A true vacuum is a volume of space that is free of matter. Let's say, just to dabble speciously in the sciences for an evening, that there's a vacuum in every woman--her vagina. Now, its not a true vacuum, or course, for if it were, it would be rather uncomfortable to do one's womanly activities, but for my upcoming spiritual metaphor, it's important that we call it a vacuum.
The vacuum is a space lacking matter, and therefore pressure. The vagina, being a hole, lacks matter from birth. It isn't until later that the lack of pressure issue arises. For the first years, a time during which we're not even sure what's going on down there, what that "thingy" does, the best explanation for its usage anyone can give us is, "its where the pee comes from." With time and maturity, it becomes the "hole babies come from," and if you're a girl and as curious a girl as I was, your fingers immediately start exploring that cavity, fascinated by the fact that you're no longer solid. This is when the pressure issue arises, and the vacuum is born. This hole, which doesn't exist to girls until we're told of it, suddenly begs with every breath, blink, spasm, itch, every waking and sleeping moment to be filled. That's our first notion of sex. Sex is being filled.
Therefore, sex between two women, is by definition, physically and spiritually unfulfilling.
Surely, penetration is a big part of homosexual sex. I could hardly conceive of making love to a woman without putting some part of myself into her, but what I put into her--my fingers or tongue--isn't designed to fill that vacuum. An argument in favor of the fake phallus can be made here, and also, arguments for computerized call centers, reading from monitors, robots and polyester, but no amount of evidence will change the fact that all of these things are hard, cold and fake. And fake feels rotten when rubbed against skin, particularly the delicate skin of the vagina. It is often less spiritually erotic to penetrate with something fake than it is to not penetrate at all, and however erotic the fingers or tongues feel on skin, bringing a woman to orgasm with them is, in essence, unfulfilling. A little bit of that void that makes up the notion of sex is left over.
It is the existence of the void that signals heterosexuality.
I formulated this piece of hard, indisputable science by sleeping with a lesbian, though neither of us knew she was gay at the time.
My roommate came home from a party and pinned me up against a wall with his scent. He smelled like beer as per usual, from both internal and external use. He said, "Bunny...have I got the girl for you. Oh. My. God." He pulled out a napkin with a phone number on it and handed it to me, but not before reeling backward, regaining his balance, and then slapping me in the tit with a brown bag full of burrito.
The napkin read, "Molly" and then a phone number in bubble writing. I smiled. I've always loved bubble writing. I don't write in it, because it's too girly to suit my needs--I opt for slanted, passionate scrawl with rarely dotted I's and nary a crossed T--but the bubbly writing suggests the kind of femininity I've always been fascinated with: straight girl, pink panties, soft hair, 'gee golly,' American girl, ten-pounds-too-heavy, big boobs, big butt, Dr. Pepper flavored chapstick femininity.
It wasn't like this particular friend to be so generous. Normally he fucked the girls first, and then told me about them. I assumed his rare bout of charitable spirit had sprouted from the beer and from the fact that I was so depressed at the time that I could barely leave the living room couch to walk my dog. I wore pajamas all day. I hadn't shaved my legs in months. I was feeling about as sexy as a sign post, but girls didn't give my friends their phone numbers, so Molly seemed intriguing.
I joined my friend in the living room and pestered him for information while he ate his burrito. "What's she like? Why didn't you hit on her?"
"Oh I did."
"And what happened?"
"She wasn't interested. All she wanted to talk about was you." I gasped, shocked. I was hideous. Why would she care? He went on, in a high, airheaded tone, "'Oh, you live with Bunny! Can you give her my phone number? Tee hee.'"
"What does she look like?" He passed out before I could get a description.
I don't have much in the way of self-esteem, so I can say with great certainty that I think Molly was then, and surely still is, out of my league--so out of my league, its laughable--and yet two days later she came to my apartment to pick me for a date, stood atop the burrito drippings in my living room in strawberry-printed heels and too-tight pants and flirted with me. She had a full mouth, glossed (no Dr. Pepper, but whatever), green eyes and red hair. She wore a tweed jacket, which when fastened beneath her enormous chest, cast an obscene outline of a figure, nearly cartoonish in proportion. She looked healthy, had pink cheeks and white teeth and laughed at everything I said. I did not understand what was happening.
She took me to a wine bar, where I got drunk immediately. I needed confidence, and the sad fact of my former life was that I was a real nice girl and all, but confidence was not in me. I had to drink it in. With Molly sitting across from me with her absurdly green eyes, which got lighter as I got drunker, I needed confidence in the form of Merlot, quick. I also needed to numb my excessively, dangerously aroused senses. Molly was so pretty, I didn't want to ruin any chance I had of sleeping with her by coming on too hard. I wouldn't have minded simply being friends with her, just to gaze upon her, maybe feel warm in her presence. Fuck, I just wanted to know her.
"So, what do you do for a living?" I asked her.
"I'm in sales," she answered. She went on about her job, told me things I didn't hear or retain, not because I didn't want to know everything about her, but because this girl was giving me the kind of fuck-me eyes I see girls give my really good looking male friends. I couldn't believe this was happening.
"Where are you from?"
"Texas," she answered, and again, she went on. Again, I didn't retain much.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Yes," and lots more I didn't really hear.
It turns out I didn't need the wine at all. I didn't need to come on to Molly at all, for she was dead set on sleeping with me despite all reason, time, space and matter. We were but a few glasses into our evening when she pulled me close, and whispered that she had never been with a girl before, but was really attracted to me, and could we go to my place?
This was my response, honestly: "Huh?"
A funny thing happens when girls kiss in private for the first time. It doesn't matter how timid the girl is, how much cajoling it took her to get to the kiss in the first place, or how much she wants it, when she finally gives in, it is as if the dyke to a vast body of passion gives way. Pun intended. The sex tends to be more timid, because she doesn't know what she is doing. For all intents and purposes, she is a virgin again, and usually acts as one, but the kissing is ravenous, crazed even.
Molly was no different.
She kissed me in the cab and on the front steps to my apartment in front of three passersby. She pushed me up against the wall in the foyer and kissed me there, too, smearing lipgloss over my face. I was too shocked to be aroused by it. I remember how sweet her hair smelled, and how I kept thinking I needed to calm down so I could enjoy being with her. In my bedroom, she kicked her strawberry-printed shoes off, and they slammed against the wall. She whipped her jacket and top off, and somehow got mine off as well before pushing me down on my bed and jumping on top of me. I kept waiting for the timidity to set in, the "Um...I've never done this before. How do I do it?" Molly took my jeans off, and I waited to hear it. She kissed my stomach and ran her hands over my panties, and I waited to hear it. She took the panties off, ran her tongue up the inside of my thigh, and still said nothing. When she lifted her head up from the kissing and biting, smiled wryly, and then buried her lips into my clit, I felt there could be no way this girl was being honest about her experience with women. It was only then--when I thought she was a liar--that I could relax, which in hind sight, makes me very sad. I cared so little for myself. When my lovemaking with pretty Molly became fucking with a liar, it got hot.
Molly fucked me in the bed. She fucked me in the shower and in the living room like I was a piece of meat. When she was finished with me, I couldn't feel anything below my waist. It was probably the most satisfying homosexual experience of my life.
An even funnier thing happens after women have sex for the first time. The passion and satisfaction give way to shame. They almost always get up and leave.
I see this quite often, and I never get accustomed to it. Every time, it makes me sad, not because I want them to stay and cuddle and tell me how much they love me, but because I know they feel ashamed of themselves for doing something that is terrifically natural and necessary. I assumed Molly would be the kind of girl to get up and leave. She had told me she was raised Catholic. She even went to Catholic school and wore a crucifix around her neck, but when I woke the next morning expecting a hole in my bed, I woke to Molly kissing my neck and playing with my hair.
I slept with Molly only once more. She began calling the house up to twenty times a day, emailing neurotically, wondering where I was and who I was with. She would show up at my door and bang on it. She wrote me letters of a frightening nature, and the whole experience became soured. It went on for too long a time, because I didn't understand what was happening. No one had ever stalked me; I wasn't the type you'd want to stalk. I certainly couldn't conceive of such a gorgeous creature wanting to obsess over me.
And so, Molly was clearly a lesbian. She loved women, was Catholic and having a hard time dealing with the spiritual guilt of being gay. I didn't figure this out until I remembered that I had asked her about the vagina being a vacuum on the morning after our first night together. I had wanted to know if she had been with a woman before, and I thought by pontificating on the nature of sex, I could pry the truth out of her.
She answered something like, "I never thought of it like that before. I guess I don't need to be filled."
Posted by The Bunny at 11:52 PM