An Essay by Charlotte O’Brien
The first night we slept together, she pushed her hand all the way inside me, made a fist and fucked me so hard that I soaked her sheets. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I’d told her in a chat conversation that’s what I like, but I was.
We were at the stage of conversation where it was going to go somewhere and lead to something, or it was going to die a slow maybe-we’ll-be-friends kind of death. I wasn’t sure yet if I wanted to fuck her, but I liked her honesty, and that she was into woodwork, and tinkered with motorbikes, and grew vegetables and could hold up her end of the conversation when it came to pretty much any female writer. Also, I’m not gonna lie, I liked her quintessential Allison Bechdel glasses and all her butch in that she was unequivocally, unapologetically a lesbian.
We’d been obliquely discussing sex. Sex in the context of, “Sigh. I miss sex.” Of general likes and dislikes, while managing to completely circumnavigate the question of whether she and I would ever sleep together. Then she said something about her hands.
“My hands are small,” she wrote. I forget the context exactly, but being the kind of person who is incapable of passing up an opportunity for innuendo, I quipped, “Small hands are better for some things.”
“What?” She asked. I paused. Really? I wondered.
“I like to be fisted.” I shot back. And then it was out there. There was no taking it back. Furthermore, as I sat staring at my dirty predilections pushed out into the ether over chat, I realized that in fact I’d just invited her to fuck me, and in a very specific way. For one hot moment of panic I remembered straight world from whence I’d not so long ago come, where girls aren’t allowed to talk about what they want—especially not in the bedroom. Nope. No siree, bob. In straight world, we were all just sitting around filing our nails waiting for someone to ask us what we wanted, which no one ever did of course because, well, men.
But two weeks in—possibly an all-time record of restraint for lesbian dating—she’d kissed me in a slow, explorative way making me wonder at first if I’d made a terrible mistake. Then, satisfied that I’d comply, stood up and motioned for me to follow her, adding, “Why deny yourself?” which made the most logical argument for no longer abstaining because all I could think was, why indeed?
It was a risk. The dental examination she’d carefully given my mouth with her tongue meant one of two things: she either put a lot of thought into using her tongue, or she was tentative in bed. One of the reasons I’d left my husband was because of the nagging suspicion I harbored that someone (anyone!) out there might be willing to throw me around in the bedroom. I’d given up on men. The men I’d loved had given me two children respectively and an enterally depleted bank account. Neither of them had thrown me around a bedroom and the men who had were, frankly, so pleased with themselves afterwards I could never steel myself to stay long enough to wake up to their grinning mugs the next day. No, I needed someone to do it right. Past forty, it was obvious to me that if I wanted someone to do it right and act appropriately in the wake of said act, it was going to have to be a woman.
Enter the woman, five years older than me, who’d spent two weeks actually getting to know me, while both of us wavered on whether we were actually willing to go there. Then, having cleaned her apartment and made her bed, told me before dinner, “I changed the sheets so you can stay tonight if you like.” Which, frankly, was refreshingly pragmatic. I mean, has a cis man, ever, in the history of trying to get a cis woman into bed ever blithely announced that sex was a forgone conclusion given that he’d put fresh linen on the bed? No. I think not.
Back to the fisting. Let’s just say, the risk was worth the reward. It turns out that the slow tongue business was quite the thing, and I shouldn’t have been shocked when she pushed her hand all the way inside me, or that she not only knew where my g-spot was but found it so that while I rocked and screamed and gushed hot cum all over her freshly washed sheets, she moaned and coaxed me along. “Yeeeees,” she said. “Oooooh there it is. Yeees.” After which, with adroit ease, she rolled me away from the wet-spot and asked me to cuddle.
And what man do you know who’s ever done that? Huh? I ask you.
I stayed, and allowed myself to be cuddled. A day or so later, we met for coffee after which, we went back to her place to try it again. As it so happens, the first time wasn’t just a happy accident.
Her hands are the kind of hands that know how to do things which I find endlessly sexy. They are small but they are far from dainty. I like to watch her use her hands—the way she lights a cigarette or washes the dishes. They look like the kind of hands that know how to use a chisel, or tune a carburetor, or turn the soil in a garden bed. Her hands are aware of themselves and what they are doing, and I’m not gonna lie, it makes me wet, because, well, it’s true: small hands are better for some things.