Butch/Femme Erotica: ‘God Herself’

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It’s a Sunday afternoon, and I’m feeling that way again: stifled. Creatively, sexually, circumstantially. Today’s air was hot and sticky. The air conditioner was broken, and I was exasperated with even my own sweat. So I do what any remotely sane person would do: I go to the movies.

I settled on an indie flick, playing at the North Park. That’s this little theater on the high street near my apartment. They play B-rated movies on an old projector, the seats are lined with red velvet, and the deco-style moldings are charming. Even with my current dissatisfaction with everything, it would do.

The line for tickets is short, but the teller’s booth is, quaintly, outside. I queue up behind the others and take a deep breath. Normally, I’m patient — I swear. But tonight I can barely keep my foot from tapping in time to my frantic heart. As though my petty anger-at-nothing were simply drawing in more of the same, a boot roughly scraped my exposed heel as someone stepped up behind me too swiftly.

“I’m so sorry, please forgive me.” That voice stops me in my tracks. It’s a new voice, yes, but it’s also a voice I know in my bones: Deep, but not too deep, just a little bit gravelly, with a hint of vibration that my ears felt more than heard. Still, my heel fucking burned.

“It’s fine,” I say, not meaning to sound huffy. I leave the line and wander into the cool dark lobby, planning to take a look at the searing red gash. A few napkins later, and I’m all patched up.

“I took the liberty of purchasing your ticket.” That voice hits me again, and I can’t help but turn around, as though my eyes are magnetized. I have to get a better look at her. How had I missed her before? Thank god she hadn’t missed me. Short, slicked-back hair, a button down shirt, and those killer baby blues. Was it my birthday already?  

“Aren’t you kind,” I say, thankful that I haven’t missed a beat. She smirks, not insulted in the least.

“Would you like to sit with me?” Would I ever. But I won’t let her in on that secret too soon.

“Would you like to tell me your name?” I counter.

She clears her throat slightly. “I’m Miriam.” She extends a hand across the short distance between us.

I slip my hand into hers. “Susanna.”

“I really am sorry about your foot,” she continues, our hands remaining interlocked for a few moments more than necessary.

“It’s alright,” I say, and wanting her to know that she is truly off the hook, I run my cool fingertips along the length of her palm as I withdraw my hand. “I don’t want to keep you from whoever you came with,” I add, even though I know perfectly well that she’s caught my scent and would be loathe to go home without a prize.

“I didn’t even want to see this movie,” she admits. Then what on earth was she doing here? “I’m here with my best friend,” she explains. “She’s meeting some guy off Tinder. She was nervous to come alone, but now that they’re making out in the back row, she doesn’t really need me around anymore.” So I guess it wasn’t just me feeling needy today. She bites her lip in a split second of consideration before the words tumble from her mouth. “Would you like to get out of here?”

I don’t answer right away, as though I’m mulling it over; but really I’m just marveling at my sheer dumb luck. Glancing up from under my eyelashes, I offer her my hand. Together we turn against the crowd and slip back outside.

“I live just around the corner.” Her voice is sultry, soothing, drawing me closer to her, mind, body, and, to hell with it, soul.  

Miriam’s hands are larger than mine, covering the entirety of the small of my back as she pulls me first towards her, as though she might kiss me, and then steers me toward the top of the block. Does she know? The almost, the temptation, the oh-so-close is already driving me crazy.

She was right though, she did live close. Her apartment was past one of those random doors on a small commercial street, up the stairs above a laundromat. After unlocking the door, she steps back. Sure, she was holding the door for me (I expected no less). But I also knew she wanted to watch me walk. Lucky her, stairs and all. I wonder briefly if that was part of the appeal. Did she see these stairs for the first time, and sign a lease on the spot?

I’m halted by another door at the top of the stairs. She reaches past me to undo the lock, but her hips press me against the door and yet again, I’m done for. It’s all I can do to contain the throaty sounds collecting just below my tongue.

Her hips are making barely perceptible movements, shifting forward and backward in a way that suggests something I better not have to explain. Exactly what I wanted is finally, undisputedly drawing near. The lock clicks, and two things happen at once. Her left arm slinks around my waist, bracing me, as her right arm turns the knob and pushes the door open. She walks me forward like a herding dog, peppering my neck with small kisses and nips of her teeth.

My lips are quivering. Her living room flies past me, barely making an impression, although I see she has plants. Through another doorway — well, not quite. In the doorway, she swings me around with the dexterity of a polished salsa lead.

Miriam is upon me again, lips inches from mine, again. She is daring me to close the distance, and I’m torn. To kiss her is to give in completely, to give myself up rather than be taken over. And yet, it’s all I can do not to go completely weak at the knees, crash into her wholeheartedly, and nestle my tongue into her mouth like a formerly captive creature exploring its native habitat.

I’ve contemplated too long. There’s a split second of eye contact before her hungry lips are devouring mine. She thrusts me up against the wall until I have no choice but to wrap one leg around her, then two as she hoists me into the air, as though I am hanging off her teeth as they nibble away at my bottom lip.

Her tongue pets the ridges on the roof of my mouth while her palms stroke each indent and crease from the backs of my ears to the knobby bones of my ankles. I’m carried across the room. Her hand cups the back of my head, giving my hair the sweetest of tugs as she blocks any harsh impact while tossing me on the bed.

I begin to unbutton her shirt, longing to feel her skin against mine. I’ve undressed her down to her black sports bra, but as I begin to peel it from her skin, she captures my wrists within her strong fingers.

I moan gently in protest. She lays herself over me, soothing me like a weighted blanket, brushing hair out of my eyes. She pauses, giving me a chance to catch my breath. Then she says, “Let me take care of you tonight.”

My eyes feel like glowing mirrors; I don’t know what to say. My skin is begging for contact, betraying any coyness to which I’ve clung. I’ll take anything she gives me. She’s smirking, and I can’t even pretend to be insulted. She has me right where she wants me, which is precisely where I want to be.

“Roll over, gorgeous,” she says, pulling away from me, not needing any verbal answer to know that she’s lit a fire in the deep place of my abdomen. I try to watch where she’s going, what she’s doing, but she gives me a look that says, Just listen to me. I can give you what you want.

So I turn over on my stomach, trying not to appear too desperate, like some beetle flipping itself off its back. I’m hinging forward on propped elbows and swollen breasts, memorizing the irregularities in the wood of her headboard. I can hear her steps on the creaking floor, but I don’t dare turn around. A piece of black fabric descends over my head, and my vision is extinguished.

I’m not scared, not even when the only sensory input I have is her blowing cool air along the cut of my scapulae. Her fingertips graze lazily along the length of my legs, and I can’t help but sigh with contentment. She’s gathering the slinky fabric of my dress in those capable hands, and as she deftly pulls the garment up, up, and away, I shiver at my own exposure. I don’t really know why I trust her — maybe simply because I want to — but I do.

Finally, she begins. At first, her only instrument is her fingertips. She traces the crevices of my body as though she’s sketching charcoal cityscapes over my skin. She even takes a moment to kiss my bandaged heel. When her thumbs get involved, cupping the flesh where ass turns to thigh, I shiver visibly. She drapes her body over me, and I can feel small, unnamed muscles release tension I didn’t know I was carrying.

“Cold?” she asks me quietly. I shake my head lightly. Definitely wasn’t shivering from the cold. Thunder rolls in from the distance, and I am comforted more than startled. Her lips deliver the lightest of kisses to my right cheek, and then she is gone again.

Touch reappears unyieldingly on the inner sides of my thighs, pushing my legs wide as though she has a permit for new construction. The touches coming now are unexpected: Light brushes just beyond my labia. Small pinches of fleshy bits. Prodding exploration of uncharted folds. An agonizing pause at the foot of a cave. She must be admiring the waterfall.

Has anyone ever looked at me so closely? Any lover, obstetrician, or even my own eye in the mirror? I don’t think so.

Another hand charts the surrounding countryside, pulling papillary muscles to attention but soothing those exhausted miners and carpenters. What a novelty it is to be so at ease yet so alert. I’m not even tired anymore.

I hear her rustling against crisp sheets before — oh my — her breath again, this time so close it’s as if god herself is blowing straight into my womanhood. She must be able to smell that particular scent of earth; I certainly can. When her tongue finally lands, guttural sounds show themselves out of my mouth. She begins to lap away contentedly, drinking down a cocktail only I can offer.

I hardly take notice of her decided neglect of my clitoris, until it has swollen in agony and nearly found its own voice to beg. When that first gentle flick finally comes, I give up any vow I’ve ever made to be quiet, to contain myself. The wild woman who inhabits the deepest regions of my topography is making herself known, as though the riotous contractions in my cunt are really the reading of a love letter I wrote her and forgot in some drawer. When Miriam’s fingers slip inside me, discovering all places rough and smooth, I do not feel taken, but rather released.

Is there a word that means you’ve been untamed, undone, delivered from the many things you’ve been told you have to be? Is there a word for climaxing in synchrony with nature, internal waves pulsing as heavy beads of water pound against the window pains, the shock of release hitting each cell as lightning touches down in some distant field? Is there a word for her encircling as much of me as her arms allow, cooling my burning flesh with each panting exhalation? Is there a word for when the energy I’ve unleashed re-enters me, for that languid moment in time beyond time when I am unmistakably whole?