Dallas Mayo: Girl-crazy girl

Let's face it. I am – to begin with – a girl-crazy girl. Which just naturally leads to the assumption that I love cunt, and all appurtenances thereto. Which I do. Let's face it, cunt and tits and soft thighs and satin-sleek ass-cheeks, oooh, the mere thought gives me leaky plumbing! I like tongues, too, of course, daintily feminine or luridly female – tongues are uniquely adapted to the needs and nuances of my kind of love, all warm and moist and wondrously flexible in the curves and corners of kinky eroticism. Anyway, what reasonably sensuous lover would dare disagree?

Basically, then, I'm equipped with all the usual desires and sex-drives ascribed to the gay sisterhood. I mention this only in passing, though – it is not the main theme here. Oh no, I'm obsessed by a far more freaky twist, one that casts me in a somewhat different light altogether, adding another dimension to my lesbian life. Because of my name, no doubt, my curiously conducive name! Or could that be just an excuse, a fiction of my mind? Well, even so, I'd rather go on preserving it intact, a lovely romantic fiction. Or maybe a lovely freaky truth…

My name is Loi Morlock. It's my real name, exactly as on the birth certificate, no phony. My father used to read a lot of fantasy and science fiction, a fan from way back. And with a name like Morlock, well, I guess his lifetime ambition must have been to sire a daughter whom he could legitimately call Eloi. Eloi Morlock, get it? – out of that old H. G. Wells classic, The Time Machine – the names of those two separate races of the future, the innocent Eloi and the wicked Morlock. (It's been done in the movies, incidentally, with Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux, an okay flick!) But my mother wouldn't stand for Eloi, seeing it as a half-baked Eloise – or so the story goes; wise woman! And somehow, by some obscure logic, they compromised on Loi. Which was fine with me – Loi Morlock, a very nice name, very distinctive – until I got a little older and began to see myself freaking out over its meaning. Like a kind of split personality – the original meaning, Eloi in conflict with Morlock – demure and submissive in one guise, evil and domineering in the other. Only it was already pretty well ingrained by then, rooted in unforgettable scenes from my childhood. Pre-teen childhood. Long before I understood the association with my own name. Long before I was even aware of it, oddly enough.

Childhood, then. Late childhood, a time of drowsy glands and awakening curiosity. A time when my first fumbling attempts at such an understanding could only fail, obviously; at that tender age, who could cope with X-rated transgressions? Actually, my first real experience did come by way of a book, though, only it wasn't any science fiction classic, not that one! Not with those pictures of nearly nude ladies, some even all bare, naked! – and wasn't it clever of me to snoop around and stumble upon such a rare grownup treasure? In the middle drawer of Bernadette's dresser, of all places, tucked underneath a neatly folded stack of pink nylon things, underwear and stuff. Snooping was always fun there, everything smelled of sachet, as sweet as baby powder but a lot spicier, the kind of woman-smell that could almost make me dizzy. Somehow, even in the farthest reaches of my memory, I had always managed to find that warm scent – or something quite like it – in the silky-stuff drawer of every maid who ever stayed long enough to unpack. Even the skinny old prune-face, the one who practically had a nervous breakdown the year before, keeping house for my father and taking care of me and complaining about her backache as if all three were symptoms of the same illness. Not that I did much sniffing of her silkies. I was glad to see the old witch replaced, especially by someone like Bernadette, so soft and plump and good-natured – and much younger, of course, almost too young for that motherly sachet smell.

Funny about that. The smell, I mean. Looking back at those childhood days, it seems fairly evident that I must have been nosing around in search of my dead mother, unconsciously associating the sweet sachet with the bygone sweetness of maternal love. I wasn't two yet when she died, hardly out of the infant stage but still old enough to be already conditioned to the sweet-smelling shelter and security of her loving arms. As an only child then, lovelorn and lonely – brought up by a busy father and an endless succession of maids and housekeepers – was it any wonder that I pawed through silk-soft dresser drawers for a sniff of that lost intimacy? There was always just one grown-up lady living at our house, the maidservant of the moment, the one and only possible source of that nice dreamy woman-smell; was it any wonder that I usually adored her and curried favor like a pet pussycat starved for affection?

I curried well, too. The door to the maid's quarters was seldom locked against a poor little motherless waif, the room as familiar to me as my own. A very cozy bedroom, small but attractively furnished and decorated – and with a private adjoining bath, no less, all in back of the kitchen, as comfortable as anything upstairs and a lot more convenient. Even a telephone, an extension phone right at her elbow in case my father called from the office or on one of his out-of-town business trips. And a good color TV set, naturally, since that was his business, the biggest and best television shop-in the county. We weren't exactly rich, but were still unable to afford more than one sleep-in servant, so dear Bernadette had to put in a full day's work to earn her keep. But it didn't seem to bother her, except maybe when she fell behind in the housecleaning and had to scold me for getting under her feet. Nor did it bother me either, considering how gentle her scoldings were, always with a mock frown and a twinkle in her eye. Besides, whenever she got into that work-work-work mood, the noise sounded throughout the house, an all but certain indicator of her exact whereabouts. Which was just fine for me, the perfect time to sneak in a little undisturbed secret investigation of any secrets important enough to be hidden so carefully beneath a piled-up mess of pink underwear. A more leisurely look at that untitled thing in the middle drawer; what a thrill!

Oh yes, I saw it as a thrill somehow, even though the word itself had never rung a sex-bell in my innocent and inexperienced young mind. I had spent only a few minutes with the book so far, a hasty run-through followed immediately by a prudent and ever-so-painstaking return to its nylon nest – exasperating but executed with a wisdom beyond my years. Even if the pictures hadn't shocked me, the hiding-place alone was a dead giveaway, a sign that I was meddling in some mysterious province forbidden to inquisitive little girls. My snooping escapades required extra caution now, the prize was too precious for any but the most calculated of risks. And as I shivered and opened the fearful volume again – with one ear cocked for the comforting hum of the vacuum cleaner upstairs – the sensation became almost unbearable. The pages fell open to an illustration in color, three women, all naked, a chaotic but strangely beautiful entanglement of bodies; and in that single instant of insight I learned the difference between a scary thrill and a sexy thrill. Only how could it be sexy if there weren't any men, how could they fit together and make babies?

Fascinated but still somewhat dubious, I settled down to solve the mystery. The book consisted of pictures mostly, reproductions of oil paintings and watercolors. A scattering of photographs, too, real snapshots of women in all kinds of crazy positions. And a few black-and-white ink drawings, simpler than the rest and easier to understand. Easier for a kid like me, anyway. I couldn't make much sense out of the accompanying text, it was a mixture of English and French and some other foreign languages – sometimes just the name of the artist and a gallery or museum. At first I couldn't even tell if it was supposed to be an art collection or a book about sexy women without men. My reading ability was pretty good then, and I even knew some of the French words, drummed into my head at an early age by another of the long line of maidservants, one who must have fancied herself a high-class governess. And the French sure helped, I soon discovered, adding just enough to explain some of the scientific English. (Phony scientific, I found out later, but still loaded with goodies for a beginner like myself!) So after a while I got the hang of the thing and could look at it for pure enjoyment as much as for information. And that was the extent of my progress by the time I realized the vacuum hum had quit.