College Girl Rediscovers Women
My name is Rowena and I live on the island of Lesbos. Here a wonderful experiment has come into being. We teach our daughters that marriage is for two women to raise children. Men take part in society as teachers of children but their curriculum is devised by women.
I am a lapsed lesbian about to be reintroduced to women. I am taken to the room where I take my seat on the floor mat.
The priestess says, “Rowena, you are eighteen but have yet to do more than kiss a woman. Is your interest in your own sex more than casual?”
“Well, I kissed her on the lips and our tongues touched long enough for me to taste the juice from the tamarind she’d just consumed.”
“We have reason to believe you’ve been making eyes at a male classmate. If you were still in high school this would be chalked off to an inconsequential whimsy of youth. But you are in college.”
“I’m just a flirty girl but I’m sure I’ll grow out of it.”
“We must test your sexual response in the sensorium. Before we start please have some brownies.”
“Are those the ones with priestess’ special ingredients?”
“There are no potatoes in my hash.”
“To get me in the mood? If my future wasn’t at stake I’d laugh. The fudgies were tasty and you’ve been a most gracious hostess but I must attend to my maid duties.”
“You may dispense with that French Maid outfit to make you accessible for a higher calling tonight.”
My lips quiver with the words, “Please don’t do this to me. This won’t work. It won’t accomplish anything. Quit trying.”
The therapist says, “You are free to leave. But don’t take this decision lightly. If you walk out of this room untested your citizenship will be immediately revoked. The choice is yours to make. The law is mine to uphold.”
“When you put it that way, I need to be an equal opportunity lover. It doubles my dating possibilities, which would be advantageous if I was more bicurious. Since you have my consent this feels like a freely made choice, kind of.”
My therapist says, “Know the truth between your legs. Think of the power. You can feel it where the heart of your womanhood lies, in your Mons. You too could lead lost lasses back into the fold of femininity.”
I reminisce about my boy crush. I recall that our high school graduation party coincided with his birthday. So when the teacher stepped out to the powder room, I used a xylophone mallet to tap his zipper precariously close to his balls but not once striking them. After eighteen beats of my hammer on his pretty-boy prick, its helmet poked out right in front of the whole class while the girls cheered me on for an encore. I obliged as the head turned a brighter shade of red with each inch exposed until metal drummed the bare skin of his cock-crest. He gasped to the rhythm of my stick.
The ransom for my sexual freedom is a test of my sexual correctness. I am placed on a gynecological examination table where the doctor slips me into the vaginal harness with its thermal sensors designed to detect temperature fluctuations in my labia and clitoris. The signals from the sensors are transmitted to a computer that collects the data for analysis. A cap with a net of electrodes is affixed to my scalp to monitor brain activity during this exam. It scans my cortical activity and communicates via wireless with the EEG machine. The sexualgram is in place and a young and very nubile woman enters the room.
Projected on a movie screen is an image of ocean waves suffused by the first pink blush of dawn. I bathe in the acoustic arousal of Debussy’s “La Mer.”
I lie on a platform of wet sand brought from the beach and surrounded by fiber-optic glow plants to cast light upon us. From the overhead vent, a salty tropic breeze caresses my bare breasts. The image of a newborn sun fills the valley between my redhead partner’s upraised knees. My miraculous flower hums beneath my electric fig leaf. Solaris becomes fire obliterating my eyes till all that’s left is heat and flame.
A rose vine tattoo illuminates the redhead’s inner thighs, its green leaves, and roses twine inward, disappearing into the red forest of her sex. Her flaming crimson hair drapes across her shoulders in a forest of curls.
Recognition dawns like the rising sun. The redhead is my own friend from time immemorial since my tormented adolescence; to my blossoming womanhood. Her name spills melodically from my lips, “Sian, ohhh Sian.” A sigh blows from my parted lips.
My mentor’s voice calls from the overhead speakers. “The emotional variable will skew the results of this test. We’ll have to find another actress for this stage play.”
I reply, “What better way to get accurate results than inserting the love factor? After all the idea is to get a feel for my fitness for a lesbian marriage.”
Sian flexes her body like a cat and twists her hips until her derriere is upturned toward the blue-lit ceiling. I am helped along by sparks from my Yoni yoke whose design is both for reading and creating heat. Our sex scent carries across the room to fill me with primal hunger.
I kneel and use my warm tongue to trace the crease of the Sian’s ass. Arcing downward I press into the layers of Sian’s female mystery until my affection turns into a sticky confection.
I grasp Sian’s upturned hips pulling her submissive body so easily over onto her back. I boldly step over her prostrate body. I bestride Sian like a colossus. Sian looks like spoils of war.
I descend to form a girl and sand sandwich with Sian in the middle. Our lips join into one flower. My female flower blossoms like the night-blooming cereus when fooled by a total solar eclipse.
Despite my fascination with men, my attraction to women wins out over my futile attempt to keep my bouillon cube solid. Hence it dissolves into the soup of my lust. Upon removal of the harness, my mentor dips her finger into my buttery roux to cinch my change of heart and pussy.
My fleshly caravansary for the trade routes of my skin is where her touch is bartered for the emotional Hashish that is my only fix when the craving turns ravenous.
I watch the graph show my arousal levels spiking. The EEG tech says, “Electric curtains rippled through your cortex like the Aurora
borealis.” This confirms what I knew all along, that
I am bisexual.
My pearl shines with the unmistakable sheen of success under the light of her magnifier probe. Therefore my diagnosis, formerly known as the “pathology of libidinal fixation on males,” is revised to “late phase bi-curious controlled impulse disorder.” “Controlled” is the magic word.
Now my attraction to women is a scientific fact. Though it is compulsory upon me to go cold turkey on men I need no law to redirect my mating habits in a female direction.
I ask Sian, “Why didn’t you tell me before that you were attracted to me?”
Sian replies, “Ever since you tapped out a marimba on that guy’s cock at graduation I assumed you preferred guys over gals.”
I say, “Did you ever notice, in the locker room, how my eyes followed your tattoo to your bird of paradise?”
My bride, Sian, says, “Yes but even straight girls often find each other pretty. On the other hand, you might have been comparing yourself to me.”
I say, “You mean competing?”
Sian says, “Yes, to see who was better endowed.”
“Don’t you think that is more a guy thing? After all, there isn’t much to see for women.”
“Well, when I bent over to pick up the soap I bet you got a great view.”
I reply, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking.”
Sian asks, “Tell me, now do you vibrate exclusively to your own sex?”
“Science has confirmed my dual nature,” I say.
She asks, “Aside from that graduation ding on his dong, have you ever acted upon such bilateral inclinations?”
“Only in my mind.”
Sian says, “You get a touch of maleness with me since my name is the female version of John.”
“Your name rhymes with an ancient echo.”
She replies, “Your encryption entices.”
“My heart is a riddle decisively deciphered in your favor. Chew on that as we make our passage to nuptial bliss.”