Figured I might as well clear up a nagging question from a couple of the ruder writing and nekkid model forums. Basically, Is She Or Isn’t She? I got used to that question while just a kid. Female athletes get it all the time. And the better you do, the more some people decide you must be a lesbian. Add to that being hot and fuckable, but not giving it up every person who wants some, and you hear it more. This won’t provide a very definite answer–and it’s amazing what some people will get obsessed with–because not everything in life is a “check one of these four boxes” thing. And it gets down to some areas of my personal interest dealing with sex. “Sex” in the sense of, women are a different sex from men.
I’ve always been fairly, well, okay, not really frigid but more like “chilly”. Refreshingly cool, let’s say. My libido thermostat not turned off, but dialed way down. I assumed everybody else was the same way. Women anyway. I think we all wind up assuming that everybody else has sexual experience like our own. Unless there’s something wrong with them. Even hetero people think everybody else is like them sexually, but might not know it or admit it. Gay men are all convinced that all other men are just kidding themselves.
I ran around with boys in high school, got around men in college. Dated guys, had sex with them. And it was okay. Not as okay as it was for them, but that seemed par for the course. I mostly preferred hanging out with guys on a buddy basis. Blasting around in cars, messing up, hanging out, laughing, and talking trash. Much more fun Saturday nights, for my money. But you know, I got my share. It took quite a while for me to figure out I wasn’t really with the program that much. At which point, I really related to Geena Davis in “Thelma and Louise”, saying, “Now I see what all the fuss is about.” Of course she’d just gotten it laid to her by Brad Pitt and I figured if that’s what it took, I’d give it a shot when I got the chance.
Well, my realization that sex for women could take on more drastic dimensions than anything I’d ever tied into came–dramatic romance novel pause–in the arms of another woman. Actually, more like vice versa. And I was damned impressed. Not that it changed my life much, but sure opened my eyes to what was going on.
I don’t think I’m a lesbian, particularly. Maybe more than some girls, less than others. It’s not my “orientation” and I’m not using this memoir to “come out” of anything. But I always appreciated the way women are put together, and spent a bit of time in gym showers where you could get a load of it without turning your head. And a couple of times in school, and more than a few times in college I’d be in a position of running into a mutual admirer and we’d hang out somewhere, preferably somewhere with a good excuse to get naked and check it out. Fool around a little. The first couple of times were really exciting, after that it just got to be fun, a nice fudge sundae to break up studies and playing three sports. I never really thought about orientation stuff, or felt weird about it. It just seemed natural, like a progression. I got the feeling some of the other girls might have had some doubts, though. Even though I never pushed anything on anybody. I get a feeling there’s a lot of this goes on and nobody gets too involved. I sure didn’t. Really enjoyed it though. Or maybe we’d have seen even more progression.
Which brings me up to the “in the arms” situation I mentioned. Up to then, what you’d have seen on the hidden Girl/Girl Cammy Cam was sort of like the first reel of a girl-on-girl porn flick. Couple of hotties sitting around in the shower or hot tub or locker room or whatever and get talking and kind of showing off and one thing leads to another and pretty soon you’re seeing some pretty nice activity. But not really “sex”, in the Bill Clinton Denial sense. But the time I’m talking about, we got pretty completely involved. That kind of surprised me too. It was like at some point I realized, “I’m not just playing skin games here, I’m having sex with this woman.” If you want any more graphic details, mail me. I’m thinking of “KickStarting” some erotica ebooks.
I just wanted to pick up a few bucks and go to the show, but it turned out to be a major break for me and ended up taking me places. Mostly places where English is a second or fifth language. Turns out it was another one of those things I was just born to make money at, and really obvious if I’d given it any thought: sportswear modeling. But like I say, at the moment I just wanted to see the show and meet some people who were going to be there. Two MLB guys I admired and had a few questions for, and a couple of members of the Olympic volleyball team. So I was all over three days inCollege Park, just this huge collection of any garment, gear or gimmick for any sport you can imagine. I’ve seen bigger ones since, like the IPSO inMunich, but it widened my eyes at the time. I didn’t see any special wear and technique videos for curling or team volleyball, but I didn’t get around to all the booths, either, by a long shot. Mostly I pranced around the triple-wide booth of a major maker of leotards and leggers and anything that can make a girl look like a sex fantasy while doing things generally considered as athletics. They had a dozen of us out there in different colored, full-body, skin-tight stretchy knit, which was pretty much like a coat of paint. No underwear involved, which is why they selected for a certain body type and admired “poise”. I had the biggest tits and nips in the line-up, but they stood up for themselves just fine. Not a panty line in the crowd. We smiled and flirted discreetly, signed autographs, and just generally looked like multi-colored little wetdreams conducive to chain buyers signing early-bird orders for our stuff. Mucho interest, almost as much as the Playmates of a couple of months ago down there bending their cleavages over to sign glossies for Oakley sunglasses. I think I could have sold my dusty rose body suit right off my back for a thousand bucks, on the spot.
In fact, the whole place had a faint bouquet of sex on the hoof. All about money, but also very much about hooking ’em up. Not unlikeLas Vegas, but I didn’t know from that at the time. You had models chosen for national-caliber shape and muscle tone, most of them college age, many modeling swimwear and other brands of tights, and licensed property garments–meaning some sloe-eyed honey who played tennis for Florida wearing a too-large and toulouse Bucanners jersey with no bra and not all the buttonholes filled. You had pro athletes there to fulfill endorsement contracts. I spotted Michael Vick and actually spoke to Rich Gannon! Boy, I’d have given Rich an all-areas access pass to my leotard in no time flat. Then you had all the sales reps, who mostly looked chosen with looks in mind. A little older, but not letting on. And marketing and media people. It was like a meat market pitched on the floor of a commodities exchange with a ton of cool toys and SportLocker drag tossed in. And everybody there was out of town and had a hotel room already. You could have probably tapped the heat and lit up the allAtlanta.
Most of the other models on my set were gymnasts, including some really good, ranked ones, mostly out of ACC and SE Conference schools. But I’d been offered because I was in the area visiting my folks and had a good body for it even if you don’t exactly run around the diamond in DanSkins, and the guy in charge of the “pavilion”, as they called it, liked my attitude and poise. Which I doubt you have to be fluent in marketspeak to figure out meant he wanted to access said good body. Worse, it turned out; two of the little tripled-jointed Asian floor ex girls said his main thrill was getting it on with girls while they were still wearing the spandex. Safe sex, I guess, but still… I wondered if his leotard fetish was some sort of corporate loyalty thing or maybe why he’d moved into that industry in the first place. But we’ll never know, will we? Anyway, he got nowhere with my thinly-clad ass. Cammy Chillblains strikes again.
Who did get in under the tag was this TV sports commentator, who worked for a Turner affiliate then, but moved up right smart in later years. She came over and chatted me up in one of those weird “open bars” they have at those convention center events, like airport bars without the charm. Sitting there relaxed and charming, while a couple of blue-chip jocks came by to say hi to her and to me. I was impressed. Then he started talking money and Golden Opportunity, continuing later over dinner in some impossibly ethnic and historic-looking restaurant made of antebellum bricks with waiters so Sicilian they could barely say “Tonight’s special” in English without it sounding like an offer you better not refuse. And a couple of more drinks as she rolled out possible engaging futures for a young woman of my potential, and anecdotes of the rich, renowned, and ribald. Getting into some sexier stories after another round or two of drinks; mine Jack and water, hers some kind of see-through thing with a twist of lime. They were wanting to close the place up just as she was coming to the real meat of one hell of a deal, so we ended up grabbing a surly soviet bloc taxi back to her hotel where she could show me some folders and papers about how I was going to be making big bucks and probably having my own network by the time I turned twenty three.
She had this suite that I just couldn’t stand. I was roaming around big-eyed, trying not to be Daisy Mae staring at all this rich furnishings and fancy bathroom tricks and a big glass wall of City Lights winking knowingly into my Hick Town Eyeballs. It took me an hour and two drinks to settle down and pay attention to what she was laying on me. Involving more sportswear. A couple of outfits she laid out on the bed. Quality stuff. Tight and trim and just collegiate champs all the way. She had me try some of it on, pulled out this teensy, really expensive looking camera to get some shots to show the Masters of the Universe back in Manhattan, pursuant to them snatching me up, wrapping me in swaddling clothes, and laying me in the Lap of Luxury. I was stripped down right there, just us gals, putting stuff on while she kind of arranged and rigged me up, then took pictures. The closet doors were two enormous mirrors that slid back and forth, a novelty to me, and she had me posing in the mirrors while she shot a few pics.
I was looking pretty smashing (not to mention halfway smashed) if I do say it myself. There was this one thing with a long-sleeved sweater than came up to the neck, but stopped at an elastic hem just below the tits, and a kind of cheerleader skirt about an inch longer than the bottom of the average pussy. I was flashing it around in the mirrors while she took some shots. I turned around for a rear end view, looking over my shoulder with my hair over one eye and she reached over to flip the skirt up to show my bare ass, got a quick snap of it, which got us both laughing.
Then she said she wanted to get in on the fun, see if she could still fit into this kind of thing. Which she damned well knew she could, since she spent a lot of money and time making sure of it, or course. But she handed me the camera and stripped off herself, right down to nothing. I was pretty impressed. For somebody at least fifteen years older than me, and working a desk job rather than playing ball and coochie dancing, she was the bomb. She didn’t have any real definition, but was smooth as a pure white candle, soft all over, but by no means doughy. Her boobs were amazing, really. Full but not too large, set wide and separate on her chest with one of those sort of sternum trenches that separated them even more. White as new marble, just enough sag to make you think about weighing them in your hand. Which it turns out I was thinking about, but I think about anybody would. Black cherry nipples and aureoles, round and firm and kissable as all hell. Not exactly an hourglass figure, but a nice roll of hips and a flat sleek belly that dipped down to a single little stripe of shiny black hair that pointed down like an exclamation point at the top of her cleft, which was a dark pink that matched her lipstick. I couldn’t help staring and she stopped pulling on a cabled tennis sweater to raise a magnificently plucked eyebrow. Mouthed, “What?”
I’m not much shy around people, but it was like she’d caught me at something and I sort of hemmed and hawed, then came out with, “You really take good care of yourself.”
She smiled like she knew there was a “for your age” in there somewhere, then stepped right up to me where I could smell this subtle scent way too complex for me to get a handle on it. It smelled, I figured, like Siberian pussy. She caught my eyes solidly and it was like she was talking from the real her to the real me for a second. She said, “If I don’t, who will?”
That impressed me, too. I was learning a lot from this woman. And had a lot more to learn.
She took a couple of shots of us in the mirror, standing side by side like the preppy tennis squad queen and the cheerleader for Sodom High, then got this sudden idea. Now let’s switch outfits and take some more shots.
You’re probably more sophisticated than I was, and figured out this meant we’d both be standing there naked, slightly tipsy, with a wall of mirrors on one side of us and this enormous bed on the other side, all loaded up with puffy, fluffy stuff you could sink into a couple of feet. Which is exactly what we ended up doing. Hope I’m not spoiling the suspense or anything.
I was amazed when she started heavy moaning and thrashing and generally carrying on like in the second reel of that smut clip I mentioned. A total novelty to me, at the time. She was, near as I could tell, going flat slap out of her ever-lovin’ mind. I was really intrigued by that, in addition to getting pretty damned excited myself, and I got really absorbed in exploring this phenomena, seeing if I could make her head explode or her hair stand on end or something. Got into it up to my elbows, you might say. For the first time I wasn’t there to admire a physique, enjoy a personality, cop a little minor-league feelgood. I was working that woman. Swinging for the Big Fence. Not having any hint of how big the fence was. But I found out, because she got there with bells and trumpets. Still rising as she left the park. I was practically laughing from how cool it was, how amazing to have that sort of power over somebody older than me, have her in the palm of my hand like a wind-up toy. But it also shook me up quite a bit. I didn’t realize that until later.
After she settled down a tad–which wasn’t right away, let me tell you–I was just sort of stunned. She was just floating out by then., basking, maybe dipping in and out of sleep. But she’d respond when I kissed her. Anywhere at all. I was finding out I could put my lips on her naval and set off more aftershocks. Tongue in the ear and there’d be more mini-seismic stuff. She was one gone puppy. When she woke up I was all over finding out more about the whole shenanigans she’d just gotten blown out by. Beat anything I’d ever been party to. Turns out most women go in for that earth-shaking, multi-spasm type of thing. She had assumed that I hadn’t gone all ballistic like her because I was being nice. Treating her because she was a celebrity and all that. Actually, I’d never heard of her. But she gave me a lot the skinny, right then and there. Lying on our sides with her arms around me, talking soft into my ear. She was older than I thought at first. Never guess it from her face, but you don’t scoot your lips around somebody’s bod without getting some intel about the lay of the land. Figure of a girl my age, though. Or just a few years older, maybe.
She didn’t consider herself a lesbian, either. Or even “bisexual”. Married, kids, but liked to fool around on the road. Kind of a jock groupie. I saw her tagged in some Facebook pictures a few years later, party shots. Her doing some LesboLimboLambado with two girls I ID’ed as prelims for the Olympic swim team. Actually, none of the girls I’d ever gotten naked and petted with were really lesbians. I hadn’t met any “real” lesbians yet. (“Met” bareassed and squirming around, that is. I mean, come on, I spent a lot of time in showers with hockey teams. You meet a few lesbians there. Just not in the “biblical sense”.) And that might have been why I kept on crawling on women at times, and getting a buzz out of it. Because it wasn’t “real” lesbian activity with identified lez girls or women. I think that would have made things different. Maybe. It’s a gray area with at least 50 shades, I’d say. And more get into it than talk about it. But I’ve listed all their names at the bottom of this post.
Just kidding. You know I would never do anything that rotten and invasive. Not without trying to cash in on it.
But here’s the thing. One thing I realized in that duvet up in the DoubleTree was that straight women don’t know dick, so to speak, about female sexual response. Except for their own. Most women never see another woman coming, much less at close range like that. Who we see getting their goodies is men. And it’s men who know about us and how we act up. That’s who can tell you how hot you are, how high your top blows compared to the average babe. So I kind of snicker at femnazis talking about how only women can understand female sexuality. It’s very possible, I realized, to have quite a bit of sex and yet know zip about women’s responses. Including your own.
Another thing I figured out, sitting there sipping comp coffee and staring out at the interchange lights while Ms. On Camera slept off her internal tsunami, made me feel a little hurt or gypped or worried or relieved or something. Namely that normal women come a lot harder, longer, stronger, and profoundly than men do. I’ve since found that to be completely the case. And the women I’m talking about weren’t faking anything either. No reason to. In fact, some actually tried to hold back. Like they were embarrassed or ashamed to let it loose. Even though the whole thing had been their idea in the first place.
So, anyway, I’m all “outed” now. I don’t mind nibbling on girls or vice versa. Hopefully knowing this about me doesn’t cause any major effects in your own world.