Best Lesbian Erotica 2014

IMAGING Sharon Wachsler

There are three things nobody told me before my MRI: (1) You have to keep your eyes shut the whole time. Blinking is a form of movement, and you need to be perfectly still for the full half hour. (2) Everyone—my doctor, my friends—told me it’s loud, with a lot of banging. They did not tell me how rhythmic the banging is. (3) My uptight, head case ex-girlfriend, Stormy, works there. Can you believe it?

No, you probably can’t. For one thing, you’re thinking, “Stormy?” Gimme a break. But I swear to god, she works there and that is her name. Call the hospital. Ask for Stormy in Imaging. Just don’t get hooked, listening to her silky voice. Just don’t take a stroll past her desk where she taps her long nails on the pink, yellow and white insurance forms laid out in triplicate. Because underneath all that gorgeous, curly black hair and that smooth, soft skin is a paranoid control freak—a typical femme who, once you—a little drunk, a little sloppy and grope-inclined—take her home, will want to know every single thought that passes through your skull every minute of the day, until she moves out for no good reason and leaves your head—the one she tried so hard to get into—spinning.

Seriously, when I roll in to Imaging with Janet, my personal care attendant, and see Stormy, I almost lose my lunch. Then I laugh. Perfect. Of course, she works at a place where they examine each millimeter of your brain. It’s her fucking dream come true. When we were together and I’d come in at five a.m., she’d rain down the questions like rocks wrapped in lace: Where had I been? Who was I with? Why couldn’t I have waited till she was off shift to take her, too? That was her big one—being left. She wouldn’t even give me time to sleep it off and come up with answers. One time I told her (I thought this was pretty smart, considering how fucked up I was), “Listen, you’re gonna have to slice open my head and read my mind, cause I’m going to bed and I don’t talk in my sleep.”

Boom! A year later, I wheel in, all shivery in a flimsy gown, and there she is, waiting to see digital slices of my brain. Crazy. Last I knew, she was a cocktail waitress at UpSide Town. I bet LJ told her to quit. She’s the one that got Storm into the whole sobriety thing. Probably convinced her that her “work environment” wasn’t good for someone “in the program.” Back when LJ and I were friends, I was totally cool about her taking Storm to meetings. That’s how much I trusted LJ, even if she was all about “in recovery” whenever anyone offered her a drink, like she was incapable of just taking it to be polite.

I fucking hate that term, “in recovery.” I sure as shit know what a real disease is, and it cannot be cured by giving up beer. Maybe LJ sees things differently ’cause she became a quad from drunk driving. She’s bitter—that’s why she did what she did. Whereas my being a crip’s nobody’s fault—except maybe God’s—and I can still stand and walk a little on my good days.

Anyway, about Stormy in our good ol’ days: truth is I liked having my girl come out with me and my friends. First we’d do some shots. Then, if I was buzzed enough, I’d wheel onto the dance floor with Storm in my lap. She’d shriek while I did donuts. Sometimes I’d slip my hand under her skirt and we’d make out between spins, giving our stomachs a chance to settle. She’d get so wet, sometimes I’d fuck her right there, my fingers sliding in and out, my thumb giving her some clit action. She’d be breathing heavy and moaning and pushing herself up against me. I guess we must’ve made quite a sight ’cause usually LJ or Peg would come over and tilt their heads at the john. So we’d finish up in the handicap stall. If I was packing, she’d straddle me and I’d grab her ass and pull her up close, and she’d grind against the bulge and get off like that.

So I missed her when I had to go out without her. Plus, people looked at me different when I was with Storm—not like, “You poor, pathetic crip, you’re stuck in that chair”—but like, “Wow, how come you got that hottie when you can’t even dance?” In fact, the only times I screwed around with other girls was when I was pissed at Stormy for not being with me. She could’ve blown off work more. I mean, what’s more important—being with the person you love or hauling drinks to dicks in suits? I did it because I missed her, which kind of made it like a tribute to her, but she never got that.

My friends didn’t get it either. That was another slap in the face. Sully was like, “Treat her right or you’re gonna lose her. And I’ll be happy to pick up the pieces, ’cause she is one fine piece….” It wasn’t funny the first time, but Sully’s one of those dykes who doesn’t get they’re doing the same stupid shit over and over.

LJ acted like I was some asshole who didn’t love Stormy, saying I was “only hurting myself and Stormy with my compulsive dishonesty.” That’s 12-step cult talk, which is bullshit because half the time when I didn’t answer Stormy’s questions, it was ’cause I didn’t know where I’d been or who I was with anyway.

Normally if another butch took my girl’s side, like LJ and Sully did, I’d have seriously questioned their loyalties. But I let it slide ’cause I could see what was going on: they were hot for Stormy. No surprise—she’s gorgeous, like Naya Rivera, crazy-long legs and all. Six feet in heels, with a round, beautiful ass that matches her round, beautiful breasts. You’d think dykes would be throwing themselves at her feet, right? Nope. People are afraid of someone that good-looking. They think, “She’s totally out of my league. If I gave her my number she’d crush me like a bug.”

But I could tell right off that Stormy had no idea how hot she was. I just turned on the old gentleman-dyke charm and told her she was beautiful—which was easy ’cause it’s true—and she was all blushing, which just made her cuter. Then I asked her all about herself, ’cause everyone likes that. Also, she seemed curious about the whole crip thing. I’m not crazy about that, but I’ll use it to get laid.

Not to brag, but you know how the first time with someone usually isn’t that great? With Stormy it was great every time. Even though we were both kinda plastered I remember our first time. That’s how good it was. When I got her home she saw my waterbed, squealed, pulled off her top and jumped on, writhing and giggling. The waterbed’s a medical necessity for me, but it would’ve been worth it for Storm’s reaction! I yanked down her bra just enough to pull out those gorgeous big boobs. She looked incredibly hot—her tits hanging out over this purple lace bra. I was throbbing.

“Scooch back and lay down,” I whispered, moving next to her. I glided my hands up and down her sides, barely touching her. She got all shivery, breathing hard, and then I just—again, really lightly—sucked on one of her nipples and she, like, melted right into the bed, going “Ohhhhh,” really deep and throaty. I played with both her tits a long time—till she was grinding her hips, whimpering and begging, “Joan, please, please touch me.” Her brown eyes were huge and liquidy.

“But I am touching you,” I said, real cool, thrumming her nipples.

After a few more pleases I hiked up her skirt and pressed my palm against her crotch. She was burning, her panties soaked. She’d try to grind against my hand, and I’d inch it away each time. Then I’d suck her tits again and she’d moan and whimper louder.

I waited till she was humping the bed, twining herself around me, begging nonstop, “Joan, fuck me, fuck me, please.”

Then I slid in one finger and she melted again, “Ohhhh, god.”

But once I started to move in her, she was bucking and screaming. I got in another two before she came—tensed up and twisted around me, digging her nails into my back, her cunt clamped onto my hand till she went limp.

It was that good every time. And she was no pillow princess. She gave as good as she got. Not that I’d let her inside me, but sometimes she’d slide her hand under my cock, inside the harness. Before Stormy, I thought a femme with long nails was a stone bottom, but she had this way of really lightly laying a finger on my clit so I didn’t even feel the nail and touching me just right. Because she was so femme, it felt like she was playing with my dick, so I could relax and let her do me. She could just leave her finger on my clit, and she’d make tiny circles over and over. I tried not to moan or move, but I couldn’t help it. She brought me there every time. Damn, she was good.

I’m not completely shallow; besides the great sex, she really was a good person—or I thought she was. When we weren’t fighting, Stormy was really sweet. Like, if I was having a bad day, she’d put hot packs on my joints (which didn’t help the pain, but it felt nice) and read to me, even stupid shit like People or TV Guide. She always brought extra smokes or beer for everyone when my friends were over. So, when they gave me a hard time about two-timing Storm, I sorta understood: they saw how great she was with them. However—and this is a big however—they did not see the crap she put me through personally.

For instance, if she found out that I’d fooled around, even if it was just some titty and kissing in the john, I’d have to “process” with her. That is a major problem with being a lesbian. “Processing” was Stormy’s code for making me talk about shit we should’ve left alone. She’d go on and on about “sharing our feelings” and “letting each other in.” But if I did really tell her how I was feeling, she’d get mad.

Like once, I spent the weekend with this dyke I met doing shooters. I came home and Stormy was out of her mind because I “disappeared” for two days without calling or texting. It was ridiculous! The woman I crashed with was a butch, so obviously nothing happened. Even plowed, there are certain lines I do not cross. It’s not natural. I love my friends, but to do them, or worse, to let them do me? I’d rather fuck a drag queen. (Some drag queens are hot.)

But Stormy’s ranting away about how it’s not about cheating, it’s how worried she was, and then she launches into her usual thing about “communication” and blah blah fucking blah. I can’t tell you exactly what she said till suddenly she grabbed my hand and said, “Joan, tell me what you’re feeling, right now,” and I was so taken by surprise that I told her: “I was feeling bored and wondering what was on pay-per-view.”

You woulda thought I shot her dog! She was screaming and crying how she’s trying so hard and why is she going through all this if I won’t try, too? She needs me to try too if this is gonna work. I took her hand and told her that was exactly the problem: She didn’t have to try so hard. If she’d just relax like me, everything would be fine. “That’s why I keep my mouth shut,” I told her, “because when I talk it only causes problems for us.” I was hoping she’d really get it this time. It hurt me to see her so upset ’cause I loved her.

The next day I told LJ about it, and I was expecting her to go “Women!” and roll her eyes, but she just got quiet. So I just moved on. But she didn’t. A couple days later LJ pulled this really shitty trick on me.

She calls up and asks if I want to come over for Wii boxing. But when I get there LJ, Sully, Peg, and my sister, Claire, are there, all staring at me. My stomach goes into knots. I’m all, “Is it somebody’s birthday?”

LJ says, “Joan, we want to talk. We’re concerned about you.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Never better.”

But Sully goes, “Some of the choices in your life is what we mean.”

“How your drinking—” LJ starts.

“The fuck?” I yell. “You all trash me behind my back, then think you can tell me how to live?”

“It’s hurting you and us and Stormy,” says LJ.

“Stormy! Did that cunt put you up to this?”

LJ, the prick, says no, it was her idea, but the important thing is “We’re coming from a place of love.” Who comes up with this shit? Hallmark?

I’m heading out the door, screaming, “Leave Stormy outta this! She’d never pull this! She loves me.”

Well, I was wrong, because a week after, Stormy moves out while I’m visiting Claire. After all her bullshit about sharing emotions, she leaves without talking to me or even telling me she’s dumping me or why. How’s that for hypocritical?

My best guess is LJ pulled that “intervention” to ruin our friendship so she could make the moves on Stormy. But I’ve never known for sure because, until today, I haven’t seen either of them.

Now, wham! Like a punch in the gut, I’m in Imaging staring at Stormy. Her hair is pulled back into a neat little bun and she’s wearing these lavender scrubs. And I’m remembering these very non-medical images of Stormy: the top of Stormy’s head bobbing in my lap while she sucks me off, her nails digging into my thighs. Stormy riding my cock, her head thrown back, all sweaty, and her makeup running down her face. Stormy spread out on her back on my bed, her wrists and ankles cuffed—and I’ve got my whole fist in her and she’s coming so hard I think she’s gonna break my hand.

But she’s Miss Cool-and-Collected. I’m just another patient. Just as sweet as cherry pie, she’s handing me all the forms to sign: the consent form, the privacy policy form, the insurance form, the blah blah form.

Then I put two and two together: she saw my name on the chart. She knew I was gonna be here—she’s probably known since Friday, when I did the preregistration—whereas I’m totally unprepared for our little reunion. She dumped my ass, and now she gets her golden opportunity to see inside my head. I wanna break something. Then she says, “The technician needs to ask you a few questions. She’ll take you into another room for privacy.”

What’re the questions they can’t ask me in front of Janet and the little old lady who’s waiting three lime-green chairs away, for Chrissake? I mean, Janet’s been my attendant for three years. She changes my sheets, helps me shower, cleans up my puke. Hell, she’s even run my dicks through the dishwasher. But I decide I’m just as happy to get away from Stormy.

The tech, whose name tag reads SHEILA, just grabs my chair and wheels me into the other room without so much as a hello. She asks me the same questions I answered during preregistration yesterday: Do I have a pacemaker? Have I ever gotten metal in my eyes? Is there any chance I might be pregnant?

I love that last one. Just to mess with her I say, “Sweetie, I’m a gold-star lesbian, you know? Untouched by Y-chromosomal hands.”

Sheila doesn’t bat an eyelash, so I’m thinking, hmm, probably bi or maybe a femme. I give her the once-over. She’s blonde, in Scooby-Doo scrubs, kinda cute in a Bridget Jones sorta way. I give her the smile, but she’s like a robot with the questions: Am I wearing any metal—hair clips, underwire bra? As if.

She says the same shit I’ve been told: Hold really still so the picture comes out clear. Eyes closed. They’ll do several angles. It will be loud. It will be over in about half an hour.

“Any questions?” Sheila asks, then grabs my chair again, kinda rough, and wheels me back into the waiting room, jerking to a stop. Nice bedside manner. I cock an eyebrow at Janet to see if she caught it. She shrugs.

Sheila’s leaning over with her arm around Storm, talking really low, which all seems very unprofessional, in my opinion. Even though they’re just a few feet away, and I’m leaning in (in a casual way), I can’t catch a word. They giggle a little, which, I’m sorry, is not medically appropriate. I’m not jealous—I mean, Stormy with another femme? What would they do together? But then I realize I never really asked her much about her exes. I start picturing Storm with all the butches she met through me who are no longer my friends, like LJ and Peg, and I get so steamed I lose track of things.

Stormy and Sheila both glance at me, and I’m sure Stormy’s been trashing me, but before I can flash Sheila a smile that says, “Don’t believe a word of it,” she’s disappeared through a door on the right. A second later a big woman in dark blue scrubs comes out: buzz cut, snake tat on her biceps, sleeves rolled up like a muscle shirt. I crack a grin and she gives me the nod. For the first time since I crossed the threshold into Imaging, I unwind a little.

Stormy comes around from behind her desk. “Lynn will get you set up,” she breathes, lightly placing a hand on Lynn’s excessive musculature. What is up with this place? Is eating pussy a prerequisite for working here?

“I’ll help, too,” Stormy adds. Grunting, she and Lynn hoist me from the chair. “I know how to move you, don’t I?” Stormy murmurs and winks at me. I breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever Sheila’s problem is (probably nothing, probably I’m just feeling paranoid because of the shock), Stormy certainly isn’t holding a grudge.

My new butch bud and my apparently non-hostile ex lead me to a lift that raises me to a small, rectangular white enclosure with a long, narrow bed. They help me swing my legs onto it. “It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?” Stormy says sympathetically. Lynn hands me foam earplugs, which I insert, then puts my neck inside this sort of brace that holds my head in place. Next, she slides several pieces of foam against my head, inside the head brace, further immobilizing me, before finally snapping a white plastic plate over my face. I must look like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs.

“Okay, Joan,” Lynn rumbles in a smooth, professional tone, “Don’t worry. We’ll have you out of here in no time. I’ve got other stuff to do, but Sheila’s gonna take you through it step-by-step.” Lynn points to a booth raised up high with a dim red light blinking inside. I can see Sheila in there, like a DJ in a club with shitty decor. Lynn walks out.

Stormy leans over and I feel a lightning-quick spark when her breasts graze my chest. “I won’t be far,” she pats my wrist. “We’ll keep an eye on you,” she says reassuringly, then steps back.

“I’ll need you to stay real still, Joan,” Sheila says through an intercom, as I slide into the white tunnel behind me.

I shut my eyes. Half an hour like this. Good lord. I need that deep breathing my doctors are always recommending when nothing else works for the pain, even Jack Daniels. Focus on my breath. Picture a happy place.

“All right, Joan.” Sheila’s voice sounds metallic coming through a speaker near my head. “This first one will be a minute and a half.” I’ve been told so many times how loud it’ll be that I’m really curious how it will sound. After a few preliminary clicks and bangs, it goes Clink, clink, clink. Bam! Bam! Bam! Clink, clink, clink. Bam! Bam! Bam! It sounds a hell of a lot like industrial music like they played at the club the night I met Stormy. With all the other shit I’ve been through, I can definitely stand ninety seconds of medical techno pop.

Then I feel a gentle tug on the tie-string on my hospital-issue pants. I’ve been told a million times to lie perfectly still or they’ll need to redo the pictures. I really don’t want to be in here longer than necessary. So although my instinct is to jump at the unexpected touch, all my instincts—to scream, panic, run, flail and generally get the hell out of this little tube where my head is caged and if I think about it I might feel like I’m suffocating—are frozen. Instead I’m still as ice on the padded board. Clink, clink, clink. Bam! Bam! Bam! The tug comes again, and I feel air against my skin. Christ, the front flaps must be open, my jockeys showing. I hope to hell it’s a decent pair. Then I realize how stupid it is to be worrying about that when Stormy is back in my—well, not bed, but pants. It’s a start. I guess Sheila is mellower than I thought ’cause there’s no way in hell she can’t see what’s going on down here. I’m definitely warming up to Imaging.

The banging stops. Sheila’s voice crackles through. “You’re doing great, Joan,” she says. “You might feel the table move a little bit now. Just keep holding nice and still. This one is three minutes.”

The clicks and whirs start up with a few BANGs for good measure. Then the table begins to jiggle and the accompanying noise is jangle, wham, jangle, wham. My teeth, tongue, jaw, neck—my whole body is vibrating. Now this has some potential.

Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so because I feel a soft, warm finger slip underneath my jocks, part my lips and land lightly on my clit. The finger stays still, but with my whole body vibrating, it doesn’t matter. I feel waves of pleasure, magnified by the illicitness of the whole crazy situation. The noise just makes it better, amplifies the sensation. Stormy has not lost her touch—or her wild streak. Hot blood rushes to my toes as my orgasm builds. Then the machine shudders off and the finger withdraws.

“Doing fine,” Sheila announces. “This one is four and a half minutes.” The clangs start, but the table’s motionless—damn!—and this time the noises are louder, longer, more insistent. It takes a few moments to figure out the rhythm: four shuddering BOOMs, two beats of silence, then Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! (Beat, beat.) Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Again. A good minute passes without any action in my pants and I’m bummin’ that Stormy’s pulling this shit. Maybe her idea of revenge is to get me two-thirds there and then leave me, locked in this hellish machine, with a blue clit.

But halfway through a set of booms, the finger slides under my skivvies again. No, wait, two fingers. They skim briefly up to my still-hard clit and hang there for the two beats of silence, then Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! And the fingers slide right into my very wet cunt. Wow. I don’t usually like anyone inside me—butch street cred and all. I don’t usually get this wet, either. Clearly this is one of the finer medical facilities. It definitely earns its rank as Boston’s best teaching hospital. I’m learning a lot.

With each boom, Stormy thrusts in. At the two moments of silence, she pulls out. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! (Oh, oh, oh, oh.) Pause. Pause. (Try not to whimper. Try not to moan.) Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! (Oh lord, oh lord, oh lordy-lordy-lord.) Three minutes are up way too freakin’ fast.

“This one will be four and a half minutes,” Sheila whirs in my ear. Yes! That’ll take me over the edge. This time the noise is straightforward: Clank, ka-ching! Clank, ka-ching! Perfect for a hard-pumping in-and-out. I wait. Clank, ka-ching! Clank, ka-ching! C’mon Storm, c’mon! Clank, ka-ching! Clank, ka-ching! My clit throbs. My ears strain through the plugs and the din for some hint of where Stormy is and when she’s gonna touch me again. I can’t grope around for her—the arm bone’s connected to the head bone’s connected to the twat bone, et cetera—unless I want to risk doing the MRI over again.

So, for four and a half minutes I strain to hear or feel or sense somebody, some movement, some touch, some fucking something besides my clit humming. Nothing. Maybe she’s left. Stormy has left the building, my mind jeers. You’ve been a great audience. Thank you. Don’t forget to tip your MRI technician. Good night! Goddamn her.

“Joan, this scan will be three and a half.” Click. Bang, bang, clink clink. Bang, bang, clink clink. Take yourself to your “happy place,” I coax myself. Think about the Arboretum on a summer day, full of flowering trees and cute dykes in tank tops out walking their dogs. Think about… the three warm fingers sliding into your cunt, holy Christ. Bang, bang, clink clink. Oh god, oh god, oh oh. Yes, yes, oh oh. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck-mefuckme. And there, my eyes shut, my whole body rigid, the godawful noise filling my head, Stormy filling my cunt, I come. Oh god, do I come. Motionless and noiseless, I come. And it’s fantastic. There’ll be a stain. Good thing they change the paper between patients. It’s hard not to grin. Stormy considerately ties my PJs shut.

I barely even notice when Sheila buzzes in for the last time. “One minute and then you’re done,” she purrs. No, I’m already done. Waterfalls, puppies, hot apple pie—who needs that shit? I lie still, reliving the last half hour.

The noise stops. The table glides out of the tube. Sheila unhooks the plastic thing from my face. I gingerly open my eyes. I feel a little woozy. Who cares? Sheila helps me swing my legs to the floor, then takes one of my elbows. “Take her other arm,” she says, motioning behind me. I turn my head to give a big smile to Stormy, but it is not Stormy.

Reaching forward is the muscled, hugely grinning Lynn. As her glistening fingertips pass my face, the reek of my cunt juice hits me. I almost fall over.

“Whoops-a-daisy,” Sheila murmurs. “Wow, Joan, you’re shaking and sweating. You’re downright slippery. Isn’t she, Lynn?”

The aide smirks and Sheila continues, “We better get you stable. We wouldn’t want to drop you. It’s scary when someone you rely on doesn’t support you, don’t you think, Joan?”

I can’t speak. My brain is as limp as my body. The siren of panic is wailing louder and louder. I gotta get away from Stormy, from this monster Sheila, and especially from Lynn who just… who…

I shudder.

A moment later the door opens. Stormy rides up the lift behind my wheelchair. Lynn and Sheila lower me, trembling, onto my seat. “I’ll be right back!” Sheila announces and practically skips to her booth. She returns carrying a brown paper bag, which she places in Lynn’s outstretched, pungent hand.

Sheila turns to me. “The images we took today are in our computer. The radiologist will interpret them and send a report to your doctor within the week.”

Then she grabs Stormy and kisses her full on the lips. “Break time!” she sings. “Where do you wanna go for lunch?”

Stormy snuggles against the shorter, blonde woman. “Panda Garden?” She shrugs. “Lynn, you coming, too?”

“Naw, I’m gonna spend lunch with Joan,” she says, and taps the bag, grinning at me.

They’re nuts. If these are the people Stormy’s with now, she can have them. And if Lynn thinks she’s seeing me for lunch or ever she’s got another thing coming. I need to get the hell out of here.

“Good seeing you again, Joan,” Stormy says as she pats my shoulder. She takes Sheila’s hand and they slip out.

I’m alone with Lynn. “Here’s my card,” she whispers, tucking it into my pack. “It’s totally against hospital rules for patients to hook up with staff, so please don’t tell anyone, okay?” I stare at her in horror, but she just beams. “I bet you’re ready for a smoke, huh?” she says, lowering the lift.

In the waiting room the elderly lady and Janet sit on the green hospital chairs. Janet puts down the Cosmo she’s been reading. “Got all the pictures they needed?” she asks.

“And then some,” Lynn nods, pulling a DVD out of her bag and saluting me. “I’ll see you again, Joan,” she says, tapping the disk, then pocketing it. “And again and again…”

Janet looks quizzically at me. I’m remembering the blinking red light in Sheila’s booth and Stormy’s words: We’ll keep an eye on you.

“You look a little green around the gills,” Janet says, and frowns. “Maybe someone should look at you before we leave?”

“Nobody’s looking at me!” I snap. “Get my clothes! We’re getting the fuck out!”

“Okay, boss,” Janet rolls her eyes. She steers me out the door and into the parking lot. The sun is blinding, reflecting off glass and chrome. I try to close my eyes to the glare. The door to Imaging hisses shut behind me.