Stolen Moments (19 page)

A woman clears her throat deliberately behind me. I stand up quickly and turn.

“Hi, do you work here?” She is a pretty young woman with radiant white skin and a slight rose to her cheeks.

I glance down at the book in my hand, then at the trolley, then look into her eyes. “No. I’m dyslexic. I thought I’d stand in the middle of a room full of books and torture myself.”

“Oh. Okay. I’m trying to find a book called
Pheremones
: The Molecules of Desire
.”

“That’s on this side.” I point to the case next to us. She nods and smiles and busies herself with searching the bookcase.

“Would you like some help? You can give me some authors to look for if you like.”

She faces me. A wavy, auburn lock has fallen in front of her right eye. She tucks it behind her ear and blinks, long eyelashes thickened with mascara. Her navy blue tank top is overwhelmed by large, round breasts.
I
am overwhelmed. The nipples are visible through the material. They are soft. And they are small. And I wonder what they would feel like beneath my fingertips, in the center of my palm as I circle them, caress them, and hold them firmly. Her skin is pale, void of even a freckle, and as smooth as youth. If ever the opportunity arose to press my face into her ample cleavage, while just rubbing myself…

I glance to the side and down at a piece of dust on the carpet, my arousal interrupted by a sting of guilt. I shudder. This girl is innocent and sweet and too young for my ravishing gazes. Those curious green eyes don’t even know they are looking at me. The real me. This forty-one-year-old body that has surrendered over and over to men it didn’t love, being used rather than cherished, and that now has the opportunity for something it’s needed forever.

And I. Can’t. Move.

I want to grab her by the shoulder and snatch her to me. Her big breasts mashed against my smaller ones. Her pelvis pressed against mine. Instead, my eyes drop and I stare. Such large, lovely breasts. She adjusts her neckline, as if trying to cover herself. I keep staring. She mumbles something and then rushes away.

*

At night I touch myself again. Tingling with the fantasy of the young woman in the library. She is at the foot of my bed, a large, cream-colored dildo jutting from between her thighs while I, in a silk gown, growing expectant, await her approach. She walks toward me…

I am rubbing myself quickly. One hand kneads my breast while the other kneads my cunt. I can’t do this…I can’t do this…I can’t do this! I stop. Throbbing and frustrated beyond bearing, I must stop. I can’t fantasize about having some barely-out-of-her-teens stranger I met in the library fuck me with a strap-on dildo. I am so desperate. I need a
woman’s
body now. I don’t want a man, and now I can admit I never did. I need soft hands caressing me…

In the morning, I stare at the phone and finally dial the number of the personals section of a lesbian magazine. A woman answers. She has a deep, husky voice.

“Hello, lesbian lovers dot com.”

“I would like to place a personals ad, please?”

“Oh, you do that over the Web.”

“But the only computer I have access to is at the library.”

“Well, I guess you’ll be spending a lot of time at the library, now won’t you?”

*

The bus is so cramped. Everyone is smooshed together like chickens in a coop. Everyone’s body bumps into the body next to it as we jerk along the jagged street. Some grumble an apology, while others ignore the disturbance. I stare into the pinstriped lap of the woman next to me. Is her vulva shaved? She has thick, red hair, red eyebrows, and red eyelashes. She probably has a thick red bush with a few blond strands. The woman standing in front of me—smart peach-colored pantsuit and silk blouse—with one hand holding the pole and the other holding a book…she’s very neatly put together. She probably has a closely trimmed strip of hair that ends right over her clitoris. If I could be with her, I know just what I’d do to her. Though I have never made love to a woman, I know by instinct how I would do it. I’ve read and reread the sex tips in
Lesbian Lovers
magazine. I know every position possible in the bedroom. I am familiar with everything one can do with one’s mouth, down to every possible flick of the tongue. I know where every erogenous zone is located, down to the precise point at the back of the knee. I know how to make love to breasts, suck toes, bring a woman to orgasm by playing in her ear with my tongue. But everything I know has only been realized in my frequent wet dreams and fantasies. It is time to do what I know I need to do. Time to feed my spirit with the body of a woman and cease its forty-one-year blight. Time to feel what it’s like to move in rhythm with someone else, smoothly—like waves on an ocean. Time to cry my partner’s name out of love and appreciation, not obligation. I am going to place an ad.

The Web site comes up. There is a garden with two women standing, one in beige slacks and a navy blue blouse, the other in a pink, flowing dress. A “Welcome” button flashes at the bottom of the screen. I click the button labeled “New User.” It asks me for a username. I search around the room for any object I could choose for a cute username. I scratch my head and tousle my hair a bit. It is so wild. I like it that way. It makes me feel sexy. And that is very much how I’ve been feeling lately, since I’ve come out to myself. That’s it! Wild! No. WildLovely! My stomach does flip-flops.

The next screen asks for my profile. Now what shall I write? What am I looking for? What’s my type? I enter:

MY GREAT DESIRE

Longing looks, sweaty nights. Wanting every beautiful woman who comes close enough. I can’t wait for this anymore. I am looking for a dyke, age and race unimportant, to show me for the first time, but definitely not the last, how good this can really be.

I read over what I have just written. I smile to myself and press Return.

*

Several hours later I rush to my neighbor’s apartment, trying in my haste to knock as politely as possible. “Hi,” I say as she opens the door. She is holding a drink. “Listen, could I use your computer for a second? I need to check something on a Web site.”

“Sure. Come on in.”

Her apartment is a one-bedroom. The carpet is lush, the furniture opulent. The room is a sultry backdrop to her exotic looks.

“Would you like some wine?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She opens the liquor bar by the window. I sit at her computer. Her Siamese cat jumps onto the sofa beside me and begins to lick its paws. I turn the computer on, click a few icons, and make my way through each portal. She places the wine beside my hand, holds my shoulder for a moment.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” she says and then walks into the other room.

I suck on the lip of the wineglass as I tilt the liquid toward my mouth. I take in just enough to wet the inside of my mouth, then set the glass down and click my in-box. I’m smiling now. I have two messages—one from someone who calls herself Rock and another from CherryFemme. I decide to open this one first.

You wrote a beautiful ad, WildLovely. I understand your yearning for womanly companionship. I’ve felt it too, for a long time. Your ad was surprisingly tame for a woman called WildLovely—lol—but I guess you said it all without saying it. I know what you must want to do to a woman and what you must want to have her do to you. I think I could make you feel all you’ve asked for in your note, and more. Please write back.

She seems sweet. We’ll see.

I click on the response from Rock.

I really liked your ad. You, WildLovely, are definitely ready to feel passion with a woman. I could read between the lines exactly HOW much you want this. I would like to share an evening with you. Dinner, maybe a little shopping first. And then I’d like to give you whatever you want—whatever you need—to fill you beyond anything you could ever conceive. I hope to hear from you, WildLovely.

Cass

I gulp and put my palm to my throat. There is a little square photo at the corner of the screen. Just to see what will happen, I click on it. It triples in size. Her long, aristocratic nose is accented by dark, rich eyebrows arched like a forties-era movie star’s. A head full of short, black hair the texture of an unusual type of silk. Icy blue eyes that stare sharply into the camera. She wears an amethyst pendant. The stone is a rich purple and is solid against her chest.

I press the Reply button.

*

In the morning, my phone rings. The machine will pick it up.

“Hello. This is Cass speaking. I have a message for WildLovely…”

I rush to the phone, almost falling in my haste. “Hello? H-hello, Cass?”

“Yes. WildLovely? You gave this number…I thought—”

“That’s okay, Cass. That’s okay.”

“Would you like to meet tonight?”

“Where?”

“There’s a store on Fifty-eighth and Third called Sweet Pleasures. Five thirty?”

“Yes.”

“What will you be wearing?”

“A light blue short-sleeved dress.”

“Sounds beautiful. See you then.”

The phone clicks before I have a chance to ask Cass what she’ll be wearing, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll know her. I tuck my hair behind my ear and walk quickly back to the kitchen, humming.

That afternoon I take extra care dressing, having spent all day in an onanistic frenzy, engaging every oblong object I could wrap my grip around. I stand before my mirror and sigh, then choose the lotion with the lavender scent. I flip open the top and squeeze the air from the bottle, taking in the scent with two quick inhalations. I squeeze a little onto the pads of my fingers and press them against my breast, squeezing my nipple as I caress myself. In my dream right now it is Cass’s hand upon mine, guiding me over the hot, charged plane of my body. She knows exactly where I like to touch myself, precisely where I must go to make myself wet. Together we squeeze my vulva and she whispers something sweet into my ear—

I open my eyes and stare at myself. My fantasy will come true soon, I know it will. I want to wipe the wetness from my labia, but if I get too close I won’t be able to take my hand away. The throbbing is so deep inside me, its reverberations causing a tickling sensation within the walls of my vagina, and the swollen lips throb at the same rate as my anxious heart.

*

I am walking up Third Avenue toward Fifty-eighth Street, searching for the store. Nothing. I turn to my right and wander down another block, which is heavily shaded by trees. The brownstone before me is red with a gold door. A little sign hanging on the handrail says Sweet Pleasures. I sigh with relief. Someone taps me on the shoulder.

Before I can turn around, someone takes my hand gently and squeezes it. It is Cass. She leads me up the stairs. With one hand in her pocket, she turns to me and smiles. Her perfectly placed teeth glisten. She rings the buzzer and an elderly woman pulls open the door, greets us, and ushers us in. My mouth drops open just slightly as a flood of throbbing heat teases my vagina. We walk across the threshold. Wall to wall dildoes. Of every size, shape, and color imaginable. Cass slides her hand from mine and grips my waist.

“Look around, dear,” the elderly saleswoman chimes as she squeezes my arm. “Everything you want is here.”

I turn to Cass. She is much taller than I and lanky in her loose-fitting denim jacket. Her dangling earrings, which are in the shape of a string of stars, bounce against her cheeks. “What are you thinking about?” she asks.

I look up and she kisses me on the lips.

“I know just what you two would like.” The saleswoman smiles beatifically as she reaches beneath the counter. “A new item that was just made for you!”

Cass and I blink, the moment broken.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She opens a box and presents an iridescent white, double-headed phallus, fifteen inches long, thick and pliable.

Cass takes it, strokes it during her examination. “I think my girlfriend and I would prefer a strap-on…just for me.”

I gulp and swallow my own saliva. No one notices how tense my body has just become, how my knees are beginning to tremble. I shift from leg to leg, every sensitive area twitching. I fight the impulse to orgasm right here in the store.

“The leather harness is more secure. You can really move around with it. The velvet is soft but you can’t be too rough with it—”

“Oh, so when I want to make her scream I’ll wear the leather. But if I just want to make her pant a little bit, I’ll wear the velvet.”

Cass and the saleswoman laugh. I take a shallow breath, my arms stiff at my sides. I—the one who wants to fuck like a madwoman and scream at the top of her lungs how much she loves women, how much she loves tits and pussy and smooth, fleshy asses, the one who thinks so frequently about having a cock of her own to enjoy, of being
in
a woman, of sliding up into the welcoming wetness, with her tightness around my rock-hard cock—I stand like a soldier, jaw squared shut, ass muscles tightly clenched. I imagine Cass on top of me in her bedroom as I lie under her on my stomach. I say stiffly, “Get that one, Cass.”

I meander toward the other end of the case, then point. “What’s this?”

The saleswoman reaches under the glass before me and hands me a fleshy, fat beige dildo. “Rub your thumb on it.”