventuality was discussed and we looked forward to it.
Every relationship I have been in for the last 10 years has kept this in consideration. My partner has always known that there would come a time when I would have my Princess Angel again. He/she could make room for us all to be together, or he/she could step aside. I even told her husband once or twice that I was going to steal her away someday (he’d been told about our relationship at last many years ago because they were swingers for a time).
The last few years our contact has been infrequent at best. As of right now, other than that friend request tonight (which did not come with a personal note or email, nor was its acceptance followed by a wall post), I have not spoken to her in at least a year. It may have even been two. She lives less than 4 miles from my house. I only know 1 other person who lives closer to me than she does, and it’s probably by less than a tenth of a mile. For many years, I called on all major holidays, but most especially on Valentine’s Day and her birthday. Many times I would visit and gift her with a dozen roses for VD and a birdhouse (she was a collector) for her birthday. I stopped calling a long time ago, because my messages were no longer returned.
As the BIG DAY approaches, I’ve thought about her a lot. All of the promises that I made as a young woman who believed that anything in the world was possible. None of those were realistic and I know that now. She and I are so very different, I don’t even know that we would have any common ground. I say that, but in many ways I couldn’t be any more different than the man with whom I am madly in love.
I can’t help but wonder now if any efforts will be made on her part to take us beyond FB friends. Will I settle for wishing her generic birthday greetings on her wall? I guess I have 48 hours to decide.
Update:

I did post on her Wall for her birthday and she on mine 6 days later. And I did finally chat with her a few times. During one of our last chats, right before her son’s graduation last year, she told me about how she and her husband had decided to get a divorce back in January. The papers had been drawn up and filed. They only needed to be signed. But then they had a long talk. They had been together since their mid-teens, over 20 years. It had been a long, rocky road, but they’d made it somehow. They decided that they didn’t want to be alone. That they didn’t want to have to start over. So they dedicated themselves to their marriage in a way that they never had before. The last time I talked to her was at least 6 months ago, but probably even longer ago than that. She said they were happier than they had ever been. I sincerely wished her all the best.
She and I are still friends on Facebook and as a result I have discovered that this post is unintentionally very timely. Her status update for today: Today I have been married to the GREATEST husband in the world for 14 years! I love you babe! Can’t wait for the next 14! 🙂
Fourteen years ago today was one of the hardest days of my life, but I don’t regret it one bit.
Happy anniversary, my Princess Angel. I wish for you all of the happiness you deserve. I will always love you. And should you ever find your way to my doorstep again, I will never turn you away.
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