Sexy lesbian erotica...
"Last Night at Delia's," an Oysters sex story by Olivia London
There has only ever been one woman for me and if I had my way we’d be living in some girl-friendly mecca like San Francisco, or maybe even New Zealand. Wasn’t New Zealand the first country that granted women the right to vote? Jane and I had both emerged from hardscrabble backgrounds but we rebelled in dramatically different ways. J joined the army and cut her own hair. I went to art school and coveted the women who posed for drawing classes in various states of dishabille. Being an artist meant I was constantly broke and couldn’t have spotted a meal for one of the beautiful bohemian models anyway. Still, they were fun to think about as I crumpled up page after page of newsprint and downed a Ferris wheel of drinks in one of Atlanta’s hot gay bars.
Some people say you can never find true love in a bar; those people have never been to Delia’s in the Midtown section of Atlanta. Converted from a defunct cookie-making factory within walking distance of Piedmont Park, Delia’s (known to loyal patrons as D’s) was the Forest of Arden for lesbian attraction. It was packed every night of the week, especially on Thursdays when there was no cover charge.
I met my true love on a Saturday night, never a lonely night at D’s. I had gone alone but I didn’t feel self-conscious. I lived just a few blocks away on Myrtle Street and when you live in close proximity to a neighborhood bar, it somehow seems rightfully yours. That’s why when a bouncer asked for some identification I said, “You can’t card me. I live here.”
The bartender was my mom’s age only instead of an apron-wearing maternal figure there was Roxy, a good-natured redhead with a heavy pour and a yearlong tan.
The dance floor was packed so I swerved along the interstices and started dancing with a waspwaisted girl moving her arms up and down as if trying to get them through a turnstile. I liked her short, tawny bobbed hair. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her breasts didn’t miss a beat.
“Hey, stop staring at my tits!” she yelled. Though smiling and half-sauced, I could tell by the way she was looking me up and down that I wasn’t her type. I moved on a few body trains and that’s when I saw Jane.
She was standing in a corner chewing a thumbnail and staring off into an abysm only she could discern.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m Alana. Wanna dance?”
“I was just leaving. My girl broke up with me. I’m never coming here again.”
“Oh, c’mon. Let me buy you a drink.”
My new acquaintance shrugged noncommittally but gave my elbow an encouraging squeeze. Miraculously, there were two seats free at the bar. I pulled one aside and motioned for the broken-hearted one to take a seat.
“Very gallant, thank you. I’m Jane by the way. My parents couldn’t afford more than one syllable. I had to join the army to get an education. Still want to buy me a drink? I could really use a beer.”
I asked the bartender for two beers. I prefer wine but you don’t order wine at D’s.
Rox passed us two cold ones, winked and said, “First one’s on the house, ladies.”
“Wow, that was nice,” Jane said. “Maybe she likes you.”
“No, she likes you, I can tell. Too bad, though. I saw you first.”
Jane smiled and took a small, dainty sip from her glass. There was nothing dainty about her looks but she had graceful hands and a soft voice that strained to be heard above the din. Her hair was dark gravy, a fluid mass cut round her head like a bowl of swirling brown and sepia tones. Her eyebrows were plucked so vigorously they resembled a child’s drawing of flying seagulls. She was wearing a chambray shirt tucked into tight black jeans. When she hopped on the bar stool, a felt a zing of pleasure imagining how her perfectly-proportioned bum must feel confined in its denim casing.
“You sure know how to cheer a girl up, Alana. To think I wasted two weeks on Nina the pre-law student just makes me want to wear a hair shirt and start flagellating myself.”
“Two weeks, eh? I believe the loss ratio on that would be two alcoholic beverages: a drink for each week wasted. Finish your beer. I’ll buy you another.”
Jane laughed. “I like your style, girlfriend. Could be fun. Never dated an artist before.”
I reared back in my seat. “How did you know I’m an artist?”
“Well, the Frida Kahlo earrings are a clear giveaway. I like that bracelet you’re wearing. Very arty.”
“Thanks! I designed it.”
Jane arched her eyebrows and let her index finger trace my wrist under the silver bangle. An electric current shot up my arm and zoomed right to my belly.
We finished our beers and I ordered two more. Jane talked about life in the military, where she was encouraged to keep her mouth shut about certain personal preferences. I felt affronted on her behalf: after all, here was a woman risking body and soul for her country yet at the end of the day she was still expected to covet the nearest penis.
“Is all this butch talk turning you off, Alana?”
“Not at all,” I said, letting a bejeweled hand rest on her thigh. “I of all people could do with a little… er, discipline. And call me Lanie. If you’re name’s laconic, mine makes me feel like a woman running mad along the moors.”
Jane leaned into my shoulder, her lips just barely dusting my ear. “Let’s get out of here,” she murmured.
When we got to the parking lot, she pointed to a flashy sports car and asked if she could drive me home.
“Actually, I just live a few blocks away on Myrtle Street.”
Jane laughed. “Myrtle sounds like the name of a great aunt partial to poodle sweaters.”
“Yeah. Well, where do you live?”
“Buckhead, and please don’t call me a yuppie.” Jane leaned against her car door with her arms crossed, waiting for my reaction.
“Buckhead? Meet many girlfriends there?”
Jane shrugged. “My folks are from a little town in Virginia called Hamming. Hamming, Virginia. They visit once a month. I think they’re reassured by my conservative little enclave.”
I traced Jane’s cheekbone with my thumb. Her hands dropped and moved toward my waist so I placed my lips right where my thumb was. Then I kissed her flush on the mouth. Our tongues turned into twin accordions making their own sweet music.
Hartford, San Francisco, 1995 by Phyllis Christopher, available at ObsessionArt.com
“Was that reassuring?” I asked, sweeping my hands across her chest just once, just to give her nipples a warm greeting.
“Oh, Lanie. Let’s go back to your place. I don’t want to make out here in the parking lot. Although I could, I want you bad enough.”
Once we reached my humble abode, I congratulated myself for leaving the place clean. What would Sergeant Jane make of a sink bloated with dirty dishes? Not much, I imagined. She’d leave me for the first pre-med or pre-law student she could find.
I gave her a tour, which included a fire escape where a neighbor’s cat liked to perch. He wasn’t there, but he’d be back looking for treats eventually. The tour ended in my bedroom and that’s where my date suddenly went shy.
“I hope you don’t think I cruise bars every night looking for chicks. I mean, I don’t just want a one night stand.”
I rolled my eyes and started to unbutton her shirt. “Why do women always apologize for liking, needing or wanting sex?”
“Because it’s dirty and bad and terribly, terribly fun.”
I sat on the edge of my bed and took off my clothes. A soft old T-shirt, a jean skirt with a slit in the back and strappy sandals: my uniform for bar hopping in warm weather.
“You’re a natural blond,” Jane said appreciatively.
Jane was naturally buff. Her muscles made me feel like a lump of wet cookie dough. I caressed her biceps and forearms. She pulled me in for a long, wet kiss, electrifying my pussy in the process. Yes, the butch/femme dichotomy was part of the attraction but once our bodies began moving together, we were a carnal force in tandem, one liquid motion with the juices of Jane’s sex gliding over my pip as I splayed my hands beneath her torso while hoisting her pelvis closer to mine. Closer. I could feel her clit swelling in excitement as our vulvas crisscrossed over and under and over again.
"Don't let me go!" Jane cried out.
And I wouldn’t. I would watch Jane’s face contort in ecstasy as she came a dozen times that night.
Clasping my hands behind her back, I burrowed my pussy deeper into hers while flicking her nipples with my tongue and pinching them with the fluids of our lovemaking. Such magnificent nipples Jane had! Hard little filberts pointing right at me, begging to be plucked.
After Jane had a ripsnorting orgasm, I stimulated her clit with my fingers and tongue and let the desire build to a crescendo. Just as she arched her back for another come, I mounted her again and pedaled my pussy over hers, and once again, we locked into a viscous orbit.
Jane clenched her teeth and grabbed my long blond hair by the fistful. It was a glorious combination of raucous fucking and beautiful lovemaking with a woman made to be loved by another woman.
“Oh,” Jane breathed heavily. “More, Lanie, more. I want all your love.”
I kissed her face, her neck and shoulders. I traced her collarbones and sternum with my mouth then squeezed her nipples between my lips while lavishing those taut thimbles with my tongue. I licked her areolae before taking in as much of her breasts as I could. While she was still writhing with pleasure, I moved down to her luscious mound and fetched the ambrosia from her labial folds. I kneaded her buttocks as I filled her slit with my tongue and fingers, letting my hands find purchase on her hips as she started bucking toward another climax.
“My, God!” she cried out again.
But I wasn’t about to be distracted. I wanted to take her over the top so I parted her loins a little more and got down on one knee so as to have complete, unfettered access to her cunt. I let my tongue whorl over her bush and ravish her clit before buoying her groin with wave after wave of passion.
“Oh, Lanie! I’m coming again!”
And come she did for the umpteenth time. We fell back on the bed, spent and laughing with joy. My lover fell asleep in my arms as I basked in the sapor and smell of our sex.
Funny, I wasn’t tired at all. With Jane, I experienced the same sensations I felt when making jewelry or drawing in a sketchbook. I looked at her and was fully inspired.
We had only been dating a few weeks when Jane asked me to move in with her.
“Sweetheart, I’d love to,” I said, stroking wisps of hair off her forehead. “But you can’t expect me to move to Inbred Buckhead. I still can’t picture you in a neighborhood where mall walking is considered a valid form of exercise.”
“I know. That’s why we spend all our time at your place. I thought we could find a cottage or something in the Georgia Highlands.” She gave my arm a hopeful squeeze.
I poured tall iced sweet teas, twisting slices of lemon into each glass. “Here,” I said, handing her one.
“Jane, I don’t want to live in the Highlands. I don’t want to live in Buckhead. What’s wrong with here? Our friends are here. We’ve had great sex in this apartment. We can walk down the street and see familiar faces. Friendly faces. This is Midtown, baby. This is the place for us. Unless of course you want to move to San Francisco, in which case, you’ll have to hit up your homophobic parents for some dough.”
“You know my parents’ situation. They’ve had hard lives. I’ll come out to them soon, I promise. But right now, I just can’t.”
I sighed, feeling tired all of a sudden. “You keep putting off their visits but they’ll insist on seeing you eventually. And then what? Am I supposed to play the part of best pal? Or were you planning on hiding me altogether?”
Jane tapped her fingers compulsively on the Formica counter: a habit I once found endearing but now suddenly annoyed me.
“Stop that,” I said.
“I’ll think of something, Lanie. But I wish you’d consider the Highlands or Buckhead. I could never live in Midtown. This neighborhood is just too…”
“Oh, God help us, don’t say it. Don’t say it, Jane.”
“… too gay.”
“And you’re not gay enough, sister, except in the boudoir.”
“Touché.”
I tried to cut Jane some slack. She had been raised in a small town where mothers and daughters could be seen wearing matching dresses strolling to the nearest bake sale. And she spent four years in the army where she was literally mandated by her government to stay in the closet. But really, enough was enough. When you’re young and in love, you want to climb to the nearest rooftop and vocalize your blessings. Look, everybody! I’m in love!
Days passed in a tepid truce when a blessing did come to pass. Gina, my boss at the gallery where I worked, had accrued a surfeit of frequent flyer miles and she had a ticket to San Francisco she couldn’t use. She also had friends who ran a gallery called Fire & Moonstone. Gina had sent them slides of my work and they wanted to meet me. I couldn’t believe it! What a stroke of luck! All I had to do was convince my ‘What? Me, gay?’ girlfriend to come along.
Much to my surprise, Jane was all for it.
“Yeah, we should take a trip. That might help with perspective. I don’t want to lose you, Lanie.”
“You won’t,” I said, though I wasn’t sure about Christmas in Hamming, Virginia.
Jane had an office job managing a widget company but she was able to get Thursday and Friday off. I booked a room at a B & B and packed our bags. I waited until Jane was seated and buckled in on the plane before mentioning a minor detail.
“By the way, sugar, the bed and breakfast where we’ll spend our sojourn is located in the Castro District. A neighborhood I know you’ll love.”
Jane smiled and kissed my cheek. “In other words: way gay.”
“That’s what they say!”
When we got off the plane, a shuttle bus took us to our lodgings, an impressive Victorian home for travelers who weren’t put off by the frosted pink façade.
“It looks edible,” was the first thing Jane said.
“So do you.” I could sense an immediate revival in the lovemaking realm.
A handsome porter took our bags as we held hands walking to our room. When he left, Jane said, “I hope we tipped him enough.”
“That’s one of the things I love about you, J. You always put other people first. Your family, your friends and co-workers, even your country. But you have to think of yourself, too. Think of us. Do you really want to be with me? If you do, I’m not going to hide from your parents. Or your Uncle Marty in Silverton, Kentucky.”
Jane chuckled and said, “You’d like Marty. He’s a character. Says things like: ‘If you don’t have an ulcer then, gosh darn it, you ain’t workin’ hard enough.’”
“You didn’t answer my question, Jane. Do you want to be with me?”
“More than anything in the world.”
It had been a long flight so we took a shower and ordered room service.
“Tomorrow we can try that Thai restaurant Gina told me about. If that’s okay.”
“Sure. What time’s your appointment again?”
“One o’clock. The gallery doesn’t even open till noon. Isn’t that great? I have yet to meet an artist who’s a morning person.”
Jane gave me a tight little smile. I could tell what she was thinking after four years of rising at four A. M. for roll calls.
I patted her derrière, still firm even after a year of office toil. “And I’d be the first to admit I wouldn’t last a day in the trenches.”
This time I was vouchsafed a happier smile, a genuine one. We kissed until there was a knock at the door.
Our room service attendant brought in a pot of coffee and the food we ordered. When she left, I said, “Wow. Back home, you don’t see babes that good looking even at Delia’s. Not that I’m trying to make you jealous.”
Jane poured our coffee. “I’m not jealous. She’s straight.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m glad straight people aren’t discriminated against here. Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
The next day at F & M went better than my wildest dreams. Jill and her partner Sue commissioned several pieces from the slides they were shown. I was to ship them as soon as I got back to Atlanta. I couldn’t wait to tell Jane the good news.
When I got back to the hotel room, she was waiting for me… naked. She pulled me to her for a deep, smoldering kiss and we fell on the bed with one fluid arc, our bodies melding together in a fit of desire.
As Jane straddled me on the bed, I quickly tore off my dress and panties. I had just trimmed my pussy so when her mound crested mine, it felt deliciously ticklish.
“Go down on me,” I begged. When she did, I simply surrendered to the gathering momentum of her lovemaking. Jane liked to start out slow, nibbling my inner thighs, pressing her face into my groin, licking in a desultory fashion until I was about driven mad with the yearning for some pressure. And then it was there, her mouth covering my upper mons as she prodded and sucked my clit with her skillful tongue.
When I came, crying out my lover’s name, Jane wrapped me in the love embrace and I hooked my heels into her tush, the skin of her buttocks softer than chamois gloves.
I murmured forceful moans into her ear as her pudenda worked to fill mine, our pussies naturally gliding into a snug fit. When I felt the rapture of her clit thrumming hard and fast against mine, I reached down to warm my fingers with our succulent juices.
Never satisfied with just a few orgasms, we pleasured each other again and again losing track of our comes. And what an amazing thing it was, we would marvel as the weekend waned to a close, to be young lovers on vacation in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.
We were going to have our shuttle bus drop us off at my place first, but Jane said no, she wanted to pick up her mail in Buckhead. I saw Jane go rigid as the van pulled up to her apartment complex. There, with a battered, taped suitcase was a petite, scowling woman pacing back and forth. I immediately sensed who it was and yet I felt calm. My lover and I had had our fun, but now the day of reckoning was upon us.
“Mom!”
The small woman tugged at her daughter for an embrace, then pulled back to give her a sharp look.
“Your father and I have been so worried about you, hon. We called your office and were told you went off to San Francisco. San Francisco! We know all about that place. Daddy insisted I come here and check up on you.”
“Ahem,” I said, by way of introduction. “I’ll just go back to Myrtle Street, let you two catch up.”
“Oh, Mom. This is Alana, a friend of mine from soccer practice.” Jane gave me an apologetic look as my heart sank somewhere below sea level.
The silver-haired progenitor had a reply for her daughter while keeping her eyes on me.
“Soccer practice, huh? She doesn’t look very sporty to me.”
Jane and I met for drinks in Midtown that night. We both knew it would be our last night at Delia’s. After several rounds of beers, tears and recriminations, we ended our relationship. I eventually moved to the Bay Area where I met a woman on a lesbian cruise to Alaska. Laura is a lovely woman and I know I’m lucky to have her. Still, I’ll never forget Jane. How can I? You never forget your first great love
Copyright September 2010, Olivia London
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.
Originally published September 2010
