Date: Sun, 01 Oct 2006 14:07:27 -0500
From: Miranda
Subject: My First Fake Girlfriend

			   First Fake Girlfriend
				    by
				  Miranda

	When old school chums find out that I am now a seasoned dyke they
aren't really that surprised. I look the part; short hair, a little stocky,
a penchant for wearing ties in an old homage to Diane Keaton. (She, Annie
Lennox and I have had a lot of imaginary shower time.) I don't get called
sir and guys still hit on me in the city but I imagine that if I crossed
the mason-dixon line I'd get called a dyke with a little more vitriol than
I am used to.

	Now, if you were to believe the content of most online lesbian
erotica, you might think that the first intrepid sexual explorations
between girls are porn-worthy acrobatic displays of analingus and arm-sized
dildos. This is not the case. Even though the idea of two plaid-skirted
girls intertwined on a bed and savoring the musk of one another's pussies
from a wet fingertip is pretty sexy, it doesn't really happen that way. Not
at first, at least. I, personally, don't know any girls who ate a girl out
before learning how to drive.

	Don't get me wrong, I like munching a little box as much as
anybody. I just find it hard to believe any girls that age would consider
putting their mouth down there to be erotic. Consider the fact that when
these sort of adolescent experiments are likely to begin (12 or 13, at the
early heavy onslaught of puberty) us girls are still getting comfortable
with the idea of touching ourselves down there despite the passage of urine
(girls frequently use pillows or stuffed animals for masturbation, a
reflection of such discomfort) when the new factor of musty, rust-speckled
blood becomes an issue as well. For me, at thirteen, my vagina seemed more
like an intruder upon my body as opposed to a tool of sexual pleasure. I
certainly wouldn't associate parting the sticky-wet lips of another girl
with my tongue, pubic hair brushing my nostrils, with eroticism.


	My first sexual tryst with a girl was at about age twelve or
so. Her name was Megan. Megan was this little pixie of girlish sexual
innocence - all waifish and ginger haired, milky skin with pink accents
along her cheeks and ears, a light spray of freckles in the summertime. She
was like a little sprite compared to me, who was clunky and long-limbed
with a nest of curly black hair, still getting used to the rapidly swelling
tits I had growing. (Beef hormones be damned!)

	Megan had gone to elementary school with me but as we entered
middle school we parted ways as she entered a private academy and I stayed
with the public school system. We still lived close so she became my
neighborhood friend, mostly separate from my school friends. She was the
most likely candidate for sleepovers and I felt more trust in confiding
potentially embarrassing secrets to her as she was not in a position to
spread such gossip to the social circles I was surrounded by at school.

	Being hormonally ravaged preteens we naturally spoke often of boys,
and sex. We did the kissing practice games and even gave little inspections
to see the differences in our nipples and navels, puzzling over the peach
fuzzy hairs that seemed more noticeable in patches over our bodies. We
preened and examined ourselves, tried on each other's clothes and made
appropriate judgments.

	None of this being sexual, really. It might be difficult to imagine
two girls kissing under a fortress of laundry baskets and bed linens to be
anything but - but it was all very clinical and friendly.

	The first real sexual interaction was late at night on the couch in
her living room, watching Cinemax as we spooned beneath an afghan. I forget
why we were spooning, but I am thankful that we were.

	The movie was some wacky summer camp vehicle for limited T&A - the
precursor for your higher production valued American Pie. It was late and
we were mostly drifting off under the flicker of this rather silly,
poorly-written movie when I felt her thighs ever so gently squeeze my
knee. The college kids on television were splashing and skinny dipping in
this remote lake. I wasn't even sure if Megan was still awake or not. I
shifted myself a bit, my knee just barely pushed between her legs.


	She squeezed it again and I, being sleepy and fixing a blurry eye
on half-naked people mucking about in a muddy rural pond, pushed my knee
back into her.

	I knew, somewhat, what I was doing. My masturbating up to that
point had consisted of a folded pillow between my legs while I would
contract my thigh muscles, making small gentle movements until a warm
ticklish feeling in my stomach and vagina waxed to a sparkling, assertive
sensation and I would continue that pulse until I fell asleep. I recognized
the slight shift of her hips and the tremble of her knees. I wasn't just
trying to get comfortable, I was deliberately rubbing myself against her.

	I was not, however, clear on whether she was intentionally reacting
or not. Who knows the nature of sleep and sexual stimulation at the age of
twelve? All I knew was that when her thighs pressed softly around my knobby
kneecap, I would ever so slightly shift forward and back with my hips. The
only recognition of the act I got from her was a soft vocal sigh, and
eventually I drifted to sleep before the credits began to roll.

	I figure now that Megan was aware of what was going on that time,
because we began to spoon with greater frequency on our sleepovers. Even on
the bed, when space was not an issue and we could sprawl out as much as we
desired, she would say she was cold and we would spoon each other. I
enjoyed it, both on a sexual level and on a comfort level. It's nice to
fall asleep with your arms wrapped around a warm, friendly body or with
their arms wrapped around you.

	And we would covertly grind against each other, legs intertwined
and hip bones making little bruises on our waists, never acknowledging the
lust generated between us. It was telling that we had stopped practicing
kissing or examining our bodies together, as if we were afraid that
scientific curiosity would give way to lust.

	And this went on, this unspoken sexual relationship, for over a
year. And it was not until one night as Megan and I lay together on the bed
and chatted, facing each other, when the recognition happened. We were
talking about some music video or some teacher and she moved in closer to
me and I, on instinct, placed my thigh between her own.  It had happened so
many times I did it out of habit, no more provocative than getting a coin
out of your pocket or putting your foot in a slipper. But we were facing
each other, and we were very much awake.

	She glanced away and I said, "Oh, sorry." Those two words
essentially confessed my knowledge of all our sexual exchanges. She said
nothing, but my leg remained. And we started. A gentle squeeze of her
knees. I pressed forward. We locked into our rhythm, gentle and covert,
embarrassed each time the springs on the bed would squeak.

	Megan looked up into my eyes, and I looked back. I was lost in the
pale crystalline blue of hers, chemical love swirling around my brain, and
I laced my fingers behind her back and pressed into her in a way that was
unmistakable, and we stared into each other's eyes with an eerie intensity
as I gave her what I can only assume was her first orgasm.

	If this was typical lesbian erotica at this point of the story we
would give way to passion and end up in a 69, painting each other's faces
with fragrant girl fluids.

	Instead, we stopped talking to each other.

	We found other friends and broke interactions aside from the
occasional wave from across the street. I started hanging out with the punk
kids, the smokers and the Manic Panic consumers. She joined the freshmen
debate club and took advanced classes.

	By the time she transferred back into public schools and became a
regular fixture of my day, we were on two sides of a fairly large social
chasm. I had ruddy tangled hair all frizzed from excessive bleaching, with
too much black makeup and a collection of Misfits t-shirts. In my eyes she
could have been a nun.

	But at the same time I had spent a good deal of time masturbating
with the fixed image of her face, flushed and damp with sweat, biting her
lower lip as she came. I was seventeen and this girl, this childhood
friend, I wanted to fuck.

	She had a boyfriend. A tall, handsome boy with zero personality and
a lot of pastel collared shirts. Member of the track team. Even though they
only held hands and she seemed timid about even that, I felt he (James) was
a stone seal on her heterosexuality. Even after they'd broken up I was
unsure. Sometimes we would pass each other in the hall and I would seek out
those eyes, the eyes I remembered from when we were young, and the eyes of
a stranger looked back at me.

	Not long after I'd heard the gossip of her relationship quick
demise I was out and about in the neighborhood sneaking a cigarette. I
found Megan on my trip, hanging listlessly in a swing at a nearby park. I
approached, curious.

	"You smoke?" She probably knew I did, but maybe just hadn't
actually seen me in the act.

	"You want one?" I replied, and she shook her head.

	I sat on the swing next to her and we didn't talk, just marveled at
how different we had both become. I was wearing ratty, torn-up jeans and a
hooded sweatshirt with punk band patches adorning the sleeves. She was
wearing a long summer dress, matching shoes and bracelets, a faint cast of
pastel makeup. All dressed up with no place to go.

	"Big date tonight?" I asked her and she shrugged. I waited a minute
and added, `Sorry about Jim."

	"Thanks." And she smiled in my direction, giving me a little flash
of that girl I had known before, the girl I'd spent so many quiet sweaty
nights with.

	So, in the most assertive, riskiest move I'd ever taken, I kicked
off my checkered Converse hi-top (whose laces had long been frayed and
discarded) and slipped my foot between her knees and against her inner
thigh. And 99% of the time she'd have jumped away or pushed me over, but
she was in such a place of mind that she just wanted some of that old
innocent comfort, and she squeezed her knees together.

	I smiled. It was a mix of sex and nostalgia sweeping over me. I
asked her, "Do you want to spend the night?"

	And she nodded.

	The walk to my house was silent and we didn't touch. But as soon as
we were in my bedroom, the turn of the deadbolt transformed it into another
universe where laws were broken and guilt did not exist. The click of the
lock was a starting gunshot and she turned to me and I was there, wrapping
my arms around her and pressing my lips against her own, tasting the
cinnamon lip gloss she had on top of the powder pink lipstick, exploring
the smoothness of her back with my hands. It was five years of sexual
frustration coming out of me, the unspoken sexual trysts I wanted to
explore and talk about. I wanted to be vocal and open with her.

	I met her eyes and said, "I want to fuck you."

	And she tilted her head like the willing victim of a vampire's
bite.

	So we laid down on my bed and went at each other, a tangle of limbs
and lips. I touched her and examined her everywhere, riding my hands up her
legs and tickling her stomach, planning kisses down the backs of her legs
and along her ass cheeks. She pushed her face into the pillow as I wedged
my hand between her stomach and the mattress and bore down until my finger
penetrated her predictably wet cunt.  Cunt, usually such an abrasive and
unappealing word, coming into play when the pussy is all flared and wet and
waiting.

	I nibbled down her back and hitched up her dress above her waist to
examine her panty-clad ass, pale and milky and soft.  When I pulled them
down with my thumbs and teeth, exposing for a moment the haunting vision of
her puckered lily-pink asshole slightly tacky with perspiration, it was a
revelation. For the first time ever I longed for the taste of her. I ran my
fingertips, wet with her pussy, over my lips and sucked them clean. I
placed my hand between my own thighs as I nuzzled into her pussy from
behind, my nose resting in the crack of her ass as I ate her out with
aimless enthusiasm. She, thinking of Lord knows what with her face buried
in a pillow, grinding herself back against me and arching her back like a
stroked cat.  I was so aroused that I wanted to penetrate that ass, the
moist little flower that made me sympathize with hummingbirds. I dabbed it
a few times with my tongue during my ministrations but I never fully
entered her asshole in the way I lusted for. Too soon, I suppose. C'est la
vie.

But to finish, we went by the old standard. I positioned myself beside her
and we wrapped our legs like a pretzel and ground ourselves to blistering
orgasms, naked and sweaty and kissing with the taste of sweat and lip gloss
and pussy all mingling together, a pheromone-heavy sensual overload that
left me gasping, `Fuck, fuck, fuck" over and over until I shuddered in her
arms.

	And that was my "first time" I suppose, a lingering event of
foreplay and sexual mystery that trickled its way to climax over the course
of five years. We never did it again after that, and when I went off to
college we never kept in touch save for the occasional birthday message on
MySpace. I suspect she's doing well and being a good straight girl - and
I'm just happy to have shared what we did.