French Toast

I cut the french toast into hearts and cover it with sweet red jam.  Kissan, your favorite brand.  The Economist, your favorite magazine.  I don’t risk coffee; I know my limits — I’m a northie, incapable of making coffee the way you like it.

In your cupboard I find a silver tray.

“Wow baby,” you say, smiling from under the covers.  You sit up.  Tray to the side; toast in one hand, magazine in the other.

I watch you eat, your lips swallowing and licking the luscious, sticky red jam. I like the way you eat. It makes me hungry, too.

It’s a chilly Bangalore morning.  Sunday.  No cook, no maid, no work to pull us away from each other.

You’re telling me about a story in the magazine.  The war in the Congo, or the debt crisis in Greece.  Something far away from us. Something that doesn’t have to touch us, unless we let it.

I get back under the covers, rest my hand on your thigh.  Absorbed in reading, in eating, you don’t object as I cuddle closer.  Move the covers off you.

You finish your toast.

I lift your nightgown.

You lick the last jam off your fingers, pretend to keep reading.

I separate your legs, situate myself between them.

“So how is the yuan doing against the dollar, anyway?”  I ask, innocently, my head resting against your inner thigh.

You laugh.  You put down the magazine.  You stroke my hair.

I start my breakfast … delicious, as always.

The Virgin

ADELAIDE WAS my first white woman. She was ten years younger than me and fat and one of those rare Smithies who actually stayed a lesbian after graduation. She wanted to be taught, and I told her I wasn’t a teacher and didn’t know shit.

But maybe I knew more than her because I’d been fucked well, and she never had. She’d only dated “toasters,” straight girls who were willing to be turned; if you did enough of them, the joke was, you’d win a toaster oven. Adelaide had enough for several toaster ovens. She told me about her first girlfriend, who let Adelaide do everything to her, for two years. “I only asked her for one thing, ever,” Adelaide told me, “and she couldn’t do it.” Adelaide wanted to be bitten, but the girlfriend had a rare disease that caused fragile teeth; she was afraid of breaking them.

Before I actually slept with Adelaide I thought of bruising her, her skin was so creamy and expansive, there were acres of it in which to make satisfying marks, patterns, crop circles. I wanted to spank her huge ass and see if my small brown hand could make any kind of impact.

After a couple of casual dates—an art film, museum, pizza—I invited her over for dinner. She told me to save some chopping and stirring for her. “That’s not how it works,” I said. I like being in charge in my kitchen. I made my Sexy Fig & Beet Salad, fish stew, lemon rice. Instead of flowers she brought me a bouquet of poems about flowers, and we read them to each other, sitting close together leaning back on a huge pillow on my living room floor. Outside, fog and the full moon made the pines mysterious, as if they or we were fading in and out of the world. I ran my fingers along her neck at the edge of her short hair and watched her cleavage turn pink, then deep red. There was ice cream for dessert but we never got to that.

IN BED SHE TOLD ME she wanted to be seduced, and I said it might be a bit late for that but I’d try. I lit a candle and made her take off her clothes. She was on her period. “I’m not squeamish,” I said, then laid a towel over the sheets and had her lie down naked on it. I pushed her legs apart, then wider. I wanted to be violent but I took her nipple in my mouth and sucked it gently, then the other, and then I couldn’t help myself and started slowly biting her all over, lips and tongue and teeth. She was clean and smooth and strange-tasting; my Daddy told me later, “Virgins just taste different.”

After I had bitten and kissed my way down her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, I asked softly, “Can I put on a glove and touch you?”

“O yes,” she said, “you have one?”

“Of course. What kind of seducer would I be otherwise?”

In the dark I found a glove in my toybox and put it on. I wanted to be quick and smooth, but I realized I didn’t have to hurry, remembering the sweetness of the times I’d waited with my legs spread for my lover to touch me. Once the fucking was inevitable, the waiting could be beautiful, when time slowed down time and the intensity of one’s own longing came into sharp focus.

When I climbed back in bed, leaning on one elbow down by her waist, Adelaide’s body was warm and her breathing ragged. I kissed her just above her crispy light-brown pubic hair, then I touched her between the legs, learning the shape of her vulva, letting her moans guide my fingers to her clit.

SHE WAS ALREADY WET so I slipped my longest finger down between her lips. “Is this OK?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ll tell you if it’s not, OK?”

I pushed inside. Her pussy was tight.

“How does it feel?”

“Good,” she moaned.

“My nails aren’t hurting you?”


I wanted to go further, to add another finger, but her tightness scared me. “Good like just right, or good like you want more?”

“Mmmm,” she said. She thought for a moment. “More.”

I pulled out enough to put a second finger in, and then I could tell that was all she could take. I wriggled around, trying to figure out how my thumb could reach her clit. Erotica writers always make it sound easy, and maybe it is once you’ve gotten the hang of it, but I’d always been on the other end where everything felt good, where you didn’t have to think about the anatomy and geometry of the hand. Finally I figured out how to lift my wrist so I could reach both her clit and her g-spot, and when I started rocking my hand in just the right way, finding a rhythm that gave her plenty of stimulation in both places, it wasn’t long before she came, sighing and moaning and breathing hard and then breathing slow and deep and airy. I climbed up, feeling like I’d reached a mountaintop myself, peeled the glove off, put my arms around her.

SHE LIKED TO BE BITTEN and scratched, she told me, but not spanked. She wanted to fuck in a library. She wanted to be tied up, but not hurt, not humiliated.

I told her I wanted to fuck her with a dildo. I strapped it on, feeling the strangeness of the straps and buckles on my hips. I’d inherited the harness in my last breakup; my ex had worn it, but I never had. Wearing the penis made me feel like an adolescent boy, and I was suddenly hopping with energy. I tried getting on top of her, then turned her over and tried taking her on all fours, tried for a while, using lube. But even the small dildo was too big for her; something for another day.

“I don’t know why I’m so tight,” she complained.

“Because you’re a virgin, sweetie.”

“Oh!” she laughed. “Oh yeah.”

I love the kind of woman who has never been touched by a man. Perhaps I wish I could say that for myself, although I don’t regret anything in my past. The next best thing is to be in the vicinity of the inviolate, to be with a body which is only ours, the only real territory of the lesbian nation.

I WENT DOWN ON HER through a dam and then made her come with my hand again, and then she asked me fuzzily if I wanted her to do anything before falling asleep with my arms around her, and I thought, Three – I made her come three times. Three.

Pretty good for a bottom.

Then I got up to blow out the candle, turn out the living room lights, pee. I was surprised I didn’t feel like coming—and I am a woman who likes to come—but I was suddenly ravenous. I ate an apple and a bagel that was about to go stale, drank some water, checked my email, not wanting to go back to bed with her; I wanted to be alone.Part of me enjoyed the conquest so much I never wanted to see her again; I wished I were heartless enough to make her a notch on my belt, and I ran down the list of other women I could seduce; there were two on the way. I hoped Adelaide wasn’t going to fall in love with me. We’d been clear up front, but I knew how quickly my own feelings changed when I’d had great sex. I didn’t think my own performance was anything remarkable, but to Adelaide it was, and that was what counted. She hadn’t had any orgasms with other people, so three was a lot. Me, I was used to having a million.

Finally at 4:30 I went back to bed and slept, exhausted. At 7 we got up, even though it was Sunday morning; I had warned her the night before that I had a meeting.

“What kind of meeting?” she asked.

“Just a meeting, sweetie,” I said, “but I’ll drop you off at home.”

In the morning I could see she wanted me to fuck her some more, but I was tired, and the thrill of the night before had gone. At her suggestion we took a shower together. I made her breakfast, sausage and eggs, raspberries, and I let her slice two kiwi fruit.

Then I drove her home, rushed back to my place, put the towels in the washing machine and changed the sheets.

At 9 a.m. Daddy came to punish me for being a bad girl.