Kim & Taylor: The First Time Lesbian Stories 2 & 3 (Read Me Tonight Lesbian Sex Stories Book 24)

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I was 13 and it was on Wandsworth Common where everyone used to go and just get really drunk. Some creepy guy dragged me off and I swear, his tongue explored my face in its entirety. S C A R R E D.’ Part of the reason why is no doubt what anti-trans lesbians (unreasonably) fear: More and more young people are realizing that they identify as a gender other than the one they were assigned at birth — and more and more young people are realizing they’re attracted to people of two or more genders. But even though there are plenty of trans and nonbinary lesbians, and plenty of cis lesbians (like me) who don’t think that “lesbian” should be defined exclusively as “cis woman who’s only attracted to cis women,” our identity still hasn’t been able to shake the sexist, classist, and anti-gay stereotypes of lesbians as uncosmopolitan boomer TERFs, sporting Tevas and cargo pants covered in cat hair. It sounds shallow to imply that, in the beginning, I fell for her simply because of her style, her stuff. But what attracted me was the care and attention to detail she demonstrated via a lifetime’s accumulation and curation of these things. Together they made up the way she wanted to be seen in the public eye, the way she wanted to move through the world. She was not a boy but a full-grown butch who, at 53, was confident in who she was and what she wanted. It was only after a few days that we discovered what was going on—we were being called the lesbian couple. Someone in the hostel might have seen us stepping out of the bathroom.

But after meeting Lynette, I saw how much pride she took in her butch womanhood, which wasn’t some androgynous nowhere zone — femininity’s absence — but a whole universe unto itself. (She wore a different suit to dinner every night.) Seeing that I was still puzzled, she tried to illuminate some prison realities for me. “Look, Piper, things are pretty calm around here now, but that’s not always the way. And down the hill—forget about it! You’ve got lifers down there. When you’re doing serious time, or life, things look different. You can’t put up with sh-- from anyone, because this is your life, and if you ever take it from anyone, then you’re always going to have problems.” After my partner came out as nonbinary a couple years ago, I felt even more confused and guilty about my conflicting desires to both lean into my own womanhood and flee from it. I knew my partner’s identity was its own independent, beautiful thing, something that was entirely their own. But I still wondered — as people around me whom I loved began to move away from the genders they’d been assigned — what I should be doing, if anything, about mine. The next morning, we talked briefly about what happened over breakfast. It was like talking about the weather, so nonchalant and casual. We were still somewhat in disbelief about what happened the night before but in no way was the conversation awkward. Really, there was nothing to feel awkward about. I complimented her tongue thrusting, she made a comment about my tongue ring, and we raved about how good the pancakes were all in the same breath. In November 2015, I started dating my current boyfriend. I was still seeing a few other guys, too, but I had started to feel different: I wanted to feel strongly about the person I was with. I was tired of having experiences for their own sake. Within a week I'd stopped dating anyone but my boyfriend. Now we've been together 15 months.So, there was this girl Emily in my freshman class who was SO conceited. Seriously, she worshipped the ground she walked on. I didn't like her because she's the school slut, but everyone else seemed to think she was so nice. Well, I recently found out that she was addicted to drugs and sex. I felt so bad for not liking her after that." I would go straight to my friend Dom’s house, not even stopping at home to shower first, where I told him that I was, indeed, having a quarter-life crisis.

I was 16 with a long term boyfriend. He fingered me and that was it. It was pretty good, I can’t really remember it if I’m being honest, all I know is I didn’t want to touch his penis.’ I would decide that it was over, and say so, and it would feel like a sort of death, but it would also, I knew, be the right thing to do — so much so that I’d feel it in my bones. I was less confident. But perhaps it wasn’t that I didn’t trust my partner; it was that I didn’t trust myself. For so long, I’d put off the possibility of us opening up our relationship because — try as I might to be cool and aloof and whatever about casual hookups — I typically like sex best when the person matters to me. I felt more in touch with myself. Maybe it was the tequila working its magic, but a dormant place had been awakened inside of me and it was singing. I’m usually not that comfortable with letting it all hang out, but none of that mattered. Our two bodies were coming together and it felt totally empowering. Despite having unshaven legs, chipping toenail polish, and hair all over the place, I felt sexier than ever before. I was actually attracted to my sister in law before ever even meeting my wife. She works in my company, but was already married at the time. She's very short at 4 '10, blonde hair, brown eyes....wide hipped but amazing legs and feet. Her skin is always that tan color and they always look so smooth. Her feet are size 6 and toes are on the shorter side, but they are perfect in every way.

I just don’t understand some of these women,” she said, looking around the room at the joyful group of dancing lesbians. “Why do they insist on making themselves so ugly? I’ve never gotten the whole butch thing.” About a month later I come home from work finding both my kids bundled up in the same blanket holding each other while sitting on my daughters bed. I asked if they were cold, even though it wasn't cold in the house. They said no, they were scared. I asked my son what happened. He told me he heard a noise in my room and went to see what caused it. When he walked in my room he saw a dark figure in my room. He said it turned to "walk" away and got smaller and smaller until it disappeared. Over the years, I have called it an "inappropriate relationship." I have called it "an incident with an older man." Most frequently, I have called it "the thing that happened that summer." As in -- remember the thing that happened that summer? We all formed one big circle, and the staffers got the ball rolling. First things first: How had we all heard about Olivia?

Nathan didn’t quite fit in and there were all kinds of rumors circulating about him. He was bisexual; he was friendly with Morrissey; he was a model for the United Colors of Benetton. I, too, felt like an outsider, never able to summon the same gung-ho camp spirit as the other girls. I imagined Nathan understood me in some fundamental way, he just didn’t know it yet. When Pop told me her stories, I would hang on every word. I had no way of verifying whether they were the gospel truth, but I understood that these stories held their own accuracy. They described our world as we experienced it. To know that I could finally come clean to my worrisome friends felt liberating beyond belief. I didn’t care about sacrificing my youth to move to outer London with a swarm of forty-somethings. All I wanted was to be with her full-time, and for it to be out in the open that we were together.Even my dad was glad I was dating and having fun. He started giving me dating advice. His opinions on sex apparently varied greatly when speaking to a 50-year-old widow as opposed to his teenaged daughter. But when he jokingly suggested I buy new lingerie, I told him that was too much!

On a humid July afternoon, months after that conversation, we were watching a movie together. It was one of those days when you skip classes because it’s so hot that you don’t dare to step outside. I always took a bath before having lunch, and I was preparing to go to the bathroom when she asked me nonchalantly, “Do you still want to draw me?” About two months ago while in my bathroom standing in front of the mirror fixing my hair I turn my head towards the doorway to my room and a white mist shot by real fast at eye level. Of course I was startled and jumped. Yes, we took a shower together. We did not have sex. The thought of touching her never crossed my mind although we stood next to each other for thirty long minutes under a shower. Throughout the trip, Matie and Jamie would have a number of tearful conversations about trans inclusion with some older passengers who refused to accept trans women as their fellow sisters. But they also got many women to reconsider their more middle-of-the-road views on trans inclusion. “Those are the people who matter,” Jamie would later tell me, recalling her latest conversions over coffee in the cafeteria. Bonding is built into an Olivia trip, which, I realized soon enough, is basically like grown-up lesbian camp. “It’s funny, because on a normal cruise, you’re trying to spend as much time as you can away from other people,” Jamie would later put it. “But we’re all here precisely because we want to be around everybody else.”I grew powerfully attached to Natalie in just a short time. But despite, or because of, the fact that Natalie and I lived in the closest of quarters, I knew virtually nothing about her—just that she was from Jamaica and that she had two children, a daughter and a young son. It was clear that where Natalie was concerned, personal subjects were off-limits. Then somehow, all of a sudden, years passed. We became two professionals in our late twenties, living in our dream apartment on the top floor of a Brooklyn brownstone. We weren’t allowed to have pets, but, like good millennials, we had plenty of plants, and interests outside of each other: my roller derby, their ultramarathons. We were busy, stable. Happy enough. Hi, the reason I'm posting this is because I'm honestly interested in what others have to say about this. Today I had one of those moments when you reflect on something and realize how goddamn weird it is. Over the next couple of weeks I went see him every night until I was exhausted and confused. I wanted it to stop and I wanted it never to stop. Eventually we were caught and he got fired. I found myself crumpled in a chair in front of the camp director’s desk, bombarded with impossible questions like, “What were you thinking?”