Suddenly Sapphic: A First Time Story [Love, Anonymously]

By Guest Contributor Katrina Pavela

Bette and Tina L WordOn paper, we shouldn’t fit: a same sex, interracial, transnational couple with nearly a quarter century age-gap.

Added to this neither of us had previously been with a woman, nor desired being with one.

New York City. The juxtaposition Mecca of fame and anonymity. I had taken a four- hour bus ride from DC to NYC. The entire way there I tried to remain calm. I was 20 before I welcomed guest contributors to my sex life. After six years and two men—one of whom I almost married—I met Julie. Within a month of our unintentional online acquaintance, we had arranged to rendezvous in NYC five months later. Sure Julie and I had knocked boots via Skype numerous times, microphone headsets our only strap-ons. With a five-hour time divide between Washington and the UK, Julie left her marital bed nearly every night (or morning) so that we could cuddle virtually. It felt real physically but emotionally it left me empty wondering what I was getting myself into. The fact that she was currently in a marriage lasting more than 30 years, with three adult children, left me wondering when—not if—I would wind up with egg on my face.

Passing through New Jersey Turnpike, I wondered if the sex would be as great as the fictionally wonderful sex Bette and Tina seemed to have on The L Word. Mostly I wondered if she would make me come. Would I feel relaxed enough and unself-conscious enough about being with a woman to let my body and mind enjoy themselves. Would Julie go through with it when my pants were pooling around my ankles? We never called it adultery, but a rose by any other name is still, um, adultery.

While I had obviously seen photos of Julie, I had to consider the fact that I might not be attracted to her in person. What if she had a nervous tic or revealed some tragic character flaw? The transition from the virtual to the actual had never been filled with so many uncertainties. We resolved to ease the pressure of our physical introduction by not speaking at all for a change. Words had been all we had, but now we could see, smell, touch and taste.

Julie was more diminutive than I anticipated, but just as blonde and blue-eyed as her photos revealed. This was before Skype developed video. Her smile was overwhelmingly reassuring just like her voice. We stood there holding each other until I needed to pee. Typical.

Upon emerging from the loo, I did what I had waited months to do: I kissed her. Unbeknownst to me at the time, that kiss was what Julie needed to convince herself that marriage or no marriage, that this—being there with me—was right. As we lay naked, my walnut colored skin against her translucent pink body, I could feel the levies of my vagina about to unleash a flood on Julie’s thigh. I was embarrassed by my copious fluid. It had been a year since I broke off my two-year engagement and even longer since I had physically shared my body with another person.

Although the moment was ripe and my body seemed ready, we had agreed that sexy time would come only after a date. I hadn’t had a proper first date with either of the two men I previously dated. You know, dinner that wasn’t made by and shared with his parents; or carry-out food that was brought back to his house. It took this woman to make me feel like a lady. After sushi, we walked back via Bryant Park. In typical New York fashion, the stars were all but obscured, but the moon still bathed us in its soft glow. We kissed frequently, spontaneously and with the passion of a 1930s Bette Davis film, but sexier. We attempted a drink in our mid-town hotel’s bar. A post-grad school Halloween incident the previous year had put me off alcohol, but mostly I had read of one too many straight girls knocking back a few drinks to “get through it”. I knew that I wanted to be fully present for every sensation Julie had to offer and I wanted her to feel everything I had to give.

Painfully self-conscious, I have never been great at initiating sex with any of my partners, and thankfully I didn’t have to. Not long after locking the door to our spacious-by-NYC-standards room, Julie embraced me from behind as I stood facing the bed. She started kissing my neck. Her cold, small but plump pink lips against my long dark neck sent shockwaves through my nipples. Later Julie would tell me that, “it felt like the most natural thing in the world to make love to you; to kiss you and touch your body; to go down on you, make you come. I had no nerves whatsoever.”

I had practically Google-mapped my pussy for her inaugural navigation, which helped boost her confidence in pleasuring me. Please me she did. When it was my turn to bring Julie to climax, I had never imagined that I would feel so powerful in making a woman come. It was not the false sense of triumph and relief that I had felt allowing a man’s pleasure to explode in me. In this sexual relationship, I felt more equal. Although I was but one part of her orgasmic formula , I still felt heady and delighted.

I couldn’t wait to do it again.

(Image Credit: Showtime, The L Word)

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Racialicious is a blog about the intersection of race and pop culture. Check out our daily updates on the latest celebrity gaffes, our no-holds-barred critique of questionable media representations, and of course, the inevitable Keanu Reeves John Cho newsflashes.

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