by Jean Roberta
Here is a little flasher I wrote about a kind of messy triangle:
The woman I met in the gay bar is sitting on my hide-a-bed, the place where I sleep. She calls herself a dyke, but I suspect it would be rude of me to call her that.
“How do you like to do it?” She is smiling, licking her lips.
I don’t know how I like to do it with a woman, underneath a woman, on top of a woman. Or a dyke. Whatever. “I never did this before,” I blurt. I feel mortified.
She looks delighted. “Oh, I’m gonna love this,” she promises, wrapping me in her arms. Her lips are hot. Her hands feel careful but determined.
“Mom!” My four-year-old is awake. “I hear noises! I think an animal is in our house!”
“There’s no animal in our house, honey. Go back to sleep.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, standing up. I go to my daughter’s bedroom, and find her sitting up, wide-eyed.
“Why can’t that man or lady go home?”
“It’s okay,” I insist. I’m not convinced. “You sometimes have a friend stay for the night. I can have a friend stay with me.”
Grown-up laughter wafts in: dyke-language competes with child-language. I have to multi-task.
I'll say more tomorrow.