Date: Sat, 23 May 1998 12:51:06 EDT
From: Dianic007 <Dianic007@aol.com>
Subject: LESBIAN LUST AND LOVE
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 @>~~>~>~~~