So my woman passionately kissed a girl on the mouth.
It didn’t break my heart; it broke all the faith I had in women as soul mates.
I didn’t hear about it on the grapevine; I saw it one night as I drove to her place.
As I parked, i noticed them, right there
under the street lamp in the deserted cranny of a peripheral University Campus estate, two women, washed over by a beam of light coming from above them, their shadows
cast far out into the wet road.
I knew it was my (now Ex)girlfriend – I can tell the shape of my woman in any light or darkness– I could tell how her butt juts out like that, as if struggling to divorce itself entirely from the rest of her body.
At first, in alarm, I thought that the other
figure was a guy, and I instinctively slowed the car down to a crawl and as I drew nearer.
I squinted and saw with surprise (and relief) that it was actually a girl.
She was taller (than her, and me).
She was wearing some sort of running tights and a sweater through which large breasts rose triumphantly on her chest.
With one hand she held my woman around the waist and with the other, the back of her head in that firm, half manly, half womanly, fashion.
It seemed tender, yet enslaving in a sinful way at the same time.
That hand on her neck seemed to say, “You are mine. That rogue of a man you call your boyfriend will never love you as passionately as I do now,at this present moment”.
My woman looked all together succumbed and submissive to this tall manly looking slender girl, resigned in a docile way I have never quite seen before in her demeanour.
She seemed completely owned by this
It was unbelievable to me,knowing she was a mother of a toddler from her previous relationship.
Clustered together under that street lamp, they looked like two last humans left behind after a catastrophic apocalypse, desperately clinging
onto what’s left of their humanity.
It didn’t look romantic,like it would look if it were between a man and a woman; it looked ominous, desperate, desolate,a cannibalistic sort of union.
Later she walked into her kitchen to find me fixing a drink (Lord knows I needed
something stiff). “Hey,” she said.
I poured her a glass of her regular tetra pack Sherry that I always brought along for her as she unwound the scarf
around her neck.
She said she had been out to clear her head.
“The long walk always does me a lot of good,I had to have one just waiting for you” she added, taking her wine from my hand and kissing me on the mouth.
Her lips tasted of dirty rainwater.
Have you ever slipped and fell face down into a roadside gutter after the rain tasting the muddy water in the ditch?
That’s how her mouth tasted in my mind.
She took a sip and stared into her glass, as if looking at her reflection, or choosing the right words to say something.
I leaned on the kitchen counter and stared
Her sharp chin and sparkling eyes and her long hair, now wet, falling around her face, making her look like one of those gypsies I read about in books.
“I didn’t know you like girls as well,” I said.
She sighed, and I could have sworn I felt
the sigh coming before she actually let it out.
That statement hung in her kitchen air like dawn fog; solid and weighty, like it
can anchor a small steamer ship.
She looked up and held my gaze for a while before bringing her glass to her lips.
I patiently rattled my ice cubes in my glass of whisky, intrigued, curious. “I don’t know what to say,” she mumbled, finally. “It’s just one of those things that happen and you can’t explain… you are a guy, you wouldn’t understand. I don’t expect you to… but I’m straight,that’s why you are here with me now. I was just curious, OK?”
Her statement was much more painful than a physical castration on my manhood.
Then she sat her glass on the counter and crossed her arms around her chest, like she was shivering, and looked at me with a question mark on her chin.
“I actually don’t mind,” I said with a wicked smile.
She stared hard at me then emitted a
small choked laugh. “You are sick,” she said.
Any man who has asked his woman if they would kiss another girl has been told, “Yeah, why not?. It’s innocent”.
Like they would actually consider it completely asexual.
A perfectly straight woman will tell you, “That woman has nice breasts,” or “That woman is so hot,” or “That chick has such a sexy body.”
But it always comes out in an asexual way.
But I knew that my woman was having a lesbian affair with her bosom friend.
I snooped into her bedside drawers; there were all manners of lesbian toys.
I slept on a matress on the floor of her bedroom that night,feeling disgusted about my folly.
I drove off the next morning very early before she awoke.
I haven’t seen her since.
I have never tried to find out what she does with the fake facade of her double life.
Two weeks ago I went for this pre-wedding lunch meeting for one of my friends and happened to sit next to this chap called Tony who is a soil scientist in my consultancy.
Tony and I rarely discuss anything about our social lives.
But he was tipsy on this night.
He said that women are inherently and unconsciously predisposed to be
attracted to other women, and of course that caused a big debate around the
That’s how the memory of this lesbian ex-girlfriend resurfaced on my mind,after I had all forgotten about it for years now.
Then I bounced the idea off a few women and they seemed not altogether rebuffed by it as long as they “liked that girl.” “You would have no reason to be jelously suspicious about such an asexual gesture,Ben,would you?”.
But does it matter?
Does it matter when you find out that your woman has been getting some
tender loving from another woman?
Would you get mad? Jealous? Like I did?
Would you want to compete with another
woman? How could you? Wouldn’t that be like bringing a cock to a bullfight?
Wait, I shouldn’t have said that here.
That’s not what I meant…you know what, just have yourself a great weekend, will you?
I, on the other hand, will fetch myself a drink,and drown the foul taste of that last kiss on my mouth that I got from my lesbian girlfriend, many,many years ago.
I forget what her name was.