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I’ve always found other women attractive. Ever since I was little, I’ve always enjoyed looking at them. Well, it’s the way we’re brought up, isn’t it? Fashion, hairstyles, ads, women’s magazines, that sort of thing – it’s normal, it’s what we do. And let’s be honest, I’ve wondered more than a few times what it would be like to make love with another woman, thought about how exciting it might be, imagined how different it would be from with a man, and again I think there are lots of us who do that; wonder, I mean. I read not so long ago that over sixty percent of women have thought about it at one time or another. But most of us just leave it at that, a thought, we never actually do anything about it, just leave it as a vague itch that we never scratched or write it off as an opportunity that never presented itself, or maybe an opportunity that did present itself but for some reason we didn’t take it – uncertainty, cowardice, the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong woman, whatever…
That’s how I always thought it would be for me, too. I had one or two schoolgirl crushes, but even at the time there was a part of me that knew that that was all they were, and I’ve never been what you’d call very assertive or forward in that way, so the idea of making the first move with anybody, of either sex, wasn’t really one that came naturally to me. And then I discovered boys, and they discovered me, and enough of them were quite happy to be the one to make the first move, and they liked it that way, and I liked it that way, and they liked me, or at least some of them did, and I liked some of them, and so by the time I got to 24 it seemed as if that was going to be it. And then I met Kara.
But maybe I should tell you a little bit about myself first. My name’s Gina and I’m a natural blonde; my hair’s a kind of pale honey colour and thick and straight and reaches to just below my shoulder-blades. I’m told I’ve got a pretty face and I’ve been complimented on my figure by people who were sober or uninterested enough that I could trust them. I’m on the slim side but I like it that way. I tan easily and I like to think I dress well. Perhaps the most genuinely interesting thing about me physically is that my eyes are different colours; the left one’s grey, the right one’s green. It means I get a lot of stares once people see me in close-up.
There’s a kind of café-bar not too far from the office where I work, where I go now and then, maybe for lunch or for a drink after work. I like it because it’s always pretty quiet, the food’s OK, and it’s not the sort of place where you’re likely to get anybody hassling you. One day I dropped in in the middle of the afternoon. It was a really hot day and I’d stopped work early, and as I was going past the thought just struck me how much I’d love a long cool drink. So in I went.
The waitress was somebody new. As I waited for my drink I watched her moving round; it was hard not to. To start with, she had the most amazing suntan, the sort you only get from either lying in the sun for weeks on end or a very heavy programme of visits to the solarium. Like I said, I tan easily, but I couldn’t remember ever having had a tan like this woman had. Like a lot of very tanned people, she had that kind of sheen to her skin that made it look almost as if it was glowing from within.
Her hair was drawn back close to her head and into a ponytail. I got the impression it was about the same length as mine. It was perfectly black, the kind of lustrous blue-black that ink has, and I would have sworn it was dyed if it weren’t for the fact that her eyebrows, which were thick and dramatically arched, a bit like the ones Elizabeth Taylor’s version of Cleopatra had, were the same colour. She was wearing a figure-hugging lycra minidress in a kind of off-white colour; it covered the essentials, but not that much more. Mind you, she had the figure for it, so why not? I found myself thinking, as my eyes followed her around the room and saw the effect she was having on the male customers, that it must be bringing her a small fortune in tips. Like they say, if you’ve got it, why not flaunt it?
When she brought me my drink, she smiled. She had nice even white teeth and I noticed that she had a little silver stud right in the middle of her tongue. I’ve got this really ambivalent attitude to piercings; I like them a lot on other people and think they can be beautiful things if done right, but I’ve never quite had the courage to get one for myself. Not even my ears are pierced. Obviously this waitress didn’t suffer from the same uncertainty I did; besides the stud in her tongue she had another, a tiny one with a diamond in it, in her left nostril, and a series of hoops, of varying sizes but none of them very big and all arranged in a neat mathematical progression, in each ear. I’d already spotted an ankle chain and several silver necklaces and bracelets. Now I noticed that on all of her fingers, thumbs included, she had silver rings. And she had tattoos as well. There were at least three that I could see, a flower picked out on one of her ankles, a dainty-looking butterfly on her left shoulder-blade, bursa evi olan escort and one of those ones that look like rose stems or barbed wire around her upper right arm. Lots of women have those these days, but this one went round her arms not once but several times, in a spiral that went right from her elbow up to her armpit.
I thanked her as she bent down to put the glass on the table and she glanced up at me. I noticed the way her eyes, which were large and clear, with dark brown irises, lingered on mine for a second more than you might have expected and that the expression in them changed as she registered the different colours; it was something I was used to, but I was glad she’d noticed me. Now, I thought, she’d remember me next time.
Next time was only the next day. And she did remember me, which pleased me. We didn’t talk much then, just a few words, but I got the feeling she was happy to see me. Every time I was in there after that we always seemed to manage to find time for a few friendly words, but nothing more. Somewhere along the line we found out each other’s names.
And then, one day, I was in there about three in the afternoon. She was busy behind the bar but shot me a little smile and then, when she recognised me, a bigger one and a wave. After a moment she came out with a tray of drinks for a group of customers on the other side of the room. As usual, she wasn’t exactly dressed for anonymity. Today she had on a tight-fitting white sleeveless top that had the sort of neckline a romantic novelist might describe as plunging, together with high heels and a short black skirt slit high at the side that showed off the shape of her legs to advantage. I thought she looked great.
I ordered a gin and tonic and sat there with it for a while, enjoying its cool crispness. I had a magazine with me but it didn’t really hold my attention much; I spent more time just looking round the room. I was half-reading an article about the need for honesty in relationships when I heard the sound of a female voice quietly swearing and looked up.
It was Kara, who had obviously just lost a battle with the beer pump. The barrel must have been empty, or new, or something, because, instead of pouring a nice steady stream of beer into the glass she was holding under it, it had spat it over her instead, leaving a damp patch on her top and golden droplets of beer all over the exposed brown skin of her chest. She was muttering and trying to shake the liquid off her hands.
Our eyes met and she grimaced.
“Can I get you a towel or something?” I asked.
“No, it’s OK. I’ll manage,” she smiled. “But thanks for offering.”
She disappeared into the back room and emerged again a few minutes later with a new top on. It wasn’t nearly as dramatic as the previous one but I guess that at least it was dry.
That night, the strangest thing happened. I had this incredibly vivid dream in which I was back in the bar and the beer pump was spraying beer all over Kara, but this time I didn’t offer to help. I just got up, went over to the bar, and bent my head to her tanned chest and started to lick her skin clean. And she didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop me, but held my head in her hands and pressed it to her. And I licked and I licked, and before I knew it her breast was bare and I was licking that too, and her nipple, which was a dark chocolate colour, was erect and rubbery under my lips, and, and, and…that was when I woke up, the image still incredibly alive in my mind. I was sweating and I could feel that between my legs I was hot and wet and aroused, and I felt so good that I just fixed that image of me licking the beer foam off her in my mind and let my hand slip between my legs and played with myself until I felt that sweet familiar sensation creep over me and my limbs spasmed and my back arched and I sobbed out my satisfaction into the dark bedroom night.
The next day, passing the café on the way to work, I looked through the window. It wasn’t open yet but I blushed as I remembered my dream. It’s funny, isn’t it, how when we dream something we carry it with us into the waking world and think the people in it must know what happened in our heads in the night. What would she say if she knew? Embarrassed, I hurried on by. I didn’t go back to the place for the next ten days, not particularly because of my dream, but I guess that helped. And then, when I did finally go, she wasn’t there anyway. And nor was she the next time, and I began to think she’d left. But I still sometimes thought about her at night, and when I did it always started with her spilling beer on herself and led into the two of us together, and I always ended up touching myself and fantasising furiously about the idea.
And then, one hot day, I went back there and there she was, looking better than ever. Her hair was shorter now and she was wearing it loose in a stylish bob with a straight fringe at the front. It was shot through with scarlet streaks. She had on a white blouse and tight black trousers and looked a lot like Uma Thurman in that scene from altıparmak escort ‘Pulp Fiction’ where she goes dancing with John Travolta.
Although my fantasy about her came flooding into my head as soon as I saw her and I felt a pang or two of guilt about that, most of all I felt pleased to see her. Which was stupid, really, because we hardly knew each other at all to talk to, we hadn’t even been in the same room more than a handful of times, and her main two roles in my life were as occasional supplier of drinks and equally occasional provider of raw material for my nocturnal fantasies. Watching the way she was flirting with two guys at the bar, I got the distinct impression that she would be less than wildly enthusiastic to hear about the second of these two roles. Which just goes to show how wrong you can be.
My own companion, which is to rather stretch the word, was a guy from work. He hadn’t been with us for long and had started by giving the impression of being a bit lost. Quite how it happened I’m not sure, but the group of us which was supposed to be taking him out and gently initiating him into the gang had somehow dwindled to just me, and the guy, whose name, not that it really matters, was Steve, had rather got the wrong end of the stick. After listening to what he liked to think was his conversation for half an hour, I was painfully aware that he was convinced that all he needed to do was to bang me over the head with his club and I would be ready, even eager, to be dragged back to his cave for a night of something he plainly thought I should be very grateful for. The prospect had all the appeal of a bowl of cold vomit and as he started to get even more obvious I told him so. Perhaps I should have used more subtle language to explain this, but I really wasn’t in the mood, and Steve reacted by going into a king-sized snit.
At this stage I exercised a woman’s prerogative and retreated to the toilet for a few minutes to regroup. When I got back Kara was standing by our table and talking to Steve. She was laughing and shaking her head.
“No, I won’t give you my phone number,” she was saying.
“Why not?” he whined.
“Well, because I don’t just give my phone number to simply anybody. I only give it to people I find attractive, and to be honest you’re really not my type.”
“So what is your type, then?” Steve retorted. The fool probably thought he was being witty and charming, which, to repeat a phrase I’ve already used, just goes to show how wrong you can be.
“That’s none of your business,” she answered.
“Go on, tell me,” he insisted, his voice quivering. I realised that Steve was drunk, quite an achievement if all he’d had was the two beers he’d had since we arrived. Maybe he’d been getting started earlier.
“You really want me to tell you?”
“Yes,” he snapped.
“Well,” she said coolly, “you’re not going to like this, but I might well be tempted to give my phone number to your cute girlfriend here.” And with this she gave me a sideways glance and winked at me.
Steve’s jaw dropped. He blushed furiously. He looked from her to me, then back again, as if seeking some inspiration, and then, finding none, he stood up, gawped at us one last time, and then stormed off in the general direction of the men’s toilets, leaving the two of us laughing behind him.
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I said after a moment.
“I didn’t think for a minute you would be,” she smiled back. “I hope you don’t mind, but he really annoyed me and I wanted to hit him where it hurt.”
“I think you succeeded,” I laughed.
“You’re still cute, though,” she said after a pause.
I rolled my eyes upwards to the ceiling and then fixed them on her, unable, or perhaps that should have been unwilling, to believe what I was hearing. Was she psychic or something? Did she somehow know about my dream and my fantasies? But how could that be possible? “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
“Is that what you think?”
“I’m not sure, but I think you probably are.”
“So do you want my phone number? Then you can call me some time when that idiot you’re with isn’t around and I can tell you, or, better still, show you, whether I’m making fun of you. How’s that?”
My eyes met hers. They were full of light and humour and challenge.
“Are you for real?” I said.
“Right. Give me the number,” I heard my voice say, almost as if it was someone else speaking.
She licked her lips, giving me another flash of the stud in her tongue, and reached for her notepad. She scribbled on it and pressed it into my outstretched hand. I caught a whiff of the perfume she was wearing as she passed it over, something light and tart but with an undercurrent of musk that hit me right in the stomach as I realised just what I might be getting into by taking her up on what was really, let’s be honest, a dare.
“Here it is,” she said in a low voice, her gaze fixed on me. “Use it.”
“I will. I promise.”
By the time Steve got back the scrap of paper was safely stowed away in my bag.
“Right, gemlik escort I’m off,” I said as soon as he sat down.
“What, so soon? Don’t you want to stay and flirt with the waitress a bit more?”
“Steve, that’s not nice,” I said. But when I left a little devil in me made sure that he saw the smile I gave to Kara, standing behind the bar.
– – – – –
Making the decision to call her wasn’t easy. Part of me was full of eagerness to be doing it right away, another was timid and held back. I lost count of the number of times my finger was poised over the buttons and then I put it away without punching in her number. But in the end it was my eager self that won out. She picked it up on the second ring.
“Hello,” she said, in a very neutral voice.
“Hi,” I said. “This is Gina. Remember me?”
“Gina! Hi!” I can’t remember ever hearing such a change come over a voice; in three seconds it went from couldn’t-give-a-damn to, well, I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but almost literally purring. I’d been a bit nervous about what I was going to say, but in the end I needn’t have bothered. She took the lead in everything and before I knew it she was asking if I’d like to meet her in a bar the next evening, which was Friday. It was one I’d never been to before in my life.
“What sort of place is it?” I asked, cringing inside at how timid I was sure I must sound.
“Don’t worry,” she laughed. “It’s a nice place. It’s not a heavy leather bar or anything like that. After all, this is just a first date, isn’t it?”
It’s hard to describe the feeling that came over me when I heard her use the word ‘date’ in such a natural and offhand way. Yes, of course that was what we were fixing up, a date, and if there had been any mistake about that there certainly wasn’t now. I was filled with the oddest mixture of nervousness and excitement, both at the same time; it reminded me of nothing so much as being a teenager and going out with guys for the first time. But then, I reflected, that was exactly what it was. Well, with one very big and very obvious difference. Funnily enough, though, for all the doubt I felt right then, it never occurred to me to back out.
“So what shall I wear?” I asked her, trying to inject some flirtatiousness into my voice.
“Well, what would you normally wear for a date on a hot evening?” she asked teasingly.
“It would depend on the other person, but if I liked them I’d make an effort to look nice for them.”
“So do that, and I’ll do that too, and I’ll see you tomorrow evening. And Gina, I’m really looking forward to seeing you. You know that, don’t you?”
As I put the phone down I could feel my stomach doing an impression of a washing machine on spin cycle inside me.
– – – – –
I did make an effort, too. By the time I was ready to go out I was as well pleased as I’d ever been when I looked in the mirror and surveyed myself. I wasn’t sure what sort of an effect I was going to have on Kara but I certainly liked what I saw.
I began my preparations in the way I like best, with a long leisurely soak in a deep hot bath with a touch of scented oil. I shaved my armpits and then my legs, doing it twice so that they were really smooth, and then, after a bit of thought, I decided to shave my pussy as well. I’d done it a couple of times before, both times for a boyfriend I’d really liked, and it had really driven him wild. I wasn’t about to rush out and get myself a tattoo or a piercing, but if I did end up going to bed with Kara, and, I thought with a surge of thrilled nervousness, there was more than a possibility that I might, I wanted it to be as exciting as possible. So I sat on the edge of the bath with a pair of nail scissors and trimmed away as much of the hair from between my legs as I could, and then I soaped myself till there was a good thick lather and took a fresh razor and very carefully shaved myself so that all was left was a little triangle of clipped hair on my mons. Looking at my bare sex with a hand mirror and opening myself up with my fingers, I didn’t know what sort of an effect it was going to have on Kara, but I was certainly turned on, to the extent that the temptation to play with myself was so irresistible that I gave into it and brought myself to a climax that had me moaning and groaning out loud as I came. Then I slipped back into the water and luxuriated for a bit longer before washing my hair and getting out.
Once I was dry it was time to pick out what I was going to wear. I began by painting the nails on both my fingers and toes a bright scarlet colour. The underwear I chose, a low-cut bra and a pair of tanga briefs, was lacy and very skimpy and burgundy-coloured; I thought they looked good with my colouring. Over it I put on a light sleeveless dress of the same colour, cut tightly enough that it showed off my figure but loose enough to be comfortable on a hot evening. It came about halfway down my thighs but had a slit at one side and slightly to the front that meant I could show off a lot of leg if I wanted to. A silver bracelet on my right wrist, a matching ankle chain, and a necklace, and then all that remained was to brush my hair till it shone and arrange it in a simple chignon. A touch of mascara, a dab of perfume, and a pair of simple black mules with medium heels, and my preparations were complete, and, as I said before, I liked what I saw. It was time to go.
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