Dallas Mayo - For women only

"Darling?"

"Uh-huh. Wait. Don't rush me."

"Of course not. I wouldn't dream of it. We've got all the time in the world."

"Oh. I-I thought you were getting impatient."

"Umm, honey, that's easy to understand. You might hear me making funny noises. Like a little grunt maybe, you know? Or you might see me get all twitchy and fidgety sometimes. Like a nervous breakdown on the verge. And you might even say all of those are signs of impatience. Well, you'd be absolutely right. But it's nothing for you to fret about. It's just my body acting up, not my mind. I'll keep the lid on, don't worry, I'll be very patient with you. There now, does that cheer you up?"

A rhetorical question. Anyway, she was already angling over to scrooch down between my thighs once more, obviously not expecting much of an answer. And not getting any. Especially the one she must have been pining for, a cherry kiss in the immediate vicinity of that dangling distress signal. Only I wasn't quite ready to commit myself as yet. For that matter, I wasn't ready for anything just then. I had quit functioning a second time.

The perfume smell again, the one with a sexy bite! It was affecting me like a loud rock concert – "heavy metal" – so loud that it seems to compress your body and hold you motionless. Only this was a scent that had me in its grip, an overpowering redolence of crushed flowers and musk and probably too-ripe woman-flesh. Even the floral fragrance had to share in the guilt; it bore the taint of some turgid tropical jungle, abloom with lurid foliage only to camouflage and appease the carnivorous appetites of its quicksands and quagmires – a verdant lure that seldom failed to inflame the senses of some nice plump botanist passing by. The aroma was befogging my brain with its obscenely musky appeal, a state of suspension that I had neither the desire nor the will to challenge. And I could see its source, of course – my personal quagmire! – right under my nose. Smacking its oily lips, smug with power, while it polluted the atmosphere with its silent but inescapable siren song. Promises of perfumed depravity. Promises, promises! Individual ecstasies a specialty. Sweet Sixteen orgies catered. Sexagenarians laundered. Incestuous relationships discreetly arranged. Oh yes, I had just enough evil in my makeup to know evil when I saw it…

I became distantly aware of a change. Something missing. Julia had tapered off again down there. I was vaguely conscious of her face rising and craning back at me. To speak, no doubt. Another gently barbed reminder. Patience may be a virtue, but who remains virtuous in this day and age? Or some such. And I would be grateful even for a demeaning grown-up lecture, a stern finger, just the thing to goose my butt out of this paralyzing perfume jag.

The tension mounted. I waited for the sound of her voice, dreading it but desperately in need. Her body was still uncoiling sinuously if somewhat laboriously, a painstaking movement that edged her head closer to mine without even an extended twist or turn to disturb the sexy status quo, the central battleground for our war of nerves. Olfactory nerves first, I hoped. Imagination, perhaps, but I could actually feel the eddy of scent-saturated currents swirl up around my face. Screw the status quo! Say something nice and nasty, you sarcastic bitch. Must I sniff cunt all night?

And then I got the bad news in a crash of silence. No criticism this trip, apparently. Julia had struck her ultimate pose and was settling into it like a dress shop display dummy with a touch of laryngitis. No sound effects. Adding insult to injury, the purpose of her snaky maneuver became clear now – a chance to play voyeur – at her own it was me she kept staring at, as far as I could tell – intently, but with no more emotion than the lens of a camera. While I remained there, spellbound, utterly helpless.

At that dismal point, I might have easily been forced into any given direction. My tendency to dwell interminably on every little decision was becoming a bore. And so was my apparent obsession with decisions in general. I probably wouldn't have hesitated to resurrect my cuddly dumb bunny personality for the first person who offered to balance my checkbook. Any volunteers? No, not likely. Oh, if only there was a gadget to tell people when to speak up! The expedient moment. Hmm. Like now, for instance? All she had to do was say it. Right out loud. Just tell me! Come on, you horny little whore, what are you waiting for? It's cunt time. Go get it, baby, it's right under your nose…

It would have ended this awful suspense, at least. And wasn't that how an aggressive lesbian effected her conquests? Okay, so I was ready to be conquered. Why couldn't she understand?

Hah! Stupid me. She understood, all right, and far more than I did. Aggressive or otherwise, the key word here was still lesbian. A lesbian was seducing an unreconciled girl. Only it was being done with a certain subtle passivity, a scarcely veiled insistence that the final, fateful thrust of such reconciliation be self-inflicted. A lesbian was making a Goddam lesbian out of me. And was I ready for that too, ready to contrive my own conquest? Decisions, decisions. Wheels within wheels. Prudent one minute, just plain stubborn the next until I couldn't help but wonder which. Anyway, somehow I just didn't feel any reason to kiss her down there, kiss her cunt, kiss those lips, those grinning hairy lips; no reason at all.

With a visible shrug, Julia came out of her voyeuristic pose to turn active again, twisting her head around to land back down between my thighs. And that fiendish little tongue resumed its fiendish little caresses once more. Like before, though, I got the full benefit of it only when my own inner muscles were squeezing. Working hard, actually. As if my cunt was servicing her tongue, not the other way around. Or maybe tongues were considered all-important in certain gay circles! More important right there, it seemed. Hmm. What if she got a jolt of mine? My great big one. She couldn't have noticed it yet, that was for sure. And neither had I very much, for that matter except in relation to my thick lips and generously proportioned mouth – all seen in the light of that cocksucking championship. But in this instance, right here and now, a good-sized tongue would be an advantage all by itself. Indeed, a highly significant advantage. Mine was already atingle over the idea, practically dying to blossom forth and show off a little. Oh shit, wouldn't it put that tiny thing of hers to shame?

So all of a sudden I had a reason, just like that, an intriguing and almost irresistible reason to end the deadlock. Vanity. A bit far-fetched, perhaps, but still within my immediate logical grasp, an illusion of truth and dire necessity. And I was already trembling with anticipation, intoxicated by the winy fleurs-de-mal fragrance in my nostrils, inflamed by the no longer dubious prospect of making love to a member of my own sex. One way or another. I would have carnal knowledge of this incorrigibly perverted creature. To the ultimate perverted degree, no doubt. And the fact of her perversion – and mine! – only made it that much more thrilling.

My lips went uncomfortably dry. I licked them with a hurrying tongue tip, trying to comprehend the abrupt change in myself, eager now for this lewdly inviting venture into the unknown. Eager to partake of the evil wine, its bouquet, its body. Eager to taste the erotic excitement of woman. The love of woman for woman! And eager to sample it all before my bubble of illusion shattered. Which meant that I'd better take the plunge right away – the dive, the tumble, the headlong drop into that pool of seething sensuality. The cunt pool! Scary. Hardly a fiery maelstrom, perhaps, but to me no less formidable than the flaming swimtank of a daredevil circus diver. And with dizzier aftereffects, I'd have been willing to wager.