Macho Sluts (50 page)
By now, you are usually holding still, not making any noise at all, barely breathing, and my neck is starting to hurt and my hands are tingling. Perversely, just as I abandon my ego, I get very turned on to the idea of servicing you, of having you use my mouth for hours, and I start humping the bed and coming, about once every five to eight minutes. I come even if I hold my legs apart and try desperately not to, because it disrupts my rhythm and embarrasses me. Sometimes you catch fire from the noises I make and the groveling motions I'm making with my hips, and you make a little sex music with me, saying, “Oh, yeah, baby, go ahead, come, come now!” or simply moan and thrust yourself against my mouth. But I get progressively more depressed and full of despair anyway, because nothing seems to be happening or changing or getting better with your body and its physical response, and I want to make you come, I don't want this to be for my benefit, you allowing me to suck you offâeven though you don't get off on itâsimply because I get off on it. I start making questioning noises, asking you with whispers and moans or outright words if you want me to continue.
You usually respond, “God, yes!” But sometimes you tell me, “No, you can stop now,” and I'm crushed, even if I know you are just trying to be kind, reluctant to wear me out when there's no hope that it's going to work. And I can understand that, because there are times when I'm not going to come, no matter what somebody does for me or to me. But I know I have failed you, failed to give you bliss and relief, and I will never be good for anything.
I hate this feeling. Remembering it makes me renew my efforts around and around your clitoris (which is bigger and harder now, as big as the whole world to me), and dip my tongue down into your vagina to see how much you are lubricating. I have continually let saliva run out of my mouth to keep your clit wet, because you can't come if it's dry. This parches my mouth, so I start rationing swallows of spitâhalf a mouthful for your clit, half for me to keep my tongue from getting rough and my throat from tickling until I have to cough. Sometimes I slip lower and lick up and swallow a mouthful of my old spit and your sex juice, but this means leaving your clit, so I try not to do it too often.
My neck really hurts. I'm having trouble holding my head up. Sweat is running down my forehead and I can't wipe it off, so it runs into my eyes and stings. My hands are completely numb, and so are my forearms, all the way up to the elbow. I can't tell if I am still gripping your labia or not. I can only tell by the shape of the clit in my mouth just how far back I'm still managing to keep them. I am angry with you because you are taking so long, angry because you leave me alone down here, with no idea what is going on with you, if you are enjoying it or not, no indication of how close you are, how much longer it's going to take. I want to shout,
“Are you ever going to come?”
I desperately need some help, and I begin to whisper, “please, please,” sometimes loud enough for you to hear me. Any kind of groan or sigh you make is of life-or-death importance to me now and keeps me going for a few more minutes. But I feel as if I am hanging from a cliff face by my skinned and bleeding palms, and I know I cannot hold on to the bare rock for much longer.
I begin to wonder if you are in a good enough space to be able to hold your cunt open for me for a few minutes, maybe take a break long enough for me to get a drink of water and work the blood back into my hands. I am never sure. Sometimes a request like this is enough to make you feel so guilty for “taking too long” that you break things off. I don't want you to stop me now. I badly need to continue, to keep going, to keep you open to me, keep you believing in me and trusting and needing me. The safety of my whole world seems to depend on being granted the privilege of continuing to go down on you.
Patiently, persistently, carefully, in agony and self-doubt, I keep caressing you, trying to duplicate again and again the same exact pattern of motion and pressure, the same degree of wetness and friction, and if you move or make a noise, I stop for a fraction of an instant, record what I was doing when you responded, and then try to make a copy of it between my lips and your sex. There is an erotic pressure between my own legs, a need to be fucked, to come, but I won't let myself build up and cry out, thrashing against the mattress, one more time. I need you now, your orgasm, your climax, to put out the fire that's raging inside of me. My own climax would bleed energy off from you, energy that you need to come. I don't want to pay any attention to my own body, it's whining pain and thirst, its nagging need to piss or come. It distracts me. I ignore it.
But it clamors louder and louder, and sometimes I am humiliated by yet another orgasm of my own, which takes place in a state of despair and frustration that infuriates and devastates me.
Still I work on and on, mechanically, softly, like the Colorado River carving the Grand Canyon one eon at a time, like a bird flying across the ocean that can't stop no matter how tired she is because there is no place to land. Save me, give it to me, help me, seize my head between your thighs and drown me! Come, come!
Sometimes, not all the time, at a time I am never able to predict and for reasons I still do not understand, you promise me a miracle. You begin to talk to me. After your long silence, it feels very odd, being talked to. I pay close attention to what you have to say. It must be important if you can't keep quiet any more.
“Oh, lover,” you say, “I'm going to come. Can you feel it? Lover!”
Now I am moving fast and sloppy, but it doesn't matter, you will come now no matter what I do, and anyway we are finally in sync, finally in this together, your hips pumping into my mouth, my lips slipping up and down your clit and inner lips, my tongue pointed to catch the most sensitive peak of the glans. There is so much sex juice! Slippery mucus slides across my tongue and slips down my throat, oh that welcome, salty taste that proves you are turned on and wanting me, I spread the slipperiness of it across your cunt and smear it all over my face. I wish this happy time could last longer, but I know I am nearly used up, and I am unreasonably terrified that I will still somehow bumble and fail, even now; that what you have promised me will not be delivered through some sin or folly of mine.
But you make sure that does not happen. Your thighs cross, my neck in between them, and you roll to the left, pinning me. You are incredibly strong during orgasm. I cannot pry myself loose or escape from you. And I don't want to. I'm too busy struggling to keep my tongue tucked into the top of your slit, pushing my face up between your convulsing thighs which keep trying to shut me out, push me away from my food, my possession, my cunt.
You come for a long time, longer if I can keep on licking you or shove my fingers into you, past your locked thighs, just as you begin to come. After the shouting, you lie very still, like someone who has fainted. I am terribly excited. As soon as your thighs relax a little, I push my hand between them, put my fingers up to feel how wet you are, and slide them in. You always say, “No. No, lover, don't.”
And I say, “Why? Why not? I want it. You can't stop me. Give it to me.” Then I fuck you. You don't like it, but it makes you come anyway, you can't help it, you jerk and throb around my hand and lock me between your thighs once more, and come until you're screaming obscenities at me, it feels so good to you. If I can, I fuck you yet again, and this time you really protest. It's too much, you're too tired, you're sore. But I am adamant. I've worked so hard to get you to this place, thrown open to me, responding with these free and easy, quick and intense orgasms, that I have to use your pussy as often as you will let me take it. It's what I want myself, for you to pin me down and fuck me, but coming has left you too enervated to struggle with me, so I fuck you instead and like it just as much as coming myself. Besides, this is the only time you can come when I fuck you, right after you've been eaten into an orgasm. You love to get fucked and will take literally hours of it, but never give in and come completely around me, come until you are satisfied.
It's almost like a feeding frenzy, this letch to fuck you again and again while pleasure has made you helpless. I once scared myself by fucking you until you passed out, and continuing without noticing you were unconscious. I didn't stop until I simply could not move my arm any more. Since then, I've tried to restrict myself to doing it once or twice.
Yes, it's difficult to make you come. You are difficult in other ways, too. You expect me to do things for you that I think people should do for themselves. I try anyway, and in return you hurt my feelings by complaining that I don't take good enough care of you. My desire for you is desperate, as if making you respond in bed could make up for all the things that go wrong elsewhere and give me back what I lose when you make a contemptuous remark about something I love or tell a story that is supposed to prove you will always be better than me at everything I care about doing well. I take it because I love you. But making love to you barely salvages my self-esteem, and keeps me addicted to you. Anybody could do this for you.
I will know I don't love you any more, that the anger has outweighed the lust, when I stop myself from taking that first puppy-lick, ice-cream-cone-lick, you-are-the-most-desirable-woman-inthe-world-lick that leads to two hours of being muzzled by your cunt, my tongue chasing itself around your clit, aching to have your wet and coming cunt plastered across my nose and mouth, my neck in the scissors of your thighs, hurting for those few seconds when I don't need to breathe or think or remember my name or my pride.
It's so difficult to make you come that only three of your lovers have been able to do it. Did any of them have the stamina to eat you twice in one night? How would you like to come again?
A Note on Lesbians, AIDS, and Safer Sex
The lesbian community has a relatively low rate of sexually transmitted diseases (STDs), in part because we also have a relatively low number of different sex partners per lesbian. The way that most lesbians have sex may also be a factor. However, any lesbian who deviates from this pattern by having more female partners, male partners, or exposing her bloodstream or mucous membranes to her partners' sexual fluids, piss, shit, or blood, is at higher risk. So are lesbian IV drug users.
Many lesbians believe that diseases are only brought into our community by bisexual women. Sadly, the AIDS epidemic has reinforced an attitude in some quarters that lesbians are somehow inherently cleaner or more healthy than gay men. Most of us don't think of vaginal infections as STDs, and few of us take precautions to prevent the spread of vaginitis or herpes. But women can give each other these diseases as well as chlamydia, hepatitis, intestinal parasites, syphilis, and others. You can try to protect yourself against disease by segregating your sex life so that you have no intimate contact with bisexual women, IV drug users, recently-reformed heterosexual women who are now exclusively lesbian, and any other “high risk” group. This has the potential to polarize us, and make some women scapegoats. The lesbian community is too small to survive excommunicating or quarantining some of its members. And the lesbian leather community is even smaller.
Besides, discriminating against certain groups of women who are potential sex partners is much less effective than simply having safer sex. It is difficult to know for sure if someone is giving you accurate information about their sex history and pattern of recreational drug use. Since sex with men is stigmatized in the lesbian community, and shooting up is stigmatized everywhere, you are likely to get false information about these crucial factors. Anyway, there is no guarantee that a woman who has only had sex with other women can't get exposed to the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV), the virus thought to cause AIDS.
From local data collected in New York City and elsewhere, we know that most of the lesbians who have AIDS are also IV drug users. The Center for Disease Control, which is in charge of compiling national statistics on AIDS, has taken an official position that lesbians are not a “risk group,” so they don't bother to keep track of the sexual orientation of women who are diagnosed as having this disease. However, there is no way to tell exactly how somebody got AIDS. Contaminated needles, which can put the virus directly into your bloodstream, do appear to transmit the disease more efficiently than lesbian sex. Recently, a purported case of AIDS transmitted sexually from one woman to another appeared in the medical literature (M. Marmor, L.R. Weiss, M. Lyden, S.H. Weiss, W.C. Saxinger, T.J. Spira, D. and P.M. Feorino, “Possible Female-to-Female Transmission of Human Immunodeficiency Virus,”
Letters and Corrections
, “Annals of Internal Medicine,” vol. 105, page 969). This case is controversial because one of these women also had male sex partners, and the “traumatic sexual activities” which allegedly exposed them on one another's blood are not described. However, the epidemiology of AIDS in Africa makes it clear that women can give men AIDS. HIV has been found to exist in vaginal secretions. It is there in much lower concentration than it is in semen or blood. No one has tested menstrual blood to see if it also contains high levels of HIV, but you should assume it does. There is no reason to believe that women can't give other women AIDS. This is an incurable, fatal disease, and the potential consequences of an erroneous assumption are enormous.
Everybody should know what safer sex is, and most of us should be practicing it. Any lesbian who is sexually active with multiple partners (male or female)âespecially if she does not know their histories; who has used semen for alternative conception which may have come from a high-risk donor; who has a history of IV drug use; who has had sex with gay or bisexual men, IV drug users, hemophiliacs, or someone who had a blood transfusion between 1979 and 1985, or who had a blood transfusion herself, ought to observe the following guidelines:
