Lesbian Trophy
“A door is open, and who are you to not walk through it?” She had me. The offer was too sweet to argue.
Why let a guy support me when a girl was much more willing to do the same thing, offering me more in the process? It was time for the women’s liberation to be taken to the actual next level. Why bother with a penis when the dildo technology has advanced so much?
I’d been threatening to turn for a while, though I’ve played the part of switch-hitter before. The process was not entirely new to me, but it sort of was. Who was I to be a father figure?
I’ll have to admit, I did have more of a masculine size about me when compared to her, a tiny dancer, all flexible and nimble. Though I was taller with broader shoulders, she dressed the part of down on the farm, something I easily switched into with jean shorts and hacked t-shirts being standard apparel. There was something subtly sexy about two guys alternating male roles.
Sleeping in bed with her was unlike other experiences, as she was all up on me, cuddle bunny. Most guys hate the cuddle aspect, but she would slither around me and find the comfort spot that was best for both of us, even if it was simply when reading a book. Sex was more than sensual, and a strap-on was a good enough replacement for the penis, as it was the motion more than anything; those fake dicks feel so real nowadays anyways.
We’d peep each other when we thought the other wasn’t looking. I’d take in her dark curly hair, so long and wild, like it had been cast upon her head in a fury, baby doll curls coming to a life of their own. Sometimes she’d put on a babushka to keep the curls concealed, but I would merely laugh, eyeing the angles of her body while we worked out in the yard in the sun.
Sure, there were fights, the power struggle. She was all to quick to remind me whose house it was and whose car I was driving, keeping me prisoner in a way, but there was happiness in slavery. I could bite the hand that feeds, as she knew I had size and strength on her, regardless of her material objects, and we and the cops had a mutual understanding not to get involved with one another, for her son’s sake if nothing else.
We tried to keep our arguing to a minimum, though I think arguing comes standard with Sicilian blood. I never minded it too much though, really, even if we did take it over the edge a few times. The make-up made it all worth it, the sorry sex and forgetting until it was convenient to bring the topic back into the realm of discussion once again at a later date.
I made her feel young, being able to wheel her around town and be in denial of her own age. Most just thought of us as good friends, having no clue as to what happened between the sheets. Some even thought I must have had some Sicilian blood in me, swearing us to be cousins, though my straight blonde hair contradicted her dark curly mass.
“There are Sicilians with light hair and light eyes, you know. It’s entirely possible. I just figured I’d ask.”
“No,” we’d smile slyly in response. “We’re business partners. Production and whatnot, from film to theatre and novels.”
That was one bonus to getting with her, she already had her own production company, had all the equipment we needed to put together whatever we wanted. I’d write it, and she’d write, too, then we’d choreograph the whole ordeal, wheeling up to New York as needed. Even the studio, my old apartment, was actually a dance studio, so we had the built-in practice space, complete with overhead projectors and the whole nine yards.
Our first fundraiser was for Halloween, inviting the big wigs of the city out for a talk session on dance therapy. While doing this, my books were showcased, and previous production work was highlighted, along with gourmet chefs dicing up grub. We made due with what we had, smiling at guys and promising sweet nothings to get our way; she was the master at how to get what she wanted with a smile, and I wasn’t too shabby either.
The two of us were lethal, and her son was growing into our ways. Not that he was going to be a lesbian, rather a feat for a guy, but he was learning the art of it all. From poetry and painting to production and theatre, he was into the mix in a way that most kids could only dream of, but I taught him the math and sciences, just to be sure, as he had a mind that could handle it.
Traveling became easy, as long as we had the books on the road to teach him, or sent him to stay with somebody, which neither of us felt entirely comfortable with. He even came up to New York with us, taking in the sites with one of us, while the other one pitched our latest project. Even the casinos that let us in allowed him to chill out in a spot or two, letting him stay in the back to be able to watch our performances.
Biloxi was home though, and the jaunts down the ocean were much more relaxing than the city streets with honking horns. All we had to do was walk the railroad tracks for half a block, and we were there, smack in the ocean, only a few trees blocking the view. The ocean, always revered and respected, was also where I went to hide out when I needed it, either there or the graveyard that had more “Farve” graves than anything else, many still being above ground like New Orleans.
Always up for an opportunity at wine, as she was very much a connoisseur, the highlight each month was the first Saturday, when all the galleries were open for tour, having free food and wine. Even her son could come, as they had soda for little ones, but that would be our excuse to not cook dinner, sparred on one day of the month. We could hop from gallery to gallery, then take a jaunt down to the ocean for sunset, coming home to put the little one to bed, only to have our own romance session.
Things were good, but nothing lasts forever, especially when the ocean’s involved. Just when things were lining up perfectly, the new tile just installed on the floor, the addition built with new windows, the hurricane wiped it all away. Even a half block off the ocean, Katrina swept out what little we had accomplished, and a whole lot more.
The town disappeared in the blink of an eye. The casino had even been moved to a new location. The impact left little beside the ocean.
The galleries we loved so much could not withstand the winds and water. Everything we had come to know was wiped out. We had no choice but to flee, only to find nothing to come back to.
The New Orleans house wasn’t much better, as it was a half block off of Bayou St. John, downhill from where the overflow ran. Wooden floors of the studio were warped, and it was filled with black much from top to bottom. The pecan tree fell on the house behind the studio, leaving a trunk in the living room.
Working energy went away for months and months, and clean water was non-existent. Our allergies could not take the mold, and insurance was giving the royal flush, contents were not covered by flood insurance, and the wind must have done the other damage that was not covered…
Down and out; that’s how it goes. Just when the sun seems to be shining, the winds pick up when you least expect it. Water can wash anything away.
THE END
What would've happened if you denied the opportunity to become a lesbian trophy???
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