It didn’t take me long to become totally immersed in the online dating world of women. The conversations were easier, I related to things going on in their lives, and we all had similar interests. I chastised myself for not giving this a shot years ago instead of picking off one loser after another with a penis. Once I’d gotten rid of the duck-lipped selfies, and what I thought appealed to women, I took off on a path to an endless world of females. True, my standards were ridiculously high, but thus far, I’d had no problems attracting the Jessica Rabbits of the online community. What I had yet to do was meet any of them.

It turned out females were just as eager as males to actually get together in person and not just spend hours talking on the phone, texting, or exchanging “get to know you” emails. Foolishly, I’d assumed women would drag out the whole introductory phase instead of diving right in. But when the rubber met the road, I was the one who got gun shy. I found reasons not to embark on this new endeavor: I didn’t like their name, I couldn’t imagine hearing their voice in the bedroom, they got too fresh too quickly. You name it, and I engineered a reason for it not to work. But tonight was different. Tonight, I’d meet Rebecca. We were having drinks at a bar down the street from my house—casual, no expectations.

Rebecca was the first of the women I’d talked to that put a tingle between my legs. She also happened to be the only one I’d been honest with. It dawned on me during the initial stages of this painstaking process, the easiest way to get down to funky town was to ask for directions. Beck, as she preferred to be called, was confident enough to show me the way and hopefully draw me a map for later use. I’d endeared myself to her with my tales of male woe, and she thought it was cute I’d decided to give the Y a try.

I came out of my bedroom in a fitted, cotton dress. The red brought out the highlights in my dark-brown hair, made my skin look flawless with little makeup, and elongated my flat tummy. The brown, leather knee-high boots took my legs from long to endless. Every asset I had was now perfectly displayed.

“Damn, Giselle. Why don’t you just meet her at a hotel? You look like a high-class hooker.”

“I most certainly do not.” I spun to give my best friend the full view.

“I’ll bet you twenty bucks this girl tries to take you straight home. One drink max. And she’ll pay.” She squinted her eyes and cocked her head, knowing I wouldn’t pass up a bet.

“Fine. Two drinks and I’ll return home alone…from the bar.”

“You’re so full of shit. You’re like a cat in heat. Just don’t rub up against her leg. You might leave a mark.”

“You’re foul. Truly. I don’t know why we’re friends.”

“Oh, because you’re teaching classes on etiquette down at the charm school?”

“Touché.”

I moved to the kitchen to change purses. The monstrosity I took to work didn’t need to accompany me to a watering hole. A clutch was much more appropriate for the outing.

“So, what’s the protocol here? Who pays?” My insecurity poked a hole in my confident façade.

“Who asked who out?”

“Umm, I’m not sure. It was mutual, I guess.”

“Always plan to pay, but don’t fight if she insists, unless you don’t want there to be a second date. In which case, make an ass of yourself and argue vehemently against your need for someone to carry the freight. She’ll roll her eyes, and you’ll be done.”

“You don’t know that.” Not all women could possibly follow that code. Just like not all men believed it was their responsibility to pick up the tab. The whole women’s lib movement had totally blurred the gender lines.

She shrugged, and her perfect breasts lifted with her shoulders. Her nipples teased the fabric of her thin tank top…I shook my head, pulling my thoughts from my best friend’s chest.

“How do you practice safe sex?”

Ronnie’s attention jerked up from the magazine she’d been scanning to face me and about fell off the barstool from laughing so hard. “What difference does it make? You just bet me a crisp Jackson you’d be home after two drinks.”

“Future reference. I need to ask these things when they come up; otherwise, I might forget.”

“You’re in deep shit. Are you sure I can’t come and tape this from the sidelines? We could put the footage on YouTube and make a mint. I guarantee it’d go viral.”

My scowl demonstrated my irritation. “Well?”

“Jesus. I don’t know. What are you planning to do?”

“Do you carry female condoms?”

“Not if you plan to actually be intimate.”

Condoms were gross in heterosexual play as well, but a necessary evil—luckily, once they were on, I didn’t really have to think about them. I didn’t have a clue how female condoms even worked. For all I knew, they were like Saran Wrap you laid across the hooha. I didn’t see any point in them being internal since there wouldn’t be any penetration.

“Oh my God. Should I carry condoms in case a girl wants to finger me?”

“Do you make a guy put a condom on his fingers? Jesus, Giselle—think this through.”

I kept the rest of my questions to myself. I didn’t plan to sleep with this girl—at least not tonight. I had time to learn, and there was always lesbian porn if I still needed answers.

“Are you going to be here when I get back?”

She slid off the stool and pulled at the frayed hem of her shorts that had bunched on her thighs. Only Ronnie could pull off a tank top, cut-off jean shorts, and heels—and fuck did she rock it. “No. Trish has me on a short leash ever since the whole shopping fiasco. It was one pair of shoes, but you’d think I’d slept with Holden or something.”

One thing I loved about Veronica, not much got to her. She knew she’d pissed Trish off, but instead of complaining about it, she took her lumps, stayed with Holden, one of her bosses, overnight while her girlfriend cooled off, and then laid low until it blew over.

She swatted at my behind as we walked out the door together. When she turned to me, her face had gone from playful to serious. “If you get in over your head, you don’t have to go through with anything. Just like a guy—dating is still dating, regardless of whether it’s a man or woman, and you’re never under any obligation to anyone. Okay?” Her brow furrowed, and her lips tipped up in a half-hearted grin. “Peer pressure still exists in your forties…and you’re a hot piece of ass.” She winked, but I knew she was concerned.

“First of all, I’m not forty. Secondly, I can handle myself…but thanks, Mom.”

I hugged my best friend goodbye with far more self-assurance than I actually felt and slid into my Camaro. I kept the top up to prevent my hair from falling apart, but the moment the engine roared to life, so did my confidence. There was something in the way the car hummed that turned my insides out and caused my flesh to burn in the most erotic way. It had been a post-divorce present to myself. Men loved it, the black racing stripe only added to the intrigue of the sunshine-yellow exterior—and if men loved it, women would swoon.

With my aviator glasses perched on my nose, I checked my lipstick in the mirror, buckled my seatbelt, and drove to the bar to meet Beck.

* * *

It was early in the evening, and the after-work crowd still mingled after happy hour before the night owls would stroll in. Beck stood out like a beacon in the night amongst the suits and ties. And it didn’t take long for me to notice the men staring her down from their seats at the bar. Her pictures online hadn’t done her justice. Beck was stunning—model gorgeous with exotic, green eyes. Instead of the sight of her intimidating me, it fueled my fire. I straightened my spine, pulled my shoulders back, and sashayed with one leather boot-clad foot in front of the other until I reached her side.

And then I promptly fell apart. I didn’t have a clue what to do or how to handle an introduction. I wasn’t sure if I should extend my hand, lean in for a hug, or peck her on the cheek, and instead, it ended up being an awkward handshake-hug with a kiss on the ear. I stumbled into her almost knocking her over before I could pull myself back.

“Jesus, I’m sorry.” I tried to bite my tongue and refused to admit I was nervous. “I’m nervous.” Smooth, Giselle.

Beck’s lips lifted to reveal the most pristine white teeth I’d ever seen, followed by an engaging smile. “It’s okay. Sit, sit. It’s great to finally meet you.”

I pulled out a stool and climbed onto the high seat as gracefully as possible, praying I didn’t end up mooning the men behind me or falling on my face.

“You look beautiful. I love that dress.”

With that one comment, I launched into friend mode. “I got it at Saks on sale. The fabric’s great.” I peered down at the way it clung to my body. “It would look fantastic on you. You should borrow it sometime.”

Suddenly, I was having drinks with a girl I’d hoped to become BFFs with, and not one I wanted to accompany to bed, but I had to keep an open mind. Things with women were bound to be different than dates with men. I had no idea what attraction felt like when it wasn’t firmly attached to a penis. Maybe this was how things blossomed with another woman; everything about the female species was different—surely that included dating.

The more Beck talked, the more I adored her. From the way she flipped her hair over her shoulder, her ability to tune out the men balking at her beauty, and the demure smile she flashed in my direction—everything about her was perfection. Her eyes kept me entranced along with the silky-smooth tone of her voice.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Giselle.”

I didn’t know what to do with her compliment. It rolled off her tongue like a line from an eloquent poem, but I sat there like a daft duck, unsure of how to respond. Men never tripped me up, but this woman had me reverting to zit-faced prepubescence with a handful of words.

I batted my eyes in her direction and glanced down in uncertainty.

“It’s cute that you’re so shy.”

But I wasn’t. Not normally. Typically, I was like a blazing inferno doused in gasoline. My mouth frequently overrode my ass and wrote checks my body couldn’t cash. Since she was enamored with this side of me, I played it up. I needed her tutelage, and there was only one way to get it.

“I’m sure it’s odd to be on a date with a woman who’s never dated. I don’t know what I’m doing here.” I realized how that sounded and quickly backtracked. “I don’t mean here here, but here as in this moment, not the location with you. I just—”

She put her delicate fingers on top of mine to silence my gibberish. Her tongue snuck out and wet her lips, and all I could find myself thinking of was the color of her lipstick. She’d been drinking for the last hour, and it hadn’t smudged or even worn off. I stared at her mouth, the gorgeous matte nude that now glistened with the moisture of her tongue, and realized she’d caught me staring. Even her giggle was melodious.

My gaze darted back up to her minty-green eyes and the smoky shadow that colored her lids. Her lashes were thick without being clumped together, and her liner could have been tattooed it was so perfectly applied.

“I’m attracted to you. I know you need to take things slowly, and this is all new to you. But I’d love to see you again. Spend some time together somewhere other than a bar.” Her plump lip slipped between her teeth as she waited for my response.

“I’d like that, too.”

“Do you have plans this weekend? Why don’t you come over, and I’ll make dinner?”

I couldn’t help but wonder if that meant she would be the “girl” in this relationship. My thoughts shifted instantly. If she were the girl, that would make me the guy—I was far from butch. I shook my head to clear the notion—there was no man in this duo. Neither of us had to be the “guy” because there were no traditional roles here. A subtle smile lifted my lips with that realization.

“Oh, well…okay then.” Disappointment lined her stunning features.

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean no I couldn’t do dinner. I’m sorry. I’d love to. Can I bring wine?”

She perked up, and that brilliant smile graced her cheeks once again. Her spine grew straight as an arrow, pushing her breasts out. “That would be fantastic. I love to cook. I hope you love to eat.”

“Far too much.” I was that woman who ran to eat. I hated running. Abhorred it. But I liked food far too much to sit idle after stuffing my face. Forty wasn’t the new twenty…not that I was forty yet.

We made plans for Friday night, and when the waitress came, Beck took the check. I watched her as she eyed me, her perfectly stained lips pursed seductively as she glanced at me from beneath heavy lids. I’d given many a man that same glance. Beck wanted me. She had paid the tab and invited me to dinner at her place.

“Thank you for the drinks. I have to admit, this has been fantastic.” It wasn’t a line. I did appreciate the drinks, and Beck was a pretty amazing first girl-girl date. If only men like her had lined my doorstep—well, men of her caliber but still male—I might not be sitting here. Thinking about this weekend, the fact that I’d managed to win over my first female, my seductive side peeked out from behind the curtain. It was Beck’s turn to give my mouth her full attention, and when I swiped my tongue across my lips, I heard her softly purr.

I slid off the seat and waited for her to join me. As she gathered her purse and I took my clutch from the table, one of the men who’d been eyeing us since I walked in approached.

“Ladies, you two looking for company this evening?”

At that moment, I realized just how sleazy members of the opposite sex truly were and was reminded of what brought me to Beck in the first place. She didn’t give me the chance to respond. With poised grace, she turned to the man and responded, “No, thank you. There’s only room for two in this party.”

She took my hand with hers, and together we owned that floor from the table to the exit. I could feel the eyes watching us, the wet dreams formulating, and the cocks hardening as we strutted out the door.

Beck walked me to my car and raised her brows in appreciation. “Nice ride.”

I might have gotten a lady boner watching her salivate—whether it was over me or the Camaro, I wasn’t sure, but it felt like a win either way. The sun had fallen, and the moon welcomed the night. Standing next to my bright-yellow sports car, with my hand still in hers, Beck leaned in and kissed my cheek. Still as a statue, I wasn’t sure how to respond. I’d be lying if I said my date hadn’t warmed my center.

She winked at me and let go of my fingers as she walked away. “Goodnight, Giselle.” Those two words had never been sung in such a beautiful chorus. “Until this weekend…” Her farewell hung in the air, and my fingers touched the spot she’d kissed on my cheekbone.

It wasn’t the flood of sexual endorphins I’d felt when a man turned me on, more like a slumber party with my girlfriends back when we thought pot was cool. My insides were warm, and a smile clung to my lips the entire way home.

* * *

I knew I would probably get Ronnie in trouble, but Trish would have to get over it. Surely, from one lesbian to another, she could appreciate the newness of the situation.

“Hey, Giselle. Hang on. I’ll get Veronica.” I wondered why Trish answered her phone if she was so put off by people actually calling the person it belonged to, but I kept my mouth shut and waited.

“So, how’d it go? Your lips still wet from your first muff?”

Of course, my friend had to turn this into a locker room chat. “No, heifer. We had drinks. It was nice.”

“Then why do you sound so unsure?”

“She paid the bill.”

“She digs you. And if you let her, I assume you thought she was pretty kinky, too.”

I rolled my eyes. In the last two weeks, my best friend had gone from this well-put-together, gorgeous woman to a horny teenager with a crass mouth. “We’re having dinner on Friday. She’s cooking.”

“Wow.”

Here’s where things got sticky. Since my divorce, I wasn’t interested in relationships. I rarely saw the same guy more than twice, and that only happened if he was really good in bed. I didn’t care what people thought—men had done it for decades, and I was enjoying my sexual freedom as I neared the prime of my life. If that made me a slut, at least I was a well-satiated floozy.

“Oh, stop. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing here. It’s not like things with guys.”

“You might want to figure it out quickly. A woman who bought your drinks and offered to cook your dinner is either a leprechaun or a hag. One doesn’t exist and the other you’ll wish didn’t.”

“Can you stop for a minute and focus?”

“Sure. What are we focusing on? Did she catfish you? She was ugly, wasn’t she? I bet she stole her profile picture off some modeling website. Women do that—”

“Jesus, Ronnie. Shut up. She was gorgeous. And charming. And her boobs were so perky they have to be fake. I meant to ask her about her lipstick. It was the perfect shade and looked like she’d just applied it even after she kissed me.”

“Whoa! What? She kissed you? Was there tongue involved?”

“God, you’re such a pervert. No. Just on the cheek when we were leaving. Right after she shot down a rather good-looking man in the bar.”

“She’s so attractive men approach her? I love women who don’t look lesbian. The ones made for all of us to enjoy regardless of which way we swing.” My friend had gone into some dopey trance on the other end.

“Veronica…”

She grunted to remind me she was still listening.

“What do I wear to her house? What kind of wine do I take? And we’re back to this same question—condoms or no?”

“She knows you’re a newbie, right?” She kept talking after I uttered my agreement. “Dinner at her house is casual. Jeans and a cute tee. But nothing complicated. It all needs to be able to come off with ease. No woman wants to fumble with clothing when they’re already going to be fumbling with you. Secondly, take a nice bottle since she paid for drinks and she’s cooking.” She paused, likely waiting for me to say something, but when I didn’t, she asked, “Are you really ready for this?”

“I’ve never been one to shy away from something new in the bedroom. I’ll be fine. Do I bring my own dildo?”

She snorted. Legitimately snorted in my ear.

“I’m serious. People don’t share sex toys, right? Lesbians still like penetration—you’ve said so yourself.” The thought of another woman’s rubber dong in my twat was reason enough to bring condoms.

“Goodnight, Giselle.” She was blowing me off. Right in the middle of a terribly important conversation.

“Veronica—I need your help.”

“Just have a few shots before you go to her house. It’ll loosen you up enough that the details won’t matter, and you’ll just go with the flow. You better call me afterward.” I could hear Trish whining in the background about how late it was and knew I had to let my friend off the phone…even though it was just after nine. “Love you, Gizzy.”

“Love you, V.”

* * *

Work flew by surprisingly fast. Normally, an eight-hour day felt like twelve, but somehow, my nervous anticipation helped the clock tick faster on the wall instead of dragging it out.

I’d been with Stearns and Wilkes since I got out of college. I have a degree in business from the state university, but I hadn’t had a clue what I wanted to do with it when I graduated. I just knew I had to have one—a degree that is. The law firm was one of the largest on the East Coast, and I’d started as the receptionist. The guy who’d hired me hadn’t even pretended it was based on my potential—he flat out told me I’d appeal to their male clientele. That was seventeen years ago, which still did not put me at forty—close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades—and I still held that same special clout…appeal for the male clientele.

Only now, I was the Executive Secretary for one of the firm’s managing partners. That sounded fancy, but there were paralegals who did the actual paperwork and grunt research, and junior attorneys who worked the long hours, and another receptionist who answered all the phones. My job—make the best cup of coffee ever consumed by our clients and entertain them while they waited. I was there for them to look at but never touch—always appearing available but never actually being available. It paid well, really well, and came with a wardrobe allowance—so I wasn’t about to try to better myself or make my life meaningful. I’d remain shallow as long as they’d allow it.

Unfortunately, on slow days—or those my boss was in court, which were the majority of my week—the most I did was file my nails and paint them a new color. Today’s shade was “Pretty Posey.” I blew on my fingertips, waiting for five o’clock and the final coat to dry. I had about two hours to run by the liquor store for wine, get home to change and freshen up, and be at Beck’s by seven. I’d mentally picked out my outfit around 9:17 am, decided on my hair at 9:19 am, and started my first coat of “Pretty Posey” at 9:21 am. Beauty was a process—one I’d honed into an art form. But my entire day’s agenda had been completed twenty-three minutes after I’d clocked in. I expected the rest to drag, but my nerves had gotten the best of me and rounded it out in the blink of an eye.

I pulled up to the liquor store I frequented more often than I did the grocery store. It was owned by an older couple who actually knew their products. I respected that and rewarded their knowledge with my patronage. Often.

“Good to see you, Giselle.” Mrs. Grobin was a lovely lady. She and the Mister had traveled all over Europe and lived like gypsies for most of their twenties and thirties. When they’d finally decided to settle down with the knowledge they’d gained overseas, they ended up here with a quaint store less than a mile from my house. They took care of their regulars, one of which I’d quickly become. I wasn’t a lush by any means, but wine was a great way to curb the appetite and limit food consumption, which reduced the number of miles I had to log every morning before conquering the world at Stearns and Wilkes.

“Nice to see you as well.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular tonight?”

I stopped at the counter and tapped my freshly manicured nails in front of me as I pondered how to approach the need for the evening. “I have a date, and I’ve been tasked with wine. I’d like something that says ‘I appreciate your having me over’ but won’t break the bank or indicate I expect anything in return.”

“Aww, Giselle. You don’t need to take wine to a man. He’ll expect you to put out regardless. Save your money.”

I snickered. “True, but I offered. How about a spicy red?” I had no idea whether Beck liked red or white, nor what we were having for dinner, so I went for what tickled my fancy.

“Young lady, is that the message you want to send?” Only a seventy-year-old woman could consider another in her late thirties—we shall not use the dreaded F-word—a young lady.

“Absolutely. So, what do you recommend?”

She shook her head before leading me over to her first pick. “How about a pinot noir? Flowers Sea View Ridge is nice. It’s from a vineyard in Sonoma Valley.”

I quickly glanced at the price. Beck seemed like a nice girl, but I wasn’t spending seventy-five dollars on a bottle of wine I had to share. “How about something a little less…spicy?”

The elderly lady giggled at my innuendo before taking me farther down the aisle. “A Syrah should do the trick at half the price.”

I took the red she’d suggested and grabbed a bottle of sambuca on my way out. I’d had far too much time to think about Ronnie’s advice and concluded she was right. A shot or two would help me loosen up. I downed one when I walked in my front door and put a couple more in a flask to partake of before ringing Beck’s bell.

When I looked in the mirror, I was impressed with my reflection staring back at me. I’d decided appearing carefree would help ease my anxiety. If I weren’t concerned with my attire or my hair, then I could focus on other things—like not stabbing myself with a fork accidentally or knocking over red wine on her white carpet. I didn’t even know if she had carpet much less what color it was, but in my mind, it was a plausible scenario I wanted to avoid.

I’d stopped by the mall and talked to my favorite Sephora rep and tried to describe the gorgeous lip color Beck had worn the night we’d met, and while she couldn’t tell me with a hundred percent certainty what it was, she’d sold me what appeared to be a close match. I’d debated between shades of Bare and Undressed and decided to purchase them both. If nothing else, “Lippie Lingerie” had made my evening—God, I loved makeup. My mouth rivaled that of any porn star—prior to them sucking someone off—and when I wiped my hand across it, the color didn’t budge. No lip prints would be left on a wineglass or napkin…or anywhere else tonight. I grinned as I thought about my first sexual encounter with another woman. It still seemed so taboo and racy, but that might be the sambuca worming its way into my blood stream.

The second shot I took as I left the house in my dark, skinny jeans and embellished tee with pull-on ankle boots set the mood. A smile tugged on the corners of my mouth while I drove to Beck’s. I couldn’t believe the palatial mansion I pulled up to. I’d driven with the top down and my hair piled up on my head, and my glasses still sat on my face when I stepped out of the Camaro. A gorgeous, red Porsche 911 sat in the circular driveway, and I wasn’t sure which I was more intrigued by—the car or the house. Both were stunning, but since the 911 was closest, I stopped to drool before going in.

With the neck of the wine bottle in my hand, I tilted my glasses up to my forehead and circled the car like it was my prey. The brand-new Carrera was completely tricked out with every available option including the Carmine Red premium paint job. Someone had dropped a mint on this ride. I peered into the window, making sure not to actually touch them—fingerprints would be so tacky.

“Hey. Can I help you?”

I spun around so fast my glasses fell, covering my eyes, and I just about lost my balance. I barely had time to take in the man who must own the car now standing in front of me. “Oh, um. Hi.” I stuck my free hand out in front of me. “I’m Giselle.”

He didn’t bother to shake my hand, but he certainly stared at it like I might be carrying the bubonic plague. “Ah. My sister’s date. She’s inside.” Short and to the point…a man of few words.

“Nice car.”

“I know.”

Either this guy was the biggest prick that ever lived, or he’d had a really bad day. Either way, he wasn’t interested in small talk, even if it included stroking his ego. He stepped around me without so much as a pat on the ass and waited for me to move.

“I’m sorry.” I dropped my hand to my side and got out of his way.

He took off like a bat out of hell, leaving tire marks on the cobblestone. I’d be pissed if I were Beck. With her brother gone, I took in all that was Beck’s house. She’d indicated she worked in marketing, but I had no idea it was such a lucrative business. After the encounter with another douchebag male, I opted for one more shot before knocking on the door. I felt like a boozer one step away from rehab turning up the bottle in her driveway. Not enough that I didn’t do it, but the thought crossed my mind just the same.

By the time my knuckles met the wood at her entryway, I’d forgotten about the dude with the car, and his memory had been replaced by nervous butterflies threatening to take flight in my stomach. When Beck answered the door, my mouth fell open, and what had been an abundance of saliva, dried up into the Sahara Desert. Apparently, I hadn’t understood what dinner meant or had missed the memo on just how casual this affair was. As I stood, jeans and a fancy T-shirt was overdressed. Clothes at all appeared to be optional.

My eyebrows rose on my forehead, and I managed to snap my jaw shut when Beck giggled. Maybe I was early, and she hadn’t finished dressing. I doubted she planned to cook in a silk robe that barely covered her ass, but maybe I’d caught her between preparing dinner and jeans.

“Come on in.”

“I met your brother outside. He seemed…less than happy.” I didn’t have a clue what to say to a woman I barely knew standing in the doorway with nothing on but a thin piece of fabric.

“Collier.” She didn’t hide her irritation with her sibling. “My twin.”

“Really? You’re a twin?”

“Yep.” She popped the P and turned around to walk into the house. I assumed I should follow and closed the door behind me. My boots echoed on the marble floors as I tried to take in all my surroundings without gawking. This girl had stupid amounts of money. “He was pissed I made him leave.”

“He could’ve joined us for dinner?”

“He can find his own dates. Come on in.”

Beck showed me to the kitchen, which was close to the size of my downstairs—the entire floor. I’d expected to see a meal of some sort, but all that sat on the counter was a pitiful excuse for a salad and two empty glasses waiting for my wine. When she turned her back to get a bottle opener, I peered closer at the bowls. I’d bet money if I dug in the trash I’d find the plastic containers and the Wendy’s bag they’d come in—she hadn’t even sprung for Chick-Fil-A.

I’d spent forty bucks on a bottle of wine, and this heifer had promised me dinner. There were two extra miles thrown in this morning to account for a caloric overload—not a damn salad. I wondered how I could dilute her wine with water and save the majority for myself without her noticing.

While I eyed the sink, she turned back to me. She went to uncork the bottle, and her robe gaped at her cleavage, then as she twisted the key, that divide became non-existent. The lapels of silk fell to the sides of her plastic breasts, which were still beautiful I might add. I didn’t have to touch them to know she’d paid a lot of money for the pair.

She took my curiosity as intrigue and purposely moved around the space, causing the fabric to flow behind her. Taut abs showed through, her tan didn’t have a line in it, and I quickly noticed she was naked as the day was long under that robe. There wasn’t a hair anywhere on her body outside of her scalp. Not one. My line of sight had traveled from her chest down the center of her stomach, straight to her bare-naked lady where it lingered in awe. There was no doubt about it—Beck had a porn-star vajayjay. It was tiny, perfectly prepubescent in its hairless glory. She had the vagina women paid thousands for with rejuvenation.

It took her seconds to fill both glasses with my spicy, red gift and take me by the hand to a custom-made couch in what I assumed was the living room. I didn’t have to worry about white carpet, there wasn’t an inch of the stuff as far as the eye could see. Marble floors lined every room in sight, and high ceilings made each step I took reverberate off the walls. This place was an acoustical nightmare. It was gauche in the truest sense of the word, and it wasn’t just jealousy marring my thoughts. The house was cold and in need of a decorator. Nothing but monochromatic tones on every surface. I couldn’t fathom why anyone with this much money wouldn’t want to be comfortable in their home. But c’est la vie.

“I’ve been so excited for you to get here.” She made no attempt to cover herself, clearly comfortable in her own skin.

I, on the other hand, was sweating like a whore in church who’d just been caught with my hand in the preacher’s pants. She relaxed on the sofa, and I wondered if her ass was sticking to the leather and if she’d have to peel her skin off to stand. The perspiration forming on the backside of my thighs made the denim increasingly more uncomfortable with each minute that passed. The tepid wine did nothing to bring my body temperature down and only served to heighten my already exponential anxiety.

This girl was to lesbians what I’d become to heterosexuals. She knew what she wanted—and it was me. We made idle chit chat as the wine mixed with the liquor already in my stomach. Nerves turned into desire, and when Beck took our glasses and set them on the coffee table that could seat eight comfortably, I knew it was go-time.

My mind focused on the parts of her that intrigued me—her eyes, those full lips, her professionally sculpted tits. Suddenly, I felt like a cat in heat, ready to push my ass in her lap just to get her to touch me. But the instant her fingers grazed the skin under my shirt, I erupted in childlike giggles. Her hand danced on my sides, but what should have been erotic turned into comedy central.

“Don’t be nervous, Giselle. I’ll be gentle.” That was the problem. Her touch was light as a feather, and I almost kneed her in the jaw when she came in for a kiss at the same time her palms cupped my breasts. I jumped back, unable to control my laughter—too much alcohol. I was giddy and suddenly immature. If she’d said the word penis, I might have rolled on the floor, clutching my stomach in gales of laughter.

I bit my tongue, trying to force myself to regain control. Beck took that as a green light to proceed. Her lips met my neck in soft kisses and trailed their way down to my collarbone. The laughter died when her teeth nipped at my skin just beneath my ear—normally an erogenous zone, I’d gone stiff as a board. Her attempt at foreplay did nothing but cause my heart to race—and not in a way that turned me on.

She took my hand in hers and lifted my fingers to her mouth. Those perfect lips showered my knuckles with affection. They were just as soft as they appeared from across the bar table. But when she opened her mouth and slid my pinky in to suck it like she would man-meat, I jerked my hand back. I fought against the creepy-crawly feeling her tongue left on the pads of my fingers, and in its place, came tears. I couldn’t help it. She’d pulled my tiny finger in and out of her mouth like she was sucking dick, and the emotions bubbled to the surface.

Maybe I just wasn’t ready for an intimate relationship with a woman. Maybe this truly was like learning to date all over again. Maybe I needed time to acclimate to a female’s touch on my body. Whatever it was—the warm fuzzy feeling I’d had when I knocked on the door was knotting itself up into a ball of emotional frenzy.

And there, on her couch, with her fine ass stuck to the leather and her perfect twat on display for anyone to see, I began to cry about the horrible things all the men in my life had done. Before I knew it, she’d tied her robe and gotten two pints of Ben & Jerry’s along with two spoons. We spent the rest of the evening regaling tales of lost loves over Chunky Monkey and Cherry Garcia.