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Perhaps
second only to unanswered pleas for foreplay that
lasts longer than a commercial, seduction is what many straight
women absolutely deserve, but don’t get enough of. It’s
a complaint made ‘round the world, in every language there
is. It’s probably even articulated on other planets. I wouldn’t
doubt that at this very moment in a galaxy far, far away,
an egg carrying alien is cocktailing with her friends and
grumbling, “Na-nu,
na-nu! In, out, in, out…Clueless bastard!”
Women
— all women — want to be wanted. Many of us desire to be
sought after and enticed, persuaded by deep kisses that
last an entire summer and beyond. We want to be ravished
until it hurts, until we feel that glorious ache that starts
deep down and ends with a moan that would embarrass Annie
Sprinkle.
You
probably know the hurt I’m talking about. If you don’t,
I’m pretty sure there are a few lesbians out there who’d
be happy to introduce you to it. Or, better yet, ask your
straight girlfriends where to find an alluring and compliant
lesbian. Chances are, a few of them know one.
As
much as I bitch in this column about straight women
who have kissed their ‘roommates’ or best friends for notice
or gain and later proudly call themselves “lesbians,” I’ve
never voiced my opinion about their bolder sisters — the
straight women who have actually allowed themselves to be
seduced by real lesbians.
These
women have ventured out of the wasteland (or should I say,
Land of the Wasted”?) and into territory the drunk and immature
avoid. They’ve left the cameras and horny frat boys behind
in search of a more discreet ‘reality.’ We don’t see them
on TV or read about them in People Magazine, but we lesbians
know they’re out there because they’ve been in our beds
or, at the very least, in our pants.
If,
as the saying goes, “we are everywhere,” so are they. They
are neighbors and coworkers, as well as close friends of
best friends. They’re women we’ve met in buffet lines at
weddings and in the waiting rooms of oil-change garages.
They’re married and single, in love with their boyfriends
and with Jesus. They’re gorgeous and plain, executives and
admins, rich and poor. You get the picture, because perhaps
you’re in the picture.
So,
smile. You’re not on candid camera, not on reality TV. You’re
simply starring in your own lesbian life in which every
once in a while an eager straight girl comes along and makes
an intimate guest appearance.
The
good news is that many of these straight women rarely kiss
and tell. In fact, some of these women are married and have
more to lose than a modeling contract or a chance to work
with Martha Stewart. I suspect that in the land of pseudo
lesbians they’ll one day be the silent majority.
The
bad news, if you want to call it that, is that hooking up
with a real lesbian won’t make any straight girl gay, despite
what you wish or what your mother may have told you. But
the act does lift the bravest out of a balcony crowded with
attention-starved wanna-bes, and drops them softly between
the velvet, so to speak, center stage among the “wanna-dos.”
The
wanna-dos do,
all right — they do like there’s no tomorrow! They are free
and passionate spirits who have graduated from —or have
never accepted — imitations. And I give them credit for
that.
I’ve
actually given them more than credit. But I don’t like to
kiss and tell much either.
I
do like to kiss and think, though. Each time I’ve
been with a straight woman I’ve asked myself the same question
afterward: What was that about? I know what motivated me in
each instance, but I don’t always know what motivated them.
So
I recall the details of our meetings, the conversations
that led to the first kisses, the post-coital pillow talk,
the shared cigarettes by the lights of dashboards, and try
to piece them together. I’ve noticed some common denominators,
and I wonder if they’re familiar to other lesbians and straight
women who’ve been in similar circumstances.
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