LESBIAN LUST AND LOVE: The Well of Womanhood
by
Roberta Angela Dee
I had been skimming through a 1995 issue of Al Goldstein's "Screw" magazine. Pamela Anderson, the buxom bimbo and recent champion against domestic violence, was a feature.
The article included a few barely focused photos of the blonde. They were apparently taken from her pre-Bay Watch career at a time when she was just another porn puppet eager to suck any penis propped before a photographer's lens.
She was not the first woman to market silicone-inflated boobs in view of lacking any other discernible talent. She certainly would not be the last.
Ms. Anderson couldn't be too bright either. After all, she had married Tommy Lee right after his well-publicized, volatile and quite abusive marriage to Heather Locklear -- another blonde with questionable talents.
While glancing at Ms. Anderson's nude and grainy photographs, I wondered how many drama classes were required for a buxom woman to run along the beach wearing a skimpy, loose-fitting swimsuit and to jiggle her tits while looking confused and dismayed. At any rate, I was sure it was neither her mind, nor her intelligence that encouraged her first spread in "Penthouse" -- an adult men's magazine.
At GTI Electronics, I'm known as "The Bitch." The name tag on my office door reads, "Roberta Angela Dee -- Manager of Human Resources," but most of co-workers continued to refer to me as "The Bitch."
Naturally, I had no regrets regarding my insensitivity towards men with a propensity for thinking with their penises, nor any regrets regarding my bitchiness towards women who could admire such men. From my perspective, to be called a bitch simply meant I was being acknowledged as a superior woman. It was an honor and a compliment that I worked hard to deserve each day of my life. "Roberta Angela Dee is a bitch." Yes! I must confess that I enjoy hearing it and saying it, as much as I enjoy being it.
I'm certain that my co-workers realized that at 48 years old I had a figure that women half my age envied. They were also well aware that I hadn't dated any men, nor provided any of them with the indication that I either craved or needed the affections of a male. Whatever their private assumptions, I'm confident they were correct.
Neither my professional career, nor my bitchiness had anything to do with my mood as I lay sprawled on the couch. I am totally nude and hold a 12-inch vibrator in my hand. With my other hand, I slowly twist the dial at the base of the vibrator that engages the tiny motor within my plastic sex toy. I use the tip of the vibrating toy to stimulate my clit. Soon, my body quivers as the ecstasy begins to build. I feel wonderfully feminine as the spiritual forces of my womanhood grow strong. I feel wonderfully aroused and alive.
Eventually, I begin using the ivory cock as though it is a real penis. Penetration increases my arousal, and my increased lubrication heightens my sensitivity and moves me well into that pleasurable ride that inevitably concludes with an orgasm.
I am so intensely focused on delivering an orgasm that I fail to hear my roommate's key as she unlocks the front door. The expression on her face is quite memorable, but I'm sure it is no more memorable than mine. As anyone can understand, I have never felt more embarrassed or humiliated -- laying there clearly masturbating with my huge and proportionately loud ivory toy.
"Oh, Felicia," I shout, as though I need to attract her attention.
Felicia is a gorgeous young woman. She had not been expected for another day. She had been visiting her sister, and I am somewhat curious as to why she has returned early. It is, however, a quite inopportune time to ask, considering my delicate and vulnerable position.
Felicia does not respond as I expect. Instead, after quickly closing the door, she lowers her suitcase, then rushes over to the couch. Once by my side, she kneels and begins an oral assault on my pussy.
My instinct is to yell for her to stop. However, the combined sensation of the pulsating vibrator and her warm wet tongue, as it brushes against my clitoris, creates a level of ecstasy that leaves me totally incapable of speech.
Within 10 minutes, I reach the most intense orgasm I had ever experienced. The towel beneath my body can barely contain my female juices. Yet, I wonder what had possessed Felicia to perform this incredible, yet absolutely satisfying, act.
The answer to my question comes shortly after my orgasm and is equally as much a surprise. Felicia very calmly explains that her sexual preference had always been for women, and that a tall, shapely African American woman had, for a very long time, been her fondest fantasy.
Her revelation excites me, but it also leaves me feeling as though I am some sort of commodity. I am not a commodity.
Her physical display of her desires had undeniably altered our relationship. We are no longer just two roommates sharing a home. Felicia had caressed the most intimate parts of my body with her comforting tongue and hungry lips, and it is only natural that I want it to be more than an act of lust. Yet, everything about Felicia wreaks of lust -- nothing more.
Felicia removes the ivory sex toy from where it rests between my thighs. She smiles, then returns to licking me. Her mouth leaves me feeling intoxicated, and after a while I grow more comfortable with feeling as though I am a commodity. Still, I very well know the differences between lust and love. I had traveled the path of lust too often. This time, I want and very much need to be loved and to feel loved.
Felicia fails to bring me to a second orgasm. The possible consequences of this situation steal more of my attention that the situation itself. My feelings are understandably mixed.
One part of me welcomes the beauty and passion that can develop through a relationship with another woman. However, a different part of me demands the love, respect and loyalty that is not likely to develop from any relationship based solely on lust.
Felicia is 15 years my junior -- mature but still very flirtatious in the manner of many young women. She carries a degree of assertiveness that I much admire, particularly because my preference is to be submissive. However, as most submissives grow to understand, a dominant-submissive relationship can only work when the dominant partner truly loves, respects and possesses a genuine desire to be loyal to her submissive.
In writing about a dominant-submissive relationship, I do not mean to invoke images of leather garments, collars, ropes or handcuffs. I mean nothing so extreme. I merely refer to a relationship where one partner is essentially assertive and dominant while the other partner is essentially passive.
Over the next few days, I pretend to ignore Felicia's playful yet clearly flirtatious antics. I am referring to bath towels that accidentally fall from her nude body, as much as the bedroom door that is typically left partially open while she dresses or lays naked on her bed, pretending to be taking a nap.
I was once Felicia's age and had used all the maneuvers she presently used with me. I inevitably discovered that there is nothing new under the sun that is not its best unless cloaked with a measure of subtlety.
In the short time that Felicia and I had roomed together, I learned that her father had been born on the tiny Caribbean island of St. Vincent. Her mother was Cuban, born in Havana. Their child -- a mix of African and Latin features -- was a female human of exquisite beauty. Her breasts were so full that and that it seemed they might explode, and her derriere was perfectly molded and heart-shaped providing an hourglass figure for which any woman would conceal considerable envy.
Another attribute is her predatory nature. I confess however that it amuses me to watch her frustrated efforts to capture me. Dominance does not always equate with power. Power can sometimes be submissive.
Inevitably, and as I had so precisely calculated, her aggressive female strengths blossom abruptly. She confronts me and asks why I do not respond to her advances.
"Passion without love is a fragile fire, a cold fire," I answer. "Passion without love is like a flower without its petals, a tigress without her claws."
"I love you, Roberta," she replies with an impassioned tone. "You have my love, but as much as I am willing to give my love, I am also in need of your trust. In essence, I must demand it."
She pauses and looks at me with the piercing desperate eyes of a woman desiring another woman's love. It is an intense moment.
"Yes!" she continues. "Passion without love is like a tigress without her claws, a flower without its petals. It does not exist. It is only an illusion -- a delusion at best. But as much as love needs to be a part of passion, trust needs to be a part of love. Without trust, love too is like a flower without its petals."
With those words spoken, the room fills with the energy of an aurora borealis -- the famous Northern lights. My body fills with an energy equally as intense as the cosmic phenomenon. Time, for these few moments, no longer exists. I feel as though I am standing upon a cloud that drifts slowly across a boundless galaxy.
Enough has been said. Words no longer matter. We communicate through use of a silent language emerging from our souls -- souls, that as time passes, seem to join, effortlessly, until they become one spirit. It is the way one woman loves another.
Felicia and I kiss. Our kiss is sacred. It becomes a sacrament that delivers our consciousness to a place, perhaps to a being, far more supreme than anything either she or I had come to know on Earth. Its honest innocence is so intense that I erupt with a joy that only comes with the most intimate embrace. Yet, I am fully clothed, my private untouched except through the divine spirit of our kiss.
Surprised, my eyes open, I am startled with disbelief. Felicia's eyes open too, and in her eyes I see the same sense of climactic wonder I had experienced. A marriage occurs, a very genuine marriage, unhampered by tradition or ceremony. The marriage takes us to a higher place -- a place where both our eyes and minds are opened!
How sad it is, even after so many thousand of years, that there are those who can not understand that love is love, and that it makes no difference whether a kiss occurs between a man and a woman, between two men, or between two women, so long as the kiss is honest, pure and between two willing adults.
Still, in my heart of hearts, I am more than aware of people who continue to carry -- within the very core of their moral beliefs -- words written eons ago by old men, words allegedly from a Divinity for which there is no specific proof of existence. How ironic that is through their God of love and mercy that so many people are comfortable to scorn, persecute, ostracize and punish. How ironic it is that through their loving and merciful God, certain human beings are told or forced to submit to genital mutilation and bizarre surgeries. Given this sort of God, where is the love and where is the mercy?
I fervently I wish for this age to end, and for priests, rabbis and ministers to cease making sacraments of hate, prejudice, ignorance and distrust.
The phrase "God is love" does not mean that God loves. It means that the idea of God and the idea of love are equal and should be perfectly interchangeable -- with or without a joyful noise or a theology.
Felicia lovingly leads me to the bedroom. She undresses me with a tenderness that leaves me feeling I am admired, appreciated and enviably loved.
When a woman feels loved, she also feels pretty. She feels she is beautiful.
Through Felicia's guidance, I am led to feel more beautiful that I had ever felt with any man or with any other woman. The beauty emerges from within. It is not merely a reflection or a delusion.
The sliding door is slightly open, enough for us to hear Nature sing as we embrace upon my bed. I look to my left and watch our reflection in the pear-shaped, highly polished silver vase on my night stand. The vase is filled with a lovely bouquet. Its delicate petals seem to stand above our distorted image.
I continue looking at the reflection as her face disappears between my thighs. Her smooth soft lips press against my flesh causing a flood that fills my body with waves of pleasure. She strokes me like an ocean pets its coastline. So sweet she is. So sweet and so sublime.
What is the sin? What taboo is violated? What kind of people can contain no compassion for two people in love? If loving is a sin, if it can be called a taboo, is not the greater sin the act of degrading love?
Every part of Felicia's body becomes an instrument of love. Her arms surround me and bring me to a private rapture. She awakes passions that had never known life. For me, it is a miracle no less meaningful than the miracles of believers who claim to see tears flow from a religious statue, or the miraculous light that those who endure a near-death experience claim to see. Felicia is the miracle. Her touch is the miracle. Her fingers, her lips are miracles too.
Love is an oasis somewhere in the desert we call Life. Felicia and I find our oasis in each other. We find it within ourselves and within the reflection of our bodies.
Love is an energy that causes me to quiver. I feel as though a tiny earthquake has focused its forces over my entire pelvis. Soon I begin to ride that incredible undulation of pleasure that carries me to my oasis of joy.
Love is my only 'true' religion. Love is joy! It is the only law, philosophy or belief worthy of my time and study, worthy of my life.
Real love is varied. It is organic. It is not mechanical. It is not fixed.
Our love-making lasts for several hours. We kiss, lick, touch, fondle and teach each other how to find those most sensitive parts. We writhe, moan, wiggle and quiver like young women being explored for the very first time. It is as awesome an experience for our bodies as it is for our minds. Later, we rest and gradually succumb to a deep restful sleep.
The next morning, as we regain consciousness, we return to a world that condemns us for having found the love that others seek so ardently. We, of course, are content to know that whether gay, straight or bisexual, love is love. We are content to know that we will continue to bathe in the well of womanhood.
The End
The author may be contacted at Dianic007@aol.com or at PO Box 14391; Augusta, GA 30919-0391
(c) 1998 - Roberta Angela Dee @>~~>~>~~~