Creative Nonfiction

The bass vibrating from the house nearly masks the timid knock on the door. Seconds later, a girl wielding a riding crop cracks the door open and peeks through. I pull at the edges of the vest that I’ve borrowed from a friend and wave awkwardly. “I, um, got an email. Here for the party.”

Throwing the door open, her eyes lazily trail up and down my ensemble (among other places.) I sigh with relief at remembering to wear black as per the invitation’s instructions. She breaks out into a grin and moves from the doorway. “Come on in and get yourself a drink.” As I shuffle past, she helpfully adds, “By the way, the toys stay in the house. Sorry, but you can’t take them home.”

It’s dim and dark, but I can discern the outlines of my fellow students in small groups off to the corners. Murmuring or laughing raucously, they clink their glasses, the flash of black leather winking at me from their clothes. I exhale slowly. I am here, at this party, on the last weekend of the school year before exams start next Monday. I am here, and I am not going back to my room to sit in front of my laptop and play games. A girl saunters by in fishnets and boots that climb up to her thighs. This is the strangest party I have ever been invited to.

Immediately, I gravitate to the open bar and request a gin and tonic. The bartender—wearing his studded black collar like an exquisite piece of jewelry—whips my drink together in no time at all and hands it to me with a flourish. I clutch the red cup to my chest, a port in the storm in the midst of these people I don’t know, but wish to know, but with whom I cannot strike up a conversation on a whim. I check my phone for the time. 11:45pm. Have I arrived too early? Did I really think Cat would be here tonight?

I had even made a feeble attempt to confirm her weekend plans. Earlier that week on the last day of class, I had approached her on our way out and asked point-black if she had received The Email, the Secret Invitation to the Secret Exclusive Underground BDSM Party. I had tripped over the last few words of my question and felt the curious stares of our classmates on my back as they passed me at this pivotal moment. She, of course, had simply laughed (when is she ever not laughing) and touched my arm.

“Definitely. You’ll see me there.”

I had blinked a few times before her reply had truly sunken in, and a ridiculous grin spread across my face. “Awesome,” I managed without sounding breathless. “I’m going too.”

She winked. “Coming out are we?”

I wasn’t sure if she was aware of the loaded question that she had just asked me. Throat locked, I could only smile. “I guess so.”

Are You Kinseying Me?

So if I pretend that the implications behind this realization I came to this month would not ever come to fruition, then I would be brave enough to admit that I prefer women over men. Or rather, I prefer what I've experienced with them so far.

Whenever I kiss men, it's pleasant enough. I'm not one to complain about soft lips. I'm not saying that kissing men feels like a chore; there can be something sexy about contrasting body types pressed against each other--my curves and their angles, all that jazz. I just don't think I could accurately describe how much more wonderful it is to have a girl in your lap with one of her hands tangled in your hair and the other thumbing the the neckline of your shirt. There's such an abundance of sheer softness that you don't do know what to do with it so you let it fall around you, tumble on you, caress you.

When she leans forward to silence your nervous small-talk and strokes the bare skin on your shoulders, there's no way you could possibly compare that to some tall, muscular thing cornering you against the wall with his breath in your face. You can giggle and tell her you've watched her all semester long in class, and she can say the exact same thing in the exact same way. You're raring to get her naked, but you'd also be perfectly happy just to tug at the hem of her skirt and nuzzle her collarbone without expecting things to take a turn for the decidedly sexier. Kissing her (touching her) feels so different and yet so familiar.

Or how about when the girl you've watchedwantedwaited on for so damn long finally finally takes your hand and pulls you to her for a dance, her eyes not quite settled on you because even she doesn't know yet if she's sure. Her breasts are pressed against you, and her hands are on your hips, and your heart's in your throat, and you're convinced you've never felt so on edge, so on the precipice of something fucking enormous and life-altering that you could scream. Sure, you've had your eye on men before, and sometimes a certain few wanted you back. They stare at you from across a crowded room, and five seconds later, you're swapping spit with them on the couch. Did it ever feel like this? Did it ever feel as satisfying, as overwhelming, as when she looked at you, questioning, wondering, suspecting?

Did it come even remotely close?

Heel Face Turn

Okay, see that post below this one? Completely disregard it because last night was the night I had my awakening. Wanna know what kind of ***** I have? The kind that makes you go for thirds. Yeah, you heard me right. All these months of stress, deliberate isolation, self-esteem issues, academic failures, and sexual frustrations had coiled into this ball of SUCKAGE that I was convinced I could never escape from. I went to the lesbian bondage party expecting nothing (well, I really wanted to jump on a certain girl, which I did so :D) and left the party with Mr. Slim & Muscular Grad Student. Needless to say, expectations: exceeded beyond human comprehension. The (Wo)Man Upstairs (or Downstairs?) took pity on me and decided to throw me a bone before I launch myself into this Hell Week. I am currently grinning like an idiot and am thoroughly convinced that everything will work itself out. Whoo boy, what a night.