Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica by Tristan Taormino Page A

leaned against the bathroom door and ran her hand through her drenched hair. She was still wearing her jeans and boots and was soaked from head to toe.
    â€œWe are two wet girls,” she smiled. I nodded silently.
    I attempted to get up, but my head was spinning and I stood uneasily. She quickly grabbed my arm and steadied me. She pulled an oversized towel off the rack, wrapped it around me, and took me back to the bedroom. She valiantly tried to dry me off, but I stayed soaking wet for the rest of the day.

Steam
    Jeannine DeLombard
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    Flashing her ID to the Lycra-molded, thong-wearing blond gym bunny as she walked into the Y, Jordan was reminded of her conversation with the guys at Kelly’s Tavern the night before. Straight, they simply could not understand how she, a dyke, could go to the Y everyday and not be overwhelmed by the bouncing breasts, perky butts and tight calves that were always on display in the locker room. Entering it now, about an hour later than usual—she had stopped at the gas company to see what would be involved in converting to gas heat, knowing those old radiators wouldn’t last forever—she noticed that the locker room was almost empty. Too bad, she could have used the distraction of people-watching. Not girl-watching, she thought, throwing down her gym bag and impatiently twisting the knob on her combination lock. Remembering how she had responded to Bob and Al’s jocular amazement with her characteristic gruffness—informing them coolly that she could eat pussy and work out with it too, that being surrounded by the very objects of her desire didn’t faze
her as it would them—she wondered why she answered them the way she did, why she didn’t just tell them the truth.
    But what exactly was the truth, Jordan wondered as she started to undress, gazing down at high, firm breasts dotted with the occasional mole and framed by her deeply tanned, hard upper arms. For the truth was that no one at the gym—in or out of the locker room—interested her. Like the woman who checked her ID, they all seemed to be aerobicized, Nautilized versions of the same type—lean, pristine, and made-to-order. She knew if she told her drinking buddies that, they’d not only shake their heads in disbelief, but think her even stranger than they already did. Her job on the road crew of the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation gave her one-of-the-boys status in the bar. But just as the guys on the job always reminded her that she was a woman by making sure that she got stuck with the least challenging and most dangerous task—flagger—they reminded her too that she was a dyke with their never-ending questions and uneasy ribbing. If she told them she simply wasn’t attracted to the babes that lubricated their fantasies, they wouldn’t believe her—they’d just bust her chops and talk about sour grapes.
    Worst of all, Jordan reflected as she sauntered topless over to the toilets, past a bulky figure almost hidden by the mists in the gang shower, she was afraid that they were right. Outward appearances, she knew, confirmed that she was a dyke: her gravelly, mumbling way of talking; her long, confident stride; her jeans and workshirts; hell, even her job on the PennDOT road crew screamed dyke—that was easy for anyone to see. What was harder to perceive were her inner doubts and anxieties. The few times she had ventured into the women’s bar in Philly she had taken a woman home, almost as if to prove something to herself. Every time it was the same. At first the very prospect of being with these women excited her: the breasts spilling out as she unhooked their lacy
bras, the round ass emerging as she carefully removed their pantyhose. Yet, when faced with their nude, expectant bodies, she lost all interest. Was it sour grapes? Were the women in bars like that somehow inferior to those who gave themselves to men,