I came home to find a drunk woman in my kitchen. She’s straight and drunk and single and still drinking. A lethal combo.
“Hey, Mary,” I said, hanging my purse on the back of the kitchen stool. (Mary’s not her real name. She a good friend but I changed her name because she would effing kill me if I used her real name)
“Hi, Layce! Let’s cut your hair! You need a sexy haircut,” she said out of the blue like only a person who’s downed an entire box of wine by themselves can.
“Can you even cut hair?” I asked.
“I’m an accountant, of course I can cut hair.”
“Stupid question: what’s being an accountant have to do with cutting hair?” I asked.
“I’m used to making things balance. I’m used to putting things in neat little rows,” she answered like I’m the dumb one.
“So… it might be a bad haircut, but…” I stuttered.
“…it’ll be an EVEN bad haircut.”
“Good enough for me.” Fifteen seconds later, I’m on the stool with an old towel thrown over my shoulders and Mary had the dog scissors in her hand. She snipped the air between us a couple of times to warm up as she twisted and turned my head. She looked at my head like it was a lump of clay and she was a sculptor. Or like it was a block of ice and she was the chiseler. Or like it was a log of wood and she was holding a chainsaw. Or, most likely, like it was a row of numbers and she was an accountant.
“Straight women like cunnilingus, too,” she said, taking the first snip of hair off the top of my head.
“Is that so?” I said back.
“All you lesbians think you have the market cornered on the going down thing. Well, us straight women like it, too, and it’s hard to find a man who will do it. Sometimes I wish I was a lesbian just so somebody would go down on me without me having to ask them to do it. But I’m not a lesbian and, believe you me, I’ve had plenty of chances to be a lesbian or even be with a lesbian, but I can’t. I mean I’ve even tried to be a lesbian. I really honest to God tried to be a lesbian. I went so far as to get her tittie out of the bra and her nipple halfway to my mouth but I just couldn’t do it. I just didn’t want a tit in my mouth. I don’t get the deal with tits.”
“Hmmmm,” I intoned for lack of anything better to offer.
She kept snipping and talking, “My first husband went down on me. The first time he ever went down there I made him stop. I was young and prudish, I guess, and I told him it made me feel dirty. By the time I got a little older and wiser and wanted him to go down there, we already hated each other so it was too late. The French man I dated would go down there and stay all night if I wanted him to. He liked to pleasure me. I think that’s the thing with French men. They may have yellow teeth and smell bad, but they love to make a woman feel good. He got off on me getting off, you know? He had a big dick, too.”
“Is that important?” I asked because I really wanted to know.
“It sure doesn’t hurt,” she said. “I broke up with him because he was stupid and now I wish I hadn’t. I mean, what’s a little stupidity when a guy can do that? You can ignore stupidity, but you sure can’t ignore a guy who’s bad in the sack. My second husband was horrible in bed. But he was smart. And he had a good job. I figured two out of three, right? And I could teach him the bed part. Wrooooong. And he had a penis that was above average. I think. After the French man they all seem small. The problem with him was that he was fat. Not fat all over, just his belly. So his belly stuck out further than his dick. Which meant if I wanted any I had to be on top, which wasn’t a problem ’cause I’d rather be on top anyway. You know how bad he was? One time I got on my elbows with my ass in the air and he couldn’t even find the right spot! I mean, seriously, it’s not like my vagina moved around independently of my other body parts or anything. I thought I was gonna have to paint a damn bull’s eye on it for him. I asked him once if he would like to watch me masturbate. I’m thinking a sexy show might really turn him on, you know?”
She looked at me like she wanted me to answer. “Yeah,” I said.
“Would you like that?” she asked. “Watch a woman masturbate just for you?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, he didn’t,” she said. “He got all huffy puffy about it. Said if I could just do it myself then why was he even there.”
“Oh,” I said. “Too bad.”
“And when I brought up the idea of cunnilingus? Forget it.”
“Nope. Wouldn’t even consider it. Said it wasn’t natural. I said, fucking doggy-style is about as natural as you can get and you couldn’t do that either.”
“Is the bad sex thing why you divorced him?” I asked.
“Mmmhmmm,” she answered. “But we’re still friends.”
“How many men you been with?” I asked.
“Six. And outta that six, four of them wouldn’t go down. And the two that would? One was bad at it and then there was the French man. I still can’t believe I broke up with him. I should move to France. Those French women got no idea how lucky they are. Makes you wonder about French lesbians, don’t it?”
I nodded. She took a couple of more artful snips, then pronounced me done. I looked in the mirror. It wasn’t bad. I looked like me except with less hair and more face.
“It’s even,” I said.
“You look very french,” she smiled.
A sweet & steamy short story
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