By Lisabet Sarai
I must really be horny, to be sitting
here fantasizing about the keynote speaker. I squirm in my chair and
worry that I'm making a damp spot. The geek next to me appears to be
equally captivated by the woman at the podium; there's a big bulge in
his lap. I wonder if he's catching my tell-tale scent. Marta
Hauser, founder and CEO of VideoPlayHaus.com, takes control of the
stage. I can't take my eyes off her. She's the only woman on the
SoftCon opening panel, addressing the ostensibly earth-shaking topic:
"The New Net: Convergence or Confusion?"
In contrast to the casual beige of her
fellow Silicon Valley visionaries, Marta wears an emerald green
pantsuit of rich velvet that molds perfectly to her body. The
business-like cut only makes her curves more obvious. She takes the
mic and struts around like the star that she is. The velvet gleams in
the spotlight that follows her.
Her jet black hair is short, parted
along one side with spiky sideburns that accentuate her cheekbones.
Her eyes are dark, too. Even from the middle of the auditorium, I can
see that her ripe lips are painted crimson. I imagine those lips
claiming mine, firm, no nonsense, and then I imagine them lower,
smearing my belly with scarlet, marking the insides of my thighs with
lipstick brands before fastening on my aching clit. I can feel the
soft nap of her trousers caressing my flesh as she parts my thighs
with her own.
I'm so aroused that it hurts. I
consider slinking off to the Ladies Room, but I don't want to miss an
instant of Marta's performance. I try to focus on what's she's
saying. I'm sure that it must be intelligent if not enlightening. I
keep getting distracted by the V of tanned skin above the closure of
her jacket.
~ From “Velvet”, by
Lisabet Sarai
Our topic this fortnight at the Grip is
“Fascination”. And when I considered what truly fascinates me,
I came up with a possibly surprising answer: women. I'm a girl
watcher – and I've always been, long before I recognized I was
bisexual. This propensity has actually made me quite popular with the
guys. I don't get jealous when they salivate over some delicious
passing female. Instead, we compare notes.
I may be strolling down the sidewalk,
doing the grocery shopping, sitting on the subway, when
some woman catches my eye. I try not to stare – honestly, I
don't want to make her uncomfortable – but I've actually come close
to missing my stop on the train because I was surreptitiously
savoring some intriguing-looking lady.
What grabs my attention? Not
necessarily conventional beauty. A woman's manner has much more
influence – the way she holds herself or moves, her facial
expressions, the clothing she has chosen to express her personality.
Living as I do in a tropical climate, I do see a lot of skin, but
that's not the determining factor. Okay, I'll admit a smooth, dusky
shoulder will set my heart racing. The wisps of hair escaping from
her ponytail to tickle the back of her sweat-damp neck make me want
to run my tongue along that magnetic curve. That glimpse of bare,
brown midriff – a strappy sandal caressing a high arch – wrists
clinking with bangles or earlobes threaded with bright gold – hair
that explodes into a cloud of curls, or cascades down her back like a
waterfall of silk – clunky, dark-framed eyeglasses perched above
high cheekbones – a neatly tailored suit and a crisp white blouse –
any of these details might nail me to the floor in eager wonder.
Older women appeal to me too. I'm drawn
to women who wear their gray hair long, especially the ones with
braids, who look like hardy pioneers. I love the watch the gals my
age who move with confidence and grace, comfortable in their skin,
the ones who know that self-respect matters more than anyone's
opinion. I want to know these women. All I do, though, is admire them
from a distance, unable to turn fascination into action.
I've commented in the past that I had
few if any regrets about my life. However, writing this post, I
realized there's one major gap in my life's experience, unlikely at
this point to be filled. I've never really had a woman lover. My
first lesbian encounter, with a close friend, was thrilling but
incomplete, and never repeated. (We're still friends, but that night
is never mentioned.) I've played a bit with women at swing parties
and sex clubs, but always with males present. Over the years, I've
had crushes on quite a few of my close female friends, but I've never
known a woman well who wanted me the same way I wanted her.
So when I girl-watch, fascinated by the
diverse beauty of my own gender, it's bittersweet. I think that
yearning finds its way into my stories when I write lesbian erotica.
I haven't actually produced that many F/F tales, though I've been
thinking lately there are enough in my back list to pull into a
decent collection. Almost all of them are deeply emotional.
Here's a snippet from “The Late
Show”, which I'm proud to say will be part of the next volume of
Best Lesbian Erotica:
****
At seven thirty, after serving the
stragglers, I cracked open my novel and tried to lose myself in the
plot. Every so often a bolt of knowledge sizzled through, dragging me
back to the present. Haley was on her way.
Eight o'clock. Eight thirty. The early
show let out. I took a bathroom break and was mortified to discover
I was thoroughly drenched. A trace of pussy scent clung to my
fingers, even after I'd washed twice.
I sold a handful of tickets for the
nine o'clock screening. I'd grown accustomed to the aching that
gripped my pelvis and the pressure of my nipples against the wilting
cotton of my blouse. Once I was sure no one else was coming, I leaned
back and closed my eyes.
Exhausted by the tension of waiting, I
must have dozed. Thunder woke me, a roar that made my belly clench. I
opened my eyes in time to see a huge Harley execute a U-turn in the
middle of Main Street, then pull up to the curb in front of the
Starlight.
A lean figure dismounted the
black-and-chrome monster. The driver peeled off black gloves that
looked like leather and stuffed them in a back pocket, then removed
the shiny black helmet and ran her fingers through her short,
chestnut locks.
Long before I saw her face, I knew who
it was.
“Hey, Di! Heard you worked here.”
She sauntered up to the booth and grinned at me through the glass.
“How're ya doin'?”
I stared at her, paralyzed and dumb
with lust. Heat rippled through me. My earlobes, my nipples, my clit,
all felt like they'd burst into flames at any moment.
“Ah – um – hello...um, hi,
Haley.” I was eighteen again, tongue-tied, overwhelmed, marveling
at her effortless, androgynous beauty . “Um – welcome back.”
“I'm just passin' through – on my
way to LA, got a job waiting – but I had to stop by to look up an
old friend...”
Her voice went low when she said that
word. She meant something else. A chill skittered up my spine.
*****
Personally, it's hard for me
to imagine at this point that I'll ever fully satisfy my desires for other women. So I observe them from afar, as they dance through the
margins of my life, and transfer my dreams to my characters. I don't
mind, too much. Certainly, my husband enjoys it.
Velvet
(A 100 word
flasher, which predates the story)
I have a weakness for women
in velvet.
The golden-haired video
store clerk, with her sweet features and pale fingers, fragile in her
medieval purple tunic and boots. The minx strutting through the mall
on platform soles, black velvet waistcoat cut away to show taut bare
midriff above hip-hugging silver leggings. The no-nonsense
businesswomen, full lips belying her severe hairstyle, breasts
confined but beckoning under the emerald nap of her pants suit.
In loving detail I describe
them to my husband while he strokes me, savoring my sleek fur and
silken folds.
He has a weakness for
velvet, too.
