Two Women

Everybody screamed when she kissed the teacher over her mask. That’s not even a peck someone must have thought or said. Most only considered the viral implications of such an act. A few may have rejoiced at the prospect of a lesbian affair turning into love. I simply watched and typed my interpretations of the so-called facts on my fucking phone. Thank God it’s over six inches along. Now! The facts! One. Unlike the pic above, they both wore a mask and thus a velvet peck is all that they could take and got. Two. The fucking microscopic program (you know, fucking COVID) must miss an End to one of its Ifs. Three. I love women much more than I do men. Four. There is no four except for love. Five. Please see Four! Six. We all know how to count. Seven. I wanted to end on a lucky note.

Two women kissing passionately should have sufficed. Who cares about the so-called facts? They kissed with their masks on. This is the only important fact. Did they make love? Well, that’s a different question. It started with a kiss. Mosts potential copulations start with a kiss. Some pricks start with their pricks. Look at me. I’ve got a prick. Is it pretty, at least? What do you mean by pretty? Can we look at it without averting our eyes? There are some ugly pricks out there, with hanging prepuces and or invisible balls or balls almost on the floor. Some pricks are too short. Others can reach the other room. As for the balls — some call them testicles or testes—who knows? It’s a queer package. Luckily there are two. Imagine if pricks had only one ball. They would probably need only one eye. Keep your eye on the ball!

As I mentioned, it started with a kiss. The shadow of a kiss that grew as the lips opened and the tongues touched. The tongue is like a small prick. When two tongues meet, they taste each other. How cool is that! Of course, I’m only referring to two women’s tongues. When a prick’s tongue is involved, all bets are off. Come on! I still can’t figure out what women see in pricks. They must be blind. Nature is a fucking Madam. How is it at all acceptable for a woman to meet a dangling prick? What the fuck! And I don’t care who’s the prick. A prick is a prick is a prick.

As I mentioned, it started with a kiss. Come on, M! Enough with the asides! Nella was her best student. Christine was her English teacher. Both loved Shakespeare. The words. No one knows for sure if the Bard was even a man. I kid you not. Pricks, on the other hand, were not their cup of tea (or coffee). The big pricks; not the little ones that drive them. Come on, M! You promised. No more asides! I never promised anything like that. I type and some words have to fly and land on the screen. You may be the narrator, but I type, so shut the fuck up! As I was typing, Nella was Christine’s English student and both loved Shakespeare’s words.

Nella submitted the following poem to Christine as her honest response to being smitten with her teacher.

Woman I Love You

Where can I begin with such a thing

as the perfection that woman is?

Do I start at the top looking down

or begin dutiful at her feet,

bowing to her dignified bearing?

Do I focus on her distinctness

or just go with the flow of my heart?

Do I back any of my senses

or cede to touch the basic advance?

Do I kiss every centimetre

or imagine some of her finesse?

Do I listen to her pert heartbeat

or attempt to turn it into song?

I loved you before I was born

I’ll love you when my youth is worn

Do I tell her I love you my love

or simply present to her the part?

Do I taste her skin with my parched lips

or let my tongue circumvent, sidestep

any time that existed before?

Do I think of thespian Juliet

or immerse in her exuberance?

What do I do dearest parapet

from brain to heart to brain evermore?

What can I do my beauty of yore?

Love lasts as long as the heart beats short,

stretched out, cadenced syllables of love,

and my heart may not be enough strong.

I would have kissed her too had I received such a poem of love. I didn’t, of course. Pricks seldom receive such declarations in writing, unless it’s a lawyer’s poetic divorce form. Christine was almost crying under the mask. Nella, her beautiful eighteen-year-old student, had just told her that she loved her in a letter. “I am thirty-eight,” she thought. “I could be her mother,” her thought lingered on. But love always wins. Not in real life, of course, but in these stories of relationships in the twilight zone. I mean, sexual stretch, or sexual sector, if you prefer. M seems to go for the stretch since everything stretches before returning to real life. Even a stretcher!

Christine reddened below the mask but quickly excused herself, adding that she was so happy with Nella’s report that she had to kiss her. “Silly me,” she mentioned. “I forgot. I didn’t even see the mask. I only saw Nella. I’m sorry everyone,” she concluded. Almost everyone understood and perhaps thought, what do I care if two women are in love with each other? I thought something like that but I also added to my fantasy that I wanted to be a woman too. Even join them. Christina, Nelly and me. I wanted to have a pussy. Life would have been stellar if we could change once in our lives to the other kind. Women would become men and men would become women. Except that you couldn’t change back. Life would remain harsh. I would have been a woman a long time ago, looking at my pussy in the mirror every day and thinking to myself: Thank you, God! I have a pussy.

During the lunch break, Nella went to Christine’s office, only to find her there waiting for her.

“I knew that you would come to see me at lunch,” said Christine re-masked.

“I had to. I love you. I’m very careful, so I know for sure, almost sure, that I don’t have the virus. What about you?” replied Nella, also masked and closing the door behind her.

“I’m very careful too. I don’t see anyone outside of school. And we were off for such a long time,” said Christine.

“I love you and thus trust you. What about you?” asked Nella.

“Wholeheartedly, my dear Nella,” replied Christine.

“I want to see you after school. I want my hands to hold you close. I want to feel all your skin,” said Nella.

“We will, my dear. We will,” replied Christine and kissed her through their masks.

Nella removed her mask and then Christine’s and they kissed for real. Nobody screamed. It felt as if life stood still. It did for them for a few seconds, maybe minutes if we add all the feelings rushing from their hearts everywhere they could find some respite. Some feelings needed refuge.

“I love you too,” added Christine.

“I knew that you did but was afraid that I may be wrong. I want you right now, Christine my love. Let me prick you with my tongue!” replied Nella in a Shakespearean tone.

“I do love you, my dear maiden. Please remove your glitter and show me your real figure,” said Christine, adopting the same tone.

Nella was naked before her before she could even come up with the words to describe her joy at seeing such innocent beauty.

“Am I too old?” asked Christine, looking frail under her demeanour of love.

Nella approached Christine and kissed her until they couldn’t breathe. Nella quit first. Christine was ready to die. I would have been like Christine. I’m sorry to ruin the mood but I’m trying to imitate life.

“You are beautiful. Now show me your skin!” replied Nella.

Christine undressed, revealing her own youthful slender figure. They kissed again but this time their hands moved around, touching breasts, pulling nipples, caressing asses, with some fingers penetrating pussies. If I can’t be a woman, let me at least become her finger! It’s just me, the fucking narrator. M has no clue. I decided to type. Now, he only thinks that he types. Let’s focus on the sex!

The lunch period was nearing its end but their love for one another was still left to consummate. Orgasm will have to wait till after five. Six if you count the traffic. Time, nonetheless, allowed them to explore each other’s orifices. Christine loved every one of Nella’s holes, even her nostrils. Nella especially loved Christine’s pussy and mouth. She was more practical. Christine saw the whole. Nella saw the holes. I wish I was a hole. Did I sense someone think, but you’re already an asshole? What did you expect from a narrator! I type whatever is on his mind. You know. Fucking M! We have an unusual relationship. He’d rather dispense with me, but I show him my usefulness when he wants to introduce some irony or intrigue. What intrigue? You know, the question, To fuck or not to fuck? Shakespeare’s grand line. You can switch the Be to almost any other verb. To suck or not to suck? To eat or not to eat? To come or not to come? Of course, the answer is rarely not to. Every organ wants to.

Nella hurried to Christine’s office at the end of her last class, but she wasn’t there yet. However, she didn’t wait too long. Nella followed her in, closed the door behind her, and kissed her, hello again, I missed you. Christine did too. She picked her things and they left. Hand in hand would have been grand, but life was still a bitch and a bastard. They pretended that one was giving a lift to the other since they knew (we all know) that the walls could listen. After all, what can one wall say to the other? We’ll meet at the corner. And they do, these fucking walls, unless they’re parallel, and then they only meet in my mind. I mean his mind. Fucking M’s!

They entered and exited the elevator at Christine’s condo, kissing, unable to wait any longer for some of their sense of touch to be realized. There was some smooching in the car before, but it was subdued at best. They couldn’t stop kissing, deciding to take a bath together to involve more parts and get ready for bed. I wish I was there in the water with them, like a good shark with no jaws, just a long invisible tongue. A nonelectrical eel. A soft dildo.

They sixty-nined in the water, taking turns at who’s under and who’s on top. Christine preferred being on top, enjoying immensely their tongues but worrying about Nella underneath. Nella liked it both ways, getting a different view of Christine’s pussy and asshole, feeling lost in them, sensing their tongues moving in unison like two mouths kissing. They both orgasmed in the water turned hot again.

Christine’s wide bed welcomed their already consumed yet still famished nakednesses. I can only imagine what they did. I wasn’t there. But I surmised from what Christine told M over the phone. She used to be his student, but he taught philosophy, though it always sounded as if he was teaching literature, especially that Shakespeare always surfaced like clockwork. Shakespeare and Nietzsche ruled his world. It seems that when one discovered Shakespeare, one was in love for life. Nietzsche brought one back to reality, reminding everyone that Truth is ugly. We possess art lest we perish of the truth.

Is sex art? It looks so, especially between two women. Better two than one? Many times but not always since a woman is already a work of art and heart. Christine knew it by then. Nella was still learning. Their union couldn’t have been better. The bed only witnessed and felt their coming together. Christine’s breasts were larger than Nella’s, but Nella’s were pointier. Her nipples were like semi-closed dark eyes. Christine did her best to love them to submission, but erect nipples never give in. The more you love them, the more they resist and stand up. Almost like a prick prowling in daylight.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? uttered and wondered Christine, contemplating Nella’s pussy for a long while. Thou art more lovely and more temperate, replied Nella, perceiving Christine’s pussy for what it was: a work of art. Famished folds calling for love and pleasure, Nella replied with tongue and fingers. All the fingers on one hand and she was missing none. The whole hand could be used at special times. Love juices (or was it sap) trickled down to their feet, partly licked on their way from heaven to an ensemble of senses around knees and toes, taste and smell taking all the chances, sight and hearing riding the wave, and touch sweet touch gathering all the riches. Christine and Nella were in love. I was too and I wasn’t even there. I wish I could have been a drop of that juice of love (or was it sweet pussy sap).

Christine and Nella were in love and I’m stuck with this guy you know as M. I wanna be free. I wanna be a free narrator. I’ll narrate whatever you want. I even do hardcore poetry, and sex, of course. You know, where the wolf is a prick and Red is stupid, or Cinderella trying out dicks, or Bugs Bunny shoving a carrot up its ass. They have to draw him one. Fuck that fucking bird, Wile E. Coyote! I’ll get you all the chicken you can eat. What the fuck? I’m stuck with the Looneys.

You are a looney, you piece of shit.

Who’s that, M? I was kidding M. I’m a kidder narrator. We’ll always be friends. I narrated your best ones.

That, you did. Did you finish this story?

I don’t know. How does it look?

Did you put enough sex?

It’s never enough.

True. Sex is life. But life is sex. It’s the same fucking word.