Erotica from Penthouse (11 page)

The next day Michael drove me into the city. When he dropped me off he surprised me by asking for my phone number. I made one up quickly, though I later regretted it. In fact, I thought of him fondly for several months after that strange winter night.

Unfortunately, the incident didn't cure my propensity for danger. On the contrary, it made me hungrier than ever. I now felt that I was invincible and had Houdini-like powers with which to exit tight situations. I continued seeking out shady characters and ominous sets of circumstance. It wasn't until that time in Alaska that I began to question my judgment. But that's another story.

THE LESBIAN EXPRESS

By Christina Tagliari

“We gotta get these Boy Scouts outta here!” Wanda muttered as she walked through the bottle-littered car of the “Gay Disco Party Train” to Montreal. Amtrak had positioned our group in front of the club car. A travelling Scout troop had just wound its way through a carful of 65 gregarious lesbians.

Three business executives in pin-striped suits also sat in the club car. A Humpty Dumpty look-alike in man's clothing, Wanda complained to the conductor, “This is a private party.” While she approached the Scoutmaster, the conductor asked the three businessmen to leave. They snickered, exchanging meaningful smiles. One of them said, “Well, we want to be with the women.”

“Not these women, you don't,” the conductor replied.

I wondered if I liked being with them myself. Hearing of a trip to Montreal for gay women, I had envisioned numerous opportunities for a lesbian orgy. Though primarily heterosexual, I occasionally enjoy a fling with one of my “sisters.”

The ethnic make-up of the group surprised me. Of the 65 participants, about 50 were black and more than half in their 40s and 50s. Most were nurses. The older black women played cards, smoked cigars, wore wigs, chomped on chicken wings and sat on each other's hefty laps.

“Watch out, hot stuff is comin’ through!” one black woman yelled as she sashayed down the aisle.

“Hey, cutesie-poo!” a cigar-smoker called out mischievously when a gay man boarded the car.

Almost all of the older participants had children and grandchildren. A factory worker told me that she married to please a strict grandmother. Now her mother, aunts and uncles had come out of the closet, too. “Everyone in my family is gay,” she said proudly.

Music blared from a loudspeaker ensconced in the luggage rack. Women danced in the aisles as the group leaders dispensed wine from a jug. Wanda returned to announce that the Scouts would not be coming through the car again.

“Then can we get down now?” asked a woman.

“You better get down!” Wanda shouted. But no one did. Although women cuddled and kissed, not even a Scoutmaster would have disapproved of their behavior.

Suddenly, the train stopped. Looking out the window, we saw the conductor walking across the tracks.

“He can't stand the idea of women loving women,” proclaimed one of the Amazons, hugging her lover.

“Let's get the Boy Scouts back in here and have a sing-along,” another suggested.

“Yeah. We can sing, ‘It's great to be gay.’ “

Glancing around the car, I surmised that only five of the group members were single. The others were obviously mated. Each duo seemed comprised of a butch and a femme. The only attached person who appealed to me was Betty, a Jewish editor. She seemed interesting and witty, but also angry. At Penn Station, when a male official had asked her, “Where's the rest of the group?” she rudely snapped, “What am I, my sister's keeper?” And as the disco music pounded on, Betty clamped her hands over her ears and bemoaned ever having boarded the train.

I wondered if I would ever find a friend, much less a lover, on this trip. Feeling lonely, I headed for the club car, where I sat drinking Scotch and thinking about fucking men.

I felt nostalgia for the tension between men and women that can make lovemaking incredibly exciting. Women together are unthreatening, and gay female sexuality tends to be more sensual and drawn-out. The atmosphere on the train was cozy, intimate and non-competitive.

At customs I passed four Hispanic nurses, who invited me to join them that evening. Their tone was platonic. They seemed concerned that I was alone. I felt immensely grateful. And I was especially attracted to Maria, who had a sensual mouth, beautiful bedroom eyes and large breasts. Her friend Petra had long brown hair, but was not as hot-looking as her lover. The other couple consisted of Griselda, a middle-aged woman who had left a husband and three children at home, and her younger friend Inez.

When we arrived at the hotel in Montreal, everyone went up to nap. Waking at 4
P.M
., I paid a visit to the editor. She declared that she disliked all of the women on the trip and was flying home the next morning.

At 6:30 I joined the group in the lobby. Greeting me like an old friend, the nurses invited me into their cab. We proceeded to an exclusive disco where the bartenders and the d.j. were all gay men. Maria, Petra, Griselda, Inez and I congregated at a table.

In a low voice, I confided to Maria about the perils of being single.

“We're all single here,” she answered provocatively.

I asked if she and Petra were a couple. She nodded, but added that they were no longer relating. I inquired whether they planned to sleep together that evening. Maria shrugged.

“Aha,” I thought, “then maybe I'll get lucky tonight.”

“Have you and Petra ever engaged in a threesome?” I wondered.

“Only with another man,” Maria answered.

All four nurses turned out to be bisexual. Each was extremely feminine and sensual. Like myself they were connoisseurs of sensuality rather than man-haters.

When I danced with Maria, she put an arm around my waist and touched my cheek. Petra boogied over and whispered in her ear. “She says we're getting too wild,” Maria told me. “Don't worry. Just give her time to think about it. She just likes to be in control of everything in her life.”

The new “gay anthem”—the song “I Am What I Am” from the Broadway musical
La Cage Aux Folles
—came on over the loudspeakers, and everyone in the club cheered. I was constantly startled to see men on the dance floor—only to realize after a moment that they were masculine-looking women.

A young black lesbian named Denise called out to me, “Hey, little fresh girl.”

Unfamiliar with lesbian etiquette, I could not imagine how to respond to this appellation. First of all, I was about five years older than she. Secondly, what did she mean by “fresh”? Was I supposed to act little-girlish? I decided to ignore her.

Finally, we went to a seafood restaurant. By now everyone was tipsy. I sat with the four nurses, and with Cecile and Denise. As we waited for our dinners, Inez told a string of dirty jokes. Cecile related how her mother had cried upon discovering that her daughter was gay. “She cried for what she was missing,” Griselda quipped.

When our lobsters arrived, Cecile asked how to extract the meat from the claw. Maria winked lasciviously. “Just find the hole and suck it out,” she advised.

Suddenly Wanda had an asthma attack. The other group leaders took her to the hospital after giving us a list of gay bars in town. Denise quickly whisked Cecile into a private cab.

“Gotta get this little girl home and back to bed,” she stated. The other two nurses returned to the hotel, citing fatigue. Maria, Petra and I decided to sample Montreal's lesbian scene.

The first bar was called Babyface. The proprietor, a stern, mannish-looking woman with gray hair, held a toy poodle in her arms. A crowd of 15 or so women sat around talking and drinking. It looked too tame for our taste and we left. The next two bars on the list had closed down. We decided to go back to the hotel.

“Let's just have drinks in the lobby,” Petra suggested.

We stopped off at Petra and Maria's room first to get some money. Petra turned on the television. Maria and I sat on a bed, watching it.

Suddenly Inez burst into the room, followed by Griselda. Inez carried four thin belts in her hand. She tackled Maria and pushed her down on the bed.

“Okay, I've always told you I was going to do this and now your time has come!” she cried half-jokingly. “Help me hold her down, girls.”

Maria did not resist. Soon her arms and legs were bound together.

“What should we do now?” Inez asked. “Beat her?”

I picked up a copy of
The Joy of Lesbian Sex
that lay on the bed.

“ ‘Lesbians do not usually partake in bondage and flagellation,’ “ I read aloud.

“In that case, let's paint her,” Inez suggested.

Maria rolled her eyes. She seemed quite blasé. Since I had identified myself as an artist, Inez handed me lipsticks and eyeliners.

“Paint her tits,” she cheerfully commanded me. Unbuttoning Maria's blouse she removed her bra to expose her large, blacknippled breasts.

“This is so boring, you guys,” Maria sighed.

I painted psychedelic flowers around Maria's nipples. I longed to suck her tits and pull down her panties, but hesitated, still unsure of how Petra was feeling. Inez took some snapshots; then she and Griselda exited, hand in hand.

“That was really lame,” Maria complained. “You call that bondage? Untie me.” We did so. Petra suggested going downstairs for drinks.

“I feel too lazy,” I said

“Me too,” Maria confessed. “I want to watch
The Exorcist.
“

Petra offered to go downstairs and bring back the drinks. As she walked out the door, she added, “It will help relax us.” I turned to Maria and murmured, “It looks like she reconsidered.”

“She just needed some time,” Maria replied.

We started kissing and feeling each other's breasts. On the TV screen, Regan masturbated with her crucifix. As Maria and I lay down on the bed together, I felt that sweet, calm sensation of being with another woman.

“You're really sensual,” I told Maria.

“So are you,” she answered, sucking my nipple. “God, your breasts are so sensitive. Can you come from having them sucked?”

“Yes,” I said.

We stroked each other until Petra returned. She silently undressed and climbed into bed with us. Suddenly, Maria was sucking my left breast and Petra my right. Having extremely sensitive nipples, I soon reached fever pitch. Moaning and crying, I stroked their hair and breasts. Then Maria moved down to lick and suck my clit with artful abandon. It was exciting to watch how passionate she could be. Her eyes were half closed with pleasure as her tongue skillfully flicked in and out of me.

After I came, Maria kissed Petra. I went down on Maria. Her cunt, like her nipples, was almost black against her dark tan skin. Her clit seemed to be the size of my thumb. I relished her firm, voluptuous body, but also liked Petra's. She had small breasts, wide hips and a large ass. As she sat on Maria's face, I admired how womanly and beautiful she looked.

Maria did not come from my oral ministrations. She got up and lay on top of Petra. They kissed with the poignancy of lovers. Then Maria went down on Petra, who had an orgasm with soft little moans. Petra began sucking Maria, who asked me to sit on her face. After Maria finally climaxed, the three of us lay side by side.

“Making love with women is so out of sight!” Maria exclaimed.

I could have remained in bed with them, but I sensed that they needed time alone. So after a few moments I returned to my room.

The next morning we went sightseeing. None of us even mentioned the previous evening's activities. Petra and Maria appeared to have resolved their differences and were a serious couple again. I felt like an outsider once more. But the sexual tension had vanished. We were now just three girlfriends.

During the train ride home the atmosphere was considerably more convivial. Everyone danced in the aisles. Maria changed into a leopard-skin bathing suit and tight jeans. Denise yelped like Tarzan and carried her off over her shoulder. A mannish, middle-aged black woman kissed my hand. No one disturbed us. This time we had the last car on the train.

THE LESBIAN WHO LOVED MEN

By Donald Jackson

I met her after a sex famine—one of those stretches of weeks and months when females seem like alien, incomprehensible beings. Sex seemed no more than a treasured memory not likely to come my way again. Having just taken a job as a disk jockey in a small town, I felt very much on display.

Leslie was my immediate boss. She looked plain at first glance because she hid her figure beneath neutral gray suits and tweeds. But she had beautiful, out-of-style long blonde hair and flashing slate-gray eyes. A colleague confided that she was a friendly and fair boss, informal most of the time and firm only when crossed—and that she was a lesbian who lived with a feminist singer named Cynthia. Everyone knew about her relationship, but that had not stopped her rise to the position of station manager.

It took me a few weeks to realize that she was in the midst of great trauma. Her easygoing nature seemed forced when I studied her face and hands. She made too many jokes and put herself down too often. Finally it occurred to me that she was flirting—with men; with Frank, a fellow jock—and girlishly sizing us up like forbidden fruit.

Meanwhile I got laid occasionally, when old girlfriends came to visit me. But I wanted someone new and different. Yet every pretty girl I met was part of a couple. I started to feel quarantined.

Then one night I was working late on some promotion spots. Leslie came back after dinner, claiming she had to go over programming for the coming week. But I noticed that her eyes were red and rimmed with tears.

“We're breaking up, it's final,” she told me. It was the first time she spoke of her personal life to me. “It's really been dead for a long time, but now it's official. I'm moving out.”

The next morning her professional guard was up again. But now I was determined to see what her bland business suits were hiding. Fucking my boss was probably the dumbest thing I could do, but the job wasn't really that important to me.

No sooner had I made up my mind then she did too. She wanted Frank. I knew it before he did. The dope didn't even realize that her eyes followed him around the station as if he had a homing device in his pants. At my first office party, a barbecue at a nearby state park, Leslie got a little high and blurted, “Frank's so cute,” after he gave her a beer. Everything came easy to Frank—that was one reason why I disliked him. But I decided to sit back and wait for Leslie to discover that I was the quality item.