Best Lesbian Erotica 2013

SHE NEVER WEARS PERFUME Sid March

The night is gray; the clouds are charcoal streaks of glitter and snow across an endless urban sky. I am stretched out on my bed, a worn mattress on the crooked wood floor of our apartment on the Plateau Mont-Royal. She is sitting by my feet, trailing her fingers up and down my calves.

She lowers her green eyes and her ballerina lashes project kaleidoscope shadows on her face. She looks so breakable.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she says, and tugs lightly at the ankles of my black jeans.

“I know.”

“Will you miss me?”

“I don’t know,” I lie.

“I’ll miss you.”

The air in the room feels so thick. I can barely breathe.

“Christy, I don’t want to talk now. I’m tired.”

She is wearing too much mascara and four silver rings. I see every last detail. I’m afraid to forget her.

“I’ll miss you,” she says again.

This is like a monsoon, la fin du monde. I stare her down; I change my mind. She can’t drown me. I don’t blink until she closes the door behind her.

I can’t imagine this place if it’s not our place. I need to get out. I count the seconds, count her footsteps so I can leave unnoticed. I put on my jacket, my favorite boots, a dark gray scarf. I might blend into the sky.

I slip out the front door, dragging my feet as I walk down our narrow block. I want to drink until tomorrow morning when she will have disappeared, I want to wash away the last few years of my life. There’s no point in trying to avoid her. She will never leave without saying good-bye.

I wander down the Main. It’s always crowded with the beautiful people, all so young and fashionable, hot women in sky-high stilettos and miniskirts despite the season. I try to expand my chest with a deep breath; I hold my chin a little higher. I try to distract myself. I smile at a slim girl with the most beautiful mocha skin, a tight dress and a tailored men’s jacket. Her eyes linger on me a second too long; I taste her pheromones as I pass.

I love those little flashes of what-if, but tonight, that kind of charged moment can’t even touch me. I consider going to sleep in a snowbank. Instead, I walk toward Carré St-Louis. The snow is piled high around all of the benches except one and a man is occupying the far end. His jacket is dirty and his beard is matted. I sit next to him and stare at the sleeping fountain in the middle of the park.

Gruff-voiced, he mumbles good evening. He’s francophone. I return the greeting.

He offers me a drink and a crooked smile. It’s a new bottle. I christen it for him and ask his name.

“François.”

How perfect. I introduce myself: “Frankie.”

His smile gets broader and he asks me why I’m not wearing gloves. Offers me another drink.

I tell him I forgot because my best friend is leaving tomorrow and it has me all fucked up. He says it isn’t every day your wife divorces you and I should be there to make sure she doesn’t give away our cats.

I tell him I will miss her.

He says she will definitely take the cats. Another man is approaching the bench and François grins and calls out something I can’t really understand. I catch his eye and wave good-bye. He tells me if I hurry she might have saved me dinner.

I wonder if his wife had been anything like Christy.

I head off slowly toward the apartment but there’s a rock in my stomach, a knot of dread caught in my throat. Blocks later, my key is in the lock. I try to turn it silently. It’s dark inside.

“Frankie?” She calls from the front room, her room, where the walls are painted burgundy and the curtains match her bedsheets.

“Christy?” I respond dryly as I head toward the kitchen.

“I really want to say good-bye to you.” She is talking a little louder than she ought to, her Maritime accent jangling and frantic, her words clipped short. She’s in the hall behind me, but I don’t turn around.

“I’m going to have a drink and hit the hay.” I throw a few ice cubes into a glass and pour myself a bourbon. Without looking at her, I go into my bedroom, I sigh audibly. I toss my jacket over the chair in the corner.

She knocks at the door. She has such perfect hands.

“I told you I’m going to sleep.”

“Please can I come in?”

Another sigh.

I turn the knob and she’s standing there with her own glass. Her eyes are shimmering like a blizzard. “Please, Frankie.”

Wordlessly, I let her pass. She sits on my bed. I take a heavy swig, put down my drink. I cross my arms over my chest.

“I’m going to miss you so much. Why won’t you talk to me?” She stares up at me, almost begging.

“I have nothing left to say.”

“I have so much to say to you though; this isn’t supposed to change anything.”

“Christy, this changes everything.” Maybe I’m selfish.

“I wrote you a letter.”

I look down at her. Her legs are crossed at the ankle and she’s wearing sheer black stockings and a short black skirt. I can see down her shirt. Her bra is red.

“Leave it for me when you go.”

“I want to give you something else,” she adds and reaches toward me. Her fingers slip into my belt loops.

My heart trips. “What?” I hold my glass tight and put it to my lips.

“Please,” she whispers, pulling me toward her. Slowly, I drop to my knees. We are so close I can smell that she is wearing jasmine; she never wears perfume.

I swallow my whiskey and then her mouth is on mine, she tastes like drunken cherries and at first she feels brave; I start to recoil and her soft lips tighten but this is her chance. She puts her hand in my hair; she’s pulling the blonde rattail hidden in my short mess of dyed-black. She kisses me again.

“Frankie,” she whispers, “I—” she thinks better of it. She starts to unbutton my shirt, tentatively. She looks at me. Her eyes seem unsure, but I can feel that her body is certain.

I don’t think we should be doing this, I’m whiskey fueled and guilt ridden but she’s leaving tomorrow; I’m going to miss her so much.

My gaze hardens and my jaw gets tight. Her fingers slip to my belt buckle; she slides it from my jeans and I push close to her; I press her body against the bed. Her hooded eyes flutter.

I rake my fingers down her neck, across the smooth skin of her chest, across the perfect orbs of her full breasts. She sighs and pulls my hair tighter, my face closer to her. I kiss her and she drags her teeth across my lower lip. I glide my hands up the satin of her thighs and press my fingertips hard into the gentle softness of her flesh.

Her tongue probes my mouth and she grabs me by the collar; I reach up her shirt. I am so dangerously close to her heart.

“Frankie,” she breathes.

“Please don’t say anything,” I tell her, sliding off the mattress, my face between her legs. I push her skirt up; her panties match her bra, red lace on gold skin, a perfect frame for her hip bones and the slope of her abdomen. My arm under her hips, I feel like I could take her to the moon. I adore her; I want to rip her apart. I bite into her thighs, carefully at first, then harder and she cries out. I lick my way up, push her panties aside. Slowly, slowly, I trace her with my tongue; her breathing quickens; I paint figure eights on her most delicate parts. I spread her legs farther and slide two fingers inside her. We fall into rhythm; my hand slips into the heat of her wetness, she opens to me, her body bucks. She shakes, I give her more and she pulls at my hair and gasps. Her thighs clench and I wrestle her onto her stomach, press her face into the thin blankets. She is taking my whole fist and I’m wondering how we got here, why she’s leaving, but I don’t have time, tonight won’t last forever, this is it. She digs her nails deep into the mattress.

“Frankie,” she is almost screaming but I can’t listen, “I—”

“Don’t talk!” I hurt inside; I want her to hurt; I want her to hurt good. I lift her up to her knees with my hand buried inside her. The light from the kitchen is streaming in and she’s glowing lunar. Her skirt is hiked around her waist and I smack the ethereal curve of her ass. My palm makes contact with a blaze of sound, flesh echoing in my pounding head. Again. Again. It’s almost cathartic.

She grinds back on me, open to my invasion, to my anger, to my ferocious worship of her body. I see her in slow motion: her shock of dark hair, her flawless skin, the cycling swing of her rounded hips, the tops of her thigh-highs that are starting to slip down her sleek legs.

She slams herself harder onto my fist.

Her breathing is choked out between moans. I grab one of her breasts as I push inside her, then I hold her around the waist; my hand rushes down to give her pleasure; I push my hips toward her. I want her to feel what I feel; I want her to be lost in the throes of ecstasy; I want her to be ravaged by this heartbreak. This is our first night, our last night, our only night. I want her to explode.

She puts her hands against the wall, lifts her hips higher, crying out with every thrust. Her muscles are tightening around my hand, her body falling into frenzy. I’m blind with desire. I run my tongue along her spine; I fuck her in a burst of fury and force her over the edge; she sounds panicked as she comes.

Her aftershocks are like electric tremors. She collapses beneath me and I spread my limbs across hers like I’m hiding her from the world.

“Will you miss me, Frankie?” she murmurs.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

We don’t talk anymore. She falls asleep. I kiss the back of her neck and stare around my room in the dark. I’m awake for what feels like hours, holding her close to me, breathing in the smell of her body, the smell of her perfume, trying to steal every last second with her and lock the moments away for safekeeping. Inevitably, my time runs out and I am lost and dreaming.

When I wake up, she’s gone. There’s a letter where she’d been sleeping. I don’t read it. I won’t ever read it.

Christy, je t’aime.