The Cleopatra

I wasn't sure which category to put this story in, it includes elements that would make it a natural in several, but I'm putting it in fetish on account of the fisting scene. Hopefully it's the right choice. Enjoy!

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The only roommate I ever had in college was a lesbian. Still is, I assume.

I love men. Always have, always will.

Jody and I met in our post-grad program at a university in Seattle.

If you ever want to pay a lot of money for an inflated-sounding degree, get a Doctor of Physical Therapy. You won't be an MD, you won't be a PhD, you'll be a DPT, which is nearly meaningless, except you can demand your family members call you Doctor at holiday gatherings.

Anyway, at one point Jody and I were both seeing people who lived in Oregon.

Jody's girlfriend Sonja was doing an internship in Portland, about a three hour drive south of Seattle, and my friend John was at university in Salem, a further 45 minutes down I-5, south of Portland.

The four of us had the genius idea to rendezvous in Portland the Friday after finals, then pair up and go our separate ways until Sunday when I'd drive Jody back to Seattle.

It was a good plan that didn't take into account how unreliable John was.

He wasn't exactly untrustworthy, not irresponsible in terms of being flaky, crazy shit just happened to him, and though most events were beyond his control, they were simply too frequent to be chance. Interesting things occurred when John was around, and there was rarely a dull moment.

This little quirk was part of the reason we'd stayed friends since high school.

In those days, I was a geeky athlete and John ran with the heavy-metal stoner crowd. Despite outward appearances, he was charming and clever, and represented all of the freedom and lawlessness I admired but wasn't brave enough to take for myself.

If I was being honest, not much had changed, even in my late twenties.

Ironically, John ended up in law school, though that might have been part of his peculiar luck, too.

Sometimes our friendship crossed into the sexual, sometimes it didn't, but we had fun together and between our two programs, neither of us had time for anything serious. John called me his muse, I called him my distraction, and the fluidity of our relationship worked for us.

I was looking forward to reuniting with him in Portland for a weekend of drunken debauchery, our usual post-finals antics when neither of us was otherwise attached.

On that Friday, Jody and I left Seattle in the afternoon to avoid traffic and get to The Cleopatra by 8:00.

I didn't know until we arrived The Cleopatra was a lesbian club, not that I was surprised or that it would have changed anything. My apartment was often filled with Jody's friends and I didn't think anything of it, except for being envious of her free time because I had to study harder to get good grades.

Really, I didn't care where John and I met up, I only knew I was going to want a drink after my long drive and he was destined to be the designated driver.

John didn't show.

I stood just inside the club waiting for nearly two hours, bottle of beer in hand, my attention rotating from door to clock to phone.

I got a lot of curious glances from a steady stream of women entering the club with Friday-night excitement. All shapes and colors and dress, they were an interesting testament to the fact you couldn't always tell a lesbian by looking at her.

The bouncer was friendly and sympathetic to my apparent rejection. He shared a story about how an ex-boyfriend had once stood him up for dinner with his parents and it had ended the relationship. I tried to explain John wasn't technically my boyfriend, so being stood up wasn't exactly tragic, but I don't think he believed me.

At 9:30, I gave up. Wasn't entirely sure why I had waited so long, but I finally decided it was time to buy myself a real drink and get started on post-finals celebrating.

First I wanted to find Jody and Sonja, with the hope of securing Sonja's sofa for the night. I'd figure out a new plan for the weekend the next day.

I could have fun in Portland all by myself. The city had the best bookstore in the western US, possibly the country, and lots of great places to run. Plus I was training for a half-marathon and would have gone for a run anyway.

Maybe I'd even find a replacement for John.

I found my roommate and her girlfriend cuddled up in a dark corner booth reacquainting themselves via hands and tongues and lips. My face heated and my palms got sweaty at the sight of them making out. I wasn't sure why seeing girls kiss seemed so much more sexual than a man and a woman, but my body definitely found it to be true.

Not wanting to intrude on their reunion, I spun away, but Jody's voice stopped me.

"He's still not here?"

I turned back to see they'd separated a few inches for my benefit. "Nope, and there's no way I'm driving back to Seattle tonight. Can I sleep on your sofa, Sonja?" I figured if she said no, I'd take a cab to a cheap hotel because at that point I intended to let my hair down, figuratively at least, and enjoy a nice buzz.

I told myself it was not because of John. Not because I was disappointed.

"Sure, you can have the sofa," Sonja replied. "You'll have to fight my cat for it, but she's old. I think you'll win."

I laughed because Sonja looked like a little blond pixie, but she was a spitfire and she probably wasn't joking about her cat.

"I'm buying the next round," I announced. "What'll you have?"

They gave me their drink orders, and I navigated through dancing bodies back to the bar.

The club was set up so there were four small dance floors with booths and tables around the perimeter, and a single bar central to them all. The owners had taken the Egyptian theme to an extreme with walls that looked like they'd been carved with hieroglyphs and kitschy sphinx statues guarding the arched passages between rooms.

What little light there was reflected off gold leaf and gold paint decorating every surface but the walls. Overall, the effect was warm and calm. Not at all what I normally associated with a club.

The bar was the brightest spot in the place, and also the most crowded.

I stood in the press of bodies for five minutes before an exotic looking bartender with black hair in a Cleopatra-style haircut finally made eye contact with me.

"What can I get you?" she asked with a little smile that made me feel as though she already knew my answer.

I rattled off the drink list, including a double vodka-cranberry for myself. I would have asked for a triple, but I didn't want to seem like a lush.

"I haven't seen you here before," she said as she made the mojito for Sonja.

"It's my first time. I'm here with my roommate, down from Seattle."

"What's your name?"

"Christy."

"I'm Diane," she said, starting on the lemon drop for Jody.

"I like your hair," I said, really wanting to know if it was a wig. It was just so smooth and shiny. It couldn't be real.

Diane gave me an odd look and said, "Thanks."

I chewed on my lip in embarrassment because I didn't know if complementing a lesbian on her hair was a faux pas, or even if Diane was a lesbian. The black apron around her waist declared 'Manager, Bitch' in red stitching.

"You need help carrying the drinks?" she asked.

Once she mentioned it, I wasn't sure how to hold two tall highball glasses and an overfilled martini glass. "That would be great."

She walked around the counter with the lemon drip in hand and I led her to the back corner where Jody and Sonja were still making out. It was a little embarrassing, but I supposed Diane saw it all the time.

"Thanks," I said.

"See you around," she grinned, flipping her hair as she turned. I could see then it wasn't a wig, just admirably tamed hair that was genetically superior to my own. I self-consciously grabbed the top of my brown ponytail and smoothed it down, but nothing would reduce its dowdiness when compared with Diane's hair.

I sucked down my drink, and when I went for another, the bar was less busy and Diane wasn't there. I ordered a regular vodka-cran and wandered with it, people-watching and taking in the feminine vibe. Jody had warned me when we arrived that the girls would 'love me' and I was going to be hit on, but if I was, it was too subtle to notice.

Eventually I passed Jody and Sonja on the dance floor and went back to the corner table to enjoy my happy buzz and the music.

**

At around eleven o'clock, Diane from the bar walked up with a little half-grin and asked, "Do you want to dance?"

It took a long moment for me to respond, because I didn't know what she expected.

When a man asked me to dance, I understood what was entailed. I understood the rules of engagement. The girl-with-girl thing was uncharted territory for me, even if my roommate was a lesbian. It's not like knowledge transferred through shared use of furniture and dishes.

Besides, I was a girl in a lesbian club. She probably assumed I was available.

I slid out of the booth, game to bounce around to the music a little before it was time to leave. "Sure," I said. "But just so we're clear, I'm straight."

She gave me a funny little head tilt and said, "I only asked you to dance, not to fuck."

Alrighty, then. Boundaries established.

Diane didn't see my blush because she was already walking toward the dance floor. Her cutoff jean shorts covered her ass and not much beyond. She wore a black tank top and black suede ankle boots. She was a bit rounder, a little softer looking than I was, but not overweight by any standard that mattered.

A new song spun up just as we reached the dance floor, one with a heavy beat backing melodic techno music. I wasn't a fan of electronic music, had no idea who the musician was, but I felt the heavy bass all the way through my bones. It shook the soft parts of me, excited my nerve endings and overwhelmed synapses until I just wanted to close my eyes and let the sound waves caress me.

I didn't realize I had until I felt Diane's hand on my arm. My eyes popped open and she laughed. "Are you okay?"

Truth was, I was slightly drunk and more aroused than I should have been as a straight girl in a club crowded with lesbians. I smiled at Diane and took her right hand in my left and put my other hand on her hip, ballroom style. "Let's dance," I said, beginning to rock side to side.

Did I mention I'm a complete dork when I'm a little bit drunk?

She smiled and stepped into me as she picked up my rhythm. She actually did know how to dance, apparently, and she led me on a slow, swaying circuit of the dance floor.

I knew it was probably leading her on to let her stand so close, but I figured since I'd already stated my preferences, any assumptions she made were her own. I was just there to dance.

Except.

Her body was so soft, and when our breasts and pelvises pressed together as we avoided running into another couple, I didn't pull away.

Neither did Diane. She rocked her body against mine with her face right beside mine, the ends of her straight bob tickling my cheek.

Her scent was like the love-child of a health-food store and a new age shop, and I liked it. It was the smell of mysterious healthfulness, and it matched her rosy cheeks and lush body.

She wore the same knowing smile she'd given me from behind the bar, like she knew a secret that involved me.

"You look like the cat that got the cream," I said near her ear.

"You have no idea how right you are," she replied.

I suspected she was talking about me.

I didn't know if the cream she had in mind was metaphorical or literal, but thinking about it made me wet.

I was having too much fun to question my arousal let alone be worried by it.

Diane stopped our turn of the dance floor pulling closer to the middle where other couples danced. Actually, it wasn't so much dancing at that point of the night as grinding and heavy petting.

I assumed what I was witnessing was all foreplay. Maybe all dancing is, regardless of gender, but once again I found myself marveling at how overtly beautiful and sexual two women together could be.

"Do you like watching?" Diane asked.

Was that bad etiquette? Like watching people at the gym?

"I didn't realize I was." I tried to laugh it off, but there was an attractive couple right beside us making out, and they seemed to be enjoying it so much. Their sweat-sheened skin and grasping hands were hypnotic.

I was jealous.

I wished John had shown, because I felt hot and fluttery, and I would have dragged him into a toilet stall and fucked him right then. I needed to be touched. I needed to feel the fullness of a dick moving inside me.

What I had instead was Diane, who seemed to sense my arousal and stepped a long leg between mine. She pressed her thigh against my mound and I leaned into it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I can feel your heat," she murmured in my ear.

This was no surprise because I was wearing knee length skirt of thin yellow cotton. It was pretty and flattering on me, but wispy as all hell. The slightest breeze blew it around, but I had worn it for John because he liked my runner's legs.

Diane started grinding on my thigh, the rough jean material scratchy against my leg. I knew the hard seam in the crotch of her shorts would be rubbing against her folds, maybe against her clit, every time she rubbed against me.

It hit me we were touching each other's most intimate places in public, without actually touching.

It felt so good I wanted the other kind of touching, too. With her.

For a girl who'd claimed to be straight an hour before, I was doing a bang-up job proving myself wrong.

I'd pretty much jumped ship at that point, and I didn't feel bad about it. I felt brave and adventurous and really fucking turned on. My underwear were swamped with my own juices, and I was starting to wonder if Diane could feel that through my skirt on her bare thigh. How could she not?

"Wanna go someplace more private, Straight Girl?"

My left hand was still clasped in her right, and she pulled both up to her mouth and took the tip of my index finger between her lips. So warm and wet, and her tongue curled around it with prehensile precision. My pussy clenched to think of that tongue on my clit, probing into my tight sheath.

"Are you making fun of me?" I asked, doing my best to ignore her mouth.

"Only a little," she said around my finger.

"I suppose you just want to dance?"

She let my digit drop out of her mouth and looked me in the eye. "No, I want to fuck. Think you can you handle it?"

I thought she might kiss me right then. Our lips were only inches apart and we were breathing the same air, but she didn't lean in.

Diane waited for me to make up my mind.

My choice made me remember John, and I did a quick scan for him, but there were too many dancers. I would have had to move out of the crowd to have a chance of finding him. There were other guys, just not many of them, and John wasn't especially tall, so he wouldn't have stood out.

It didn't matter anyway, he'd already stood me up. "I can handle it," I told her. "Do you think you can satisfy me? I'm used to a nice cock, you know."

She had a glint in her eye when she told me, "You may never want another cock for the rest of your life."

I laughed. "That's a bold statement." Because there's nothing better than a dick attached to a man who knows how to use it.

She smiled at my challenge and pulled away, leading me by the hand across the dance floor toward the bar. The thing about hitting it off with the manager was she had access to private places in the establishment that remained off-limits to others.

Diane led me into an office with a desk and a brown leather couch. There were two stacks of metal filing cabinets along the wall to the right and a humorous poster of cartoon stick-women in various sexual positions. I found it educational. There was a scissor move that I'd heard of but never taken the time to try to picture in my mind.

I didn't have to wonder anymore.

Most of positions weren't so different from those I'd taken with men for foreplay if not actual sex.

The ironic thing was, I'd never agree to sex with a man after an hour of dancing, no matter how much I'd had to drink.

Is that sexist of me?

I almost asked Diane because I was fairly sure she'd be able to give me a sound, well-reasoned answer, but she distracted me by pressing up against my back and reaching a hand up my leg under my skirt.

To the underwear I'd almost not worn at all. They were only present because I'd decided John might think it was a little bit slutty of me if they weren't. I was a good girl, relatively.

Obviously.

I was really outdoing myself that night.

Diane's lips pressed into the side of my neck and her right hand slid between my legs, and it felt so good. She leaned her mound into my ass and breasts into my back, and I rested right back into her.

Soft. Her hands were soft, her body was soft, her cheek and lips were so, so soft. I had a flash of insight as to what it must be like for a man to be with a woman, the attraction of soft and smooth when you lived in a body that was hard, and, let's face it, at least a little hairy and abrasive.

Diane let out a sharp breath when her fingers slid between my labia, along the wet groove and back up to my clit. "You've got a big clit," she murmured in my ear. "I want to lick it and suck on it."

I'd never had any reason to believe I had anything other than a perfectly average clitoris, but then I'd never had any first hand comparison. She rubbed around and over it with a finger and I felt like I might die if she didn't put her mouth on it.

"I want you to," I managed to say, rocking myself against her fingers. The combination of my remaining buzz and the way she touched me made me dizzy with need.

Diane's hands slid away and she turned me around to face her. "Arms up," she said, gathering the hem of my white tank top.

She lifted it up over my head and arms, leaving me in my bra. My boobs are small, but as she looked at them, I felt the same as when a man looked at me. Diane liked them and seemed intent on feasting on them.

I fumbled at the clasp on the bra until it gave, and slid the lacy scrap off.

Diane ran her fingers over my little peaks and said, "What a fucking gorgeous color."

I shivered with pleasure from her compliment, and that was before her dark pink tongue reached out to my peachy-pink nipple, gliding over the erect nub once before sucking it in. My core clenched when I felt her teeth on me and I probably would have come with the slightest stimulation to my clit.

Diane took her time licking and sucking before she finally pulled off her own top. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her boobs were bigger than mine, with much darker nipples, both pierced. I couldn't help reaching out to touch, not because she expected me to, though in hind-sight, she probably did, but because I'd never felt any tits but my own, and I was curious.

They were every bit as soft and smooth as they looked. I flicked the silver ring running through the right nipple with my thumbnail and she gave a little moan and started kissing me.

Diane was so sweet tasting and soft, her lips fuller than any man's I'd kissed and somehow it just made me want to press myself into her harder, to have the kind of contact I was used to.

I felt wild with the need to be fucked, but once again, I didn't know what to expect or how to proceed. I reached down to unbutton her shorts, and she was apparently reminded she wanted to taste me.