lipstick lesbians


I’m at Paradou with 3 other straight women talking crooked. We’re swapping our lesbian stories as readily as our saliva… okay; I’ll disappoint you right now. There was no kissing, only talk of kissing. Teasing, touching, and to round off the eve, we doled out anal seex tips to a newbie.

“She kisses exactly like she looks. All dainty and shite—I would have sucked her whole face had I kissed her the way I wanted to.”

“Well, I might have become a lesbian had she been a better kisser. Cause her clothes were fab, and her tits turned me on. Damn her with her forced circles and lizard-dart tongue. It was like kissing a whack-a-mole.” Excuse me while I pontificate. A WHACK-A-MOLE. I love it.

“We were all Xing one summer. Then of course, the obvious—we needed to go upstairs and find a room. The kissing was a surprise; the boys wanting to watch was not. They chime in with, ‘Oh snap, can I watch?’
“Ah, no, it ain’t a show.”
“Come on; we’ll pay you.”
“Yeah, right, cause then I’m not just a lesbian, I’m a prostitute, too. That’s too many ticks on the purity test. Still with the boys going on, the way boys do, it sounded like an auction. I would have loved a paddle. I mean it began to sound like Sotheby’s—except my friend and I didn’t need a once twice—we were sold. Kissing her was the same as boy, only softer. Oh, and we got mad cash upfront.” (Okay, that’s a lie. None of my friends would ever say, “Mad Cash.”)

Being a lipstick lesbian is so 90s. It’s a fad, like Chanel’s Vamp polish, pashminas, and monogrammed everythings. My girls pass the Yves St. Laurent lipstick, appropriately named Want, and correct one another’s ill-applied liner. “Oh sweetie, you look hot tonight.” And we caress one another’s arms, and it’s friendship with benefits—the benefit of knowing you’ve got friends like these when ugly boys are in our bars. Now, onto anal seex…



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