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.
(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.