sweetnpetite
Intellectual snob
- Joined
- Jan 10, 2003
- Posts
- 9,135
A stretch limo is a world all its own, with an open bar, music and enough room to play Twister, naked if you want. In a limo, straight women are free to indulge in activities they otherwise can’t with their high heels stuck in the muck of straight ground.
I mention the limo rides because, judging from my own experiences and the stories I’ve heard from other well-taxied lesbians, there’s something about a limo that transforms housewives and beauty queens into lesbian-seeking missiles once their asses hit the huge back seat. Snoop Dogg and all the motorheads at MTV can eat their hearts out, because I’d bet them and every straight girl who’s ever locked lips with me in a limo that it was a lesbian who coined the phrase, “Pimp my ride.”
While being whisked away by lesbians to places only limos go and mini-vans aren’t allowed, soccer moms can sip champagne and fuck their brains out beneath a small disco ball and while floating on tar. On a stretch of highway that lies somewhere between a bake sale and multiple orgasms, straight women can see out, but unsuspecting husbands and boyfriends can’t see in.
And that’s a shame in a way, because one of things straight women crave most from the men in their lives is inside that limo: Seduction.
Perhaps second only to unanswered pleas for foreplay that lasts longer than a commercial, seduction is what many straight women absolutely deserve, but don’t get enough of. It’s a complaint made ‘round the world, in every language there is. It’s probably even articulated on other planets. I wouldn’t doubt that at this very moment in a galaxy far, far away, an egg carrying alien is cocktailing with her friends and grumbling, “Na-nu, na-nu! In, out, in, out…Clueless bastard!”
Women — all women — want to be wanted. Many of us desire to be sought after and enticed, persuaded by deep kisses that last an entire summer and beyond. We want to be ravished until it hurts, until we feel that glorious ache that starts deep down and ends with a moan that would embarrass Annie Sprinkle.
You probably know the hurt I’m talking about. If you don’t, I’m pretty sure there are a few lesbians out there who’d be happy to introduce you to it. Or, better yet, ask your straight girlfriends where to find an alluring and compliant lesbian. Chances are, a few of them know one.
As much as I bitch in this column about straight women who have kissed their ‘roommates’ or best friends for notice or gain and later proudly call themselves “lesbians,” I’ve never voiced my opinion about their bolder sisters — the straight women who have actually allowed themselves to be seduced by real lesbians.
These women have ventured out of the wasteland (or should I say, Land of the Wasted”?) and into territory the drunk and immature avoid. They’ve left the cameras and horny frat boys behind in search of a more discreet ‘reality.’ We don’t see them on TV or read about them in People Magazine, but we lesbians know they’re out there because they’ve been in our beds or, at the very least, in our pants.
If, as the saying goes, “we are everywhere,” so are they. They are neighbors and coworkers, as well as close friends of best friends. They’re women we’ve met in buffet lines at weddings and in the waiting rooms of oil-change garages. They’re married and single, in love with their boyfriends and with Jesus. They’re gorgeous and plain, executives and admins, rich and poor. You get the picture, because perhaps you’re in the picture.
So, smile. You’re not on candid camera, not on reality TV. You’re simply starring in your own lesbian life in which every once in a while an eager straight girl comes along and makes an intimate guest appearance.
The good news is that many of these straight women rarely kiss and tell. In fact, some of these women are married and have more to lose than a modeling contract or a chance to work with Martha Stewart. I suspect that in the land of pseudo lesbians they’ll one day be the silent majority.
The bad news, if you want to call it that, is that hooking up with a real lesbian won’t make any straight girl gay, despite what you wish or what your mother may have told you. But the act does lift the bravest out of a balcony crowded with attention-starved wanna-bes, and drops them softly between the velvet, so to speak, center stage among the “wanna-dos.”
The wanna-dos do, all right — they do like there’s no tomorrow! They are free and passionate spirits who have graduated from —or have never accepted — imitations. And I give them credit for that.
I’ve actually given them more than credit. But I don’t like to kiss and tell much either.
I do like to kiss and think, though. Each time I’ve been with a straight woman I’ve asked myself the same question afterward: What was that about? I know what motivated me in each instance, but I don’t always know what motivated them.
So I recall the details of our meetings, the conversations that led to the first kisses, the post-coital pillow talk, the shared cigarettes by the lights of dashboards, and try to piece them together. I’ve noticed some common denominators, and I wonder if they’re familiar to other lesbians and straight women who’ve been in similar circumstances.
I wonder if straight women think all lesbians want them. I’ve noticed that when straight women discover I’m a lesbian, some smile mischievously and make comments like, “Really? I’ve been dying to know what that’s like,” as if I’m then going to clear the table we’re sitting at with a sweep of my arm and throw them upon it and lick them silly. As if the only prerequisite to lesbian intimacy is a willing vagina.
Maybe that’s why Sarah’s propulsion into Kim’s lap doesn’t surprise me. Sarah must have been pretty confident that Kim wouldn’t slug her. Was her confidence born out of a belief that Kim couldn’t resist her?
I also notice that straight women touch me more — more than they touch the women within reach who aren’t lesbians. And the touching takes various forms.
First, there’s the “laughing touch” — the gentle nudge from the straight girl that comes with a chuckle, a hair toss, and a remark like, “I haven’t laughed this much in years.” After, I notice that other people in the room have said amusing things, but she hadn’t touched them.
Then there’s the “lingering touch” — her hand resting on mine just long enough for me to acknowledge the duration and for her to realize that she hasn’t sprouted hair on her knuckles or dropped dead. The lingering touch sometimes ends with a little squeeze that tells me she’s not afraid. Other times it ends with prolonged eye contact — an inviting stare that says, “What the hell are you waiting for?”
And finally there’s the hug from behind that comes out of nowhere, for absolutely no reason. I don’t see it coming and I wonder if maybe she thinks that if I don’t see it coming, it isn’t really happening — she’s not really hugging a lesbian, she’s tackling one. Maybe she thinks that lesbians enjoy being tackled more than we enjoy being hugged, or that we consider such contact foreplay.
Another thing I’ve noticed is that married or partnered straight women who hook up with lesbians don’t consider it cheating. In much the same way as Bill Clinton doesn’t consider a blowjob sex, straight women don’t consider sex with another woman an act of betrayal. Having sex with a lesbian allows them to have a relationship outside of their relationship without the guilt.
After all these years, I still haven’t figured out what draws some straight women to me or to lesbians in general. Maybe it’s the female factor — women know what women want, maybe it’s elements of safety and trust, maybe it’s a momentary need for naughtiness, or perhaps it’s a combination of all of the above. I don’t know the answer and I doubt I ever will — my days of seducing straight women are over. So, I’ll have to rely on the experiences of others— encounters like Sarah’s and Kim’s (from America's Top Model) — for answers.
from Don't Quote Me: Straight Girls Happen
http://www.afterellen.com/
I mention the limo rides because, judging from my own experiences and the stories I’ve heard from other well-taxied lesbians, there’s something about a limo that transforms housewives and beauty queens into lesbian-seeking missiles once their asses hit the huge back seat. Snoop Dogg and all the motorheads at MTV can eat their hearts out, because I’d bet them and every straight girl who’s ever locked lips with me in a limo that it was a lesbian who coined the phrase, “Pimp my ride.”
While being whisked away by lesbians to places only limos go and mini-vans aren’t allowed, soccer moms can sip champagne and fuck their brains out beneath a small disco ball and while floating on tar. On a stretch of highway that lies somewhere between a bake sale and multiple orgasms, straight women can see out, but unsuspecting husbands and boyfriends can’t see in.
And that’s a shame in a way, because one of things straight women crave most from the men in their lives is inside that limo: Seduction.
Perhaps second only to unanswered pleas for foreplay that lasts longer than a commercial, seduction is what many straight women absolutely deserve, but don’t get enough of. It’s a complaint made ‘round the world, in every language there is. It’s probably even articulated on other planets. I wouldn’t doubt that at this very moment in a galaxy far, far away, an egg carrying alien is cocktailing with her friends and grumbling, “Na-nu, na-nu! In, out, in, out…Clueless bastard!”
Women — all women — want to be wanted. Many of us desire to be sought after and enticed, persuaded by deep kisses that last an entire summer and beyond. We want to be ravished until it hurts, until we feel that glorious ache that starts deep down and ends with a moan that would embarrass Annie Sprinkle.
You probably know the hurt I’m talking about. If you don’t, I’m pretty sure there are a few lesbians out there who’d be happy to introduce you to it. Or, better yet, ask your straight girlfriends where to find an alluring and compliant lesbian. Chances are, a few of them know one.
As much as I bitch in this column about straight women who have kissed their ‘roommates’ or best friends for notice or gain and later proudly call themselves “lesbians,” I’ve never voiced my opinion about their bolder sisters — the straight women who have actually allowed themselves to be seduced by real lesbians.
These women have ventured out of the wasteland (or should I say, Land of the Wasted”?) and into territory the drunk and immature avoid. They’ve left the cameras and horny frat boys behind in search of a more discreet ‘reality.’ We don’t see them on TV or read about them in People Magazine, but we lesbians know they’re out there because they’ve been in our beds or, at the very least, in our pants.
If, as the saying goes, “we are everywhere,” so are they. They are neighbors and coworkers, as well as close friends of best friends. They’re women we’ve met in buffet lines at weddings and in the waiting rooms of oil-change garages. They’re married and single, in love with their boyfriends and with Jesus. They’re gorgeous and plain, executives and admins, rich and poor. You get the picture, because perhaps you’re in the picture.
So, smile. You’re not on candid camera, not on reality TV. You’re simply starring in your own lesbian life in which every once in a while an eager straight girl comes along and makes an intimate guest appearance.
The good news is that many of these straight women rarely kiss and tell. In fact, some of these women are married and have more to lose than a modeling contract or a chance to work with Martha Stewart. I suspect that in the land of pseudo lesbians they’ll one day be the silent majority.
The bad news, if you want to call it that, is that hooking up with a real lesbian won’t make any straight girl gay, despite what you wish or what your mother may have told you. But the act does lift the bravest out of a balcony crowded with attention-starved wanna-bes, and drops them softly between the velvet, so to speak, center stage among the “wanna-dos.”
The wanna-dos do, all right — they do like there’s no tomorrow! They are free and passionate spirits who have graduated from —or have never accepted — imitations. And I give them credit for that.
I’ve actually given them more than credit. But I don’t like to kiss and tell much either.
I do like to kiss and think, though. Each time I’ve been with a straight woman I’ve asked myself the same question afterward: What was that about? I know what motivated me in each instance, but I don’t always know what motivated them.
So I recall the details of our meetings, the conversations that led to the first kisses, the post-coital pillow talk, the shared cigarettes by the lights of dashboards, and try to piece them together. I’ve noticed some common denominators, and I wonder if they’re familiar to other lesbians and straight women who’ve been in similar circumstances.
I wonder if straight women think all lesbians want them. I’ve noticed that when straight women discover I’m a lesbian, some smile mischievously and make comments like, “Really? I’ve been dying to know what that’s like,” as if I’m then going to clear the table we’re sitting at with a sweep of my arm and throw them upon it and lick them silly. As if the only prerequisite to lesbian intimacy is a willing vagina.
Maybe that’s why Sarah’s propulsion into Kim’s lap doesn’t surprise me. Sarah must have been pretty confident that Kim wouldn’t slug her. Was her confidence born out of a belief that Kim couldn’t resist her?
I also notice that straight women touch me more — more than they touch the women within reach who aren’t lesbians. And the touching takes various forms.
First, there’s the “laughing touch” — the gentle nudge from the straight girl that comes with a chuckle, a hair toss, and a remark like, “I haven’t laughed this much in years.” After, I notice that other people in the room have said amusing things, but she hadn’t touched them.
Then there’s the “lingering touch” — her hand resting on mine just long enough for me to acknowledge the duration and for her to realize that she hasn’t sprouted hair on her knuckles or dropped dead. The lingering touch sometimes ends with a little squeeze that tells me she’s not afraid. Other times it ends with prolonged eye contact — an inviting stare that says, “What the hell are you waiting for?”
And finally there’s the hug from behind that comes out of nowhere, for absolutely no reason. I don’t see it coming and I wonder if maybe she thinks that if I don’t see it coming, it isn’t really happening — she’s not really hugging a lesbian, she’s tackling one. Maybe she thinks that lesbians enjoy being tackled more than we enjoy being hugged, or that we consider such contact foreplay.
Another thing I’ve noticed is that married or partnered straight women who hook up with lesbians don’t consider it cheating. In much the same way as Bill Clinton doesn’t consider a blowjob sex, straight women don’t consider sex with another woman an act of betrayal. Having sex with a lesbian allows them to have a relationship outside of their relationship without the guilt.
After all these years, I still haven’t figured out what draws some straight women to me or to lesbians in general. Maybe it’s the female factor — women know what women want, maybe it’s elements of safety and trust, maybe it’s a momentary need for naughtiness, or perhaps it’s a combination of all of the above. I don’t know the answer and I doubt I ever will — my days of seducing straight women are over. So, I’ll have to rely on the experiences of others— encounters like Sarah’s and Kim’s (from America's Top Model) — for answers.
from Don't Quote Me: Straight Girls Happen
http://www.afterellen.com/
