Bent Over on the Enterprise

I'm going to shatter an illusion you might have of me, my darlings. I know it's a bold move to make on a Monday morn, but here goes.

I am lacking in any lesbian experience.

I have only grinded upon a woman on a dancefloor. I remember it vividly, as though six years ago tomorrow was only yesterday. Her freshly-shaven head reflected the strobe lights and disco ball glitter as though she was a skinny-pants wearing angel. Her Doc Martens glided effortlessly over the dance floor, and her wallet chain slapped seductively on my left outer thigh. Occasionally, her spike-studded bracelet would dig into my wrist, causing waves of delicious pain. As she spun me around the floor of that gay club, my lesbo friends were staring in open-mouthed awe at the unity we possessed after only one dance to that Cher song.

Alas, Sherry the Lesbian left me once she realized that I was a Fan of Cock. She moved onto my pal who was also sporting a shaved head and wearing the cutest little bow tie. Sherry was only to be in our lives for a short period of time, leaving only the memory of her rough sex play as she retreated home to her vegan co-op and 2 year old daughter.

But that's as close as I've ever come. Until now.

Saturday night started off politely. I had some lovely tacos with friends and a nice stroll around the Grove. Little did I know that I would go from Kool and the Gang's "Celebrate" with a dancing fountain to T-Rex's "20th Century Boy" with half naked girls shaking it in my face. This was going to be a birthday to remember.

The usual suspects were all there--Smashzoom, Pablo Honey, The Mighty G, volunteering buddies, Dippy, RobMag and his lovely bevy of beauties, LeezyB and her man Susan B. Anthony, and old work chums. My fabulously gay neighbors were even around, carefully deciding who to give one of their three dollar bills to. Would it be the girl with the cleanest g-string, or the woman in the Batman Mask? Tough decisions.

Heidi served us alcohol as her braids swung gaily in the dark, dark bar. I had several Amstels, cosmos, and Surfers on Acid. The night was warming up. I was learning important lessons such as, "If you get caught lookin', then you owe her a buck," which Dippy so eloquently shared with us. I also learned that I am unable to tell when my boyfriend is high, but can rely on the TattleTaling Mighty G to help me figure it out.

I quickly discerned which stripper was my favorite. Nicknamed by the gays "Prison Break," due to her numerous tattoos and penchant for mad-dogging customers, this woman was hot. I was charmed by her raven-colored hair and dark eyes with just a sparkle of crazy in them. Her little button nose would sometimes get the slightest little wrinkle as she gyrated on that cold steel pole, and when she licked her lips and left her mouth halfway open in that "I'm pulling my panties off" kind of way, it was not to be missed. And like LeezyB said, she definetly had the cutest skirts out of all the girls.

In my drunken haze, as I gulped down a cosmo, I saw Prison Break next to me. She grabbed my hand, and the warmth of it made me wonder if I had died and was being touched by Jesus himself. Jesus...er, Prison Break was gently leading me over to the lapdance booth. I looked back at my friends questioningly, and they smiled. RobMag and LeezyB yelled, "Happy Birthday!" as Susan B. Anthony just sat back and smiled the grin of a man who knew what I was in for.

I was a little nervous. Prison Break introduced herself as Lola Ray, and I could only stammer "I have really enjoyed watching you dance all night. You're great." She smiled sweetly and said that she had been dancing for 8 years, and that she hoped a good song was coming on next.

It dawned on me that my drunken haze in combination with the low lighting made Prison Break resemble Natalie from Love Actually. Natalie is one of my favorites, as she is the beautiful girl that accidentally swears in front of world leaders and gives chocolate biscuits for tea time. If I were Hugh Grant, I would have searched all of London for her, too. I snapped back to reality. Martine McCutcheon was about to rub herself all over me, which was both strangely appealing and very wrong at the same time. We all know what happened when Billy Bob Thornton got a little too close, right? Was it different because she had traded in her conservative button-down shirt for a leather bra and see-through panties?

The dance started. Suddenly my mind was filled with etiquette rules I needed to follow. "Leave your hands on the couch, don't touch the girl, not even to brush that eyelash off her cheek," I thought. "Don't try to play with her long, lovely locks of hair or give her an encouraging pat on the shoulder." I was not sure what my face should be doing. Should I be smiling or serious? Telling her she was hot, or being quiet? I settled for a sleazy, drunken grin and occasional biting of the lip. I mentioned to her a couple of times that she was beautiful and a great dancer, which is what I would want to hear if I were gyrating on someone's knee for money.

I could tell she wanted me to have a really good birthday. I was getting her ginormous breasts in my face, as well as rubbed on my breasts. She was grinding against me, and occasionally turning around and bending over right next to my face. I wondered what lotion she used, since her ass was luminescent and very taut. Her hair was soft when it fell on my bare shoulders, and as she rose and fell on my person, her smell of cherries and personal lubricant stung my nostrils. This woman was totally into me, and I was just as drunk on her as I was the vodka.

And then it was over. I was hetero again. I glanced back at her, trying to regain one iota of what we had just felt for one another, but she had already moved on to Clea Duvall. I shrugged my shoulders and thanked my friends for taking me to Tuna Town. A short trip, mind you, but a precious one nonetheless.

Further pushing me back into the realm of Adam and Eve was the old gentleman sitting at the bar. He was the only thing standing between me and my tab, and so I entertained his invitations while frantically gesturing for my credit card. He was sweet, telling me that he was in the Navy and wanted to take me back to his ship. He offered to bend me over on the Enterprise and make sweet love to me, which was really kind of him.

My boyfriend passed by, silently asking me if I was okay. I nodded and turned back to the oldie. "See that guy? That was my boyfriend. I am really flattered that you want to take me back to your ship and everything, but the fact is that I am going back to his ship, and he is going to bend me over. So, there you have it. But thanks a lot." He laughed and told me he wasn't really in the Navy, and where did I get this great sense of humor? I brought it back to my man: "My boyfriend is a comic, so I've learned a thing or two." Yeah, like how to buy time when drunk old geezers offer to fuck me from behind on the USS Enterprise, I thought. But I quickly signed my receipt and received a kiss on the cheek from the geezer.

Upon arrival home, as RobMag and his bevy drifted quietly off to sleep, Pablo Honey recited the "I Have a Dream Speech" into my hoo-hah. We also had a heated discussion about Chairman Mao and Chinese communism, finally collapsing in an exhausted heap under the covers, completing the night on a perfect note.

The night was over. But I will never forget my brief brush with Lola's briefs.

thank you, friends. g