I rarely stop loving someone just because I’ve stopped fucking them. The end of a sexual relationship doesn’t always mean the end of a relationship altogether. In all likelihood we were friends before our genitals ever touched. Whether it was a one-off shag, a short-but-sweet playtime, or a long-term commitment, there’s something we’ve shared that I’ll be gutted to let go of.
I’m feeling a bit wistful and nostalgic at the moment, to tell the truth. An article I wrote for The Debrief, in which I had to contact a bunch of my exes and get them to give me sex reviews, left me reeling. As I made a list of people, trying to work out who to ask, I found myself overwhelmed by how many people I’ve shagged that I’m still on ‘hey can I ask you a random question?’ terms with.
I kissed a girl, and I liked it.
Or more truthfully: I kissed a girl and it was sort of OK but the main reason I kissed her is because there was a dude that we both fancied who we knew would be pretty aroused by the whole scenario.
It’s not quite as catchy, but it is something that happens a fair bit. Ever since I first saw girls kiss in nightclubs I’ve heard whispers about ‘lipstick lesbians’ – usually accompanied by judgmental frowning. I’ve heard people moan about it and damn these girls. They’re stupid, they’re pathetic, they’re attention-grabbing and – perhaps most damning of all – they’re not even really into it. How dare they?
I read an article today by Julie Birchill, in which she discusses these girl-on-girl kisses. Girls who like girls for boys, girls who like girls for attention, and – her example being the famous Madonna/Britney snog – girls who like girls for money.
Sometimes I kiss girls for boys
I’m going to go out on a limb and say that there’s nothing wrong in principle with people pulling others for the arousal of a third party. After all, many fantastic threesomes have begun that way. Some of my fantastic threesomes have begun that way. And I’d be a miserable hypocrite if I didn’t admit that two boys kissing to try and turn me on would… well… turn me on. Finally I suppose I should also admit that kissing girls to give boys erections is something that I do quite frequently – it is, perhaps, one of the tamest things I have done in my unending quest to give guys erections.
Likewise, people do shit for money all the time. Money is not an illegitimate reason to do something – it’s the reason most of us haul ourselves out of bed at godforsaken hours of the morning five days a week to go and do boring things when, given the choice, we’d rather be at home eating crisps and wanking. If you’re a pop starlet who thinks she’ll make more money by kissing a girl, I can see you making a legitimate choice to kiss a girl rather than – say – do something headline-grabbing for charity or get strategically semi-naked in your next music video.
Finally – attention. We all want attention, don’t we? Short of hermits, nuns and wanted criminals, everyone likes having a few pairs of eyes on them. If we burned people at the stake for attention-grabbing, they’d come for the bloggers first but the rest of humanity wouldn’t be far behind.
We’re all just people, making decisions. And the decision to place your tongue inside someone’s mouth and move it around a bit can, like any other decision in our lives, be made because we want money, attention or sex. There’s nothing obviously crass about doing something for these reasons, and yet girls who kiss girls are often met with contempt because they dared to do something that wasn’t purely motivated by a desire for the kiss itself.
The ethics of snogging someone you don’t really fancy
I suspect what people hate most about girls pulling other girls in clubs – and why ‘lipstick lesbian’ is (in my albeit limited experience) a phrase frequently spat with disgust and horror – is the lies. No reasonable person could have a problem with two women who fancy each other pulling in a nightclub – the problem people seem to have with this scenario is that there isn’t always desire. We’re used to kissed being motivated by this, so any other motivation both looks and feels like a lie.
People aren’t angry about what your motivations are (money, attention, or arousing other people), they’re angry because of what they’re not. You’re not motivated by lust, therefore you’re lying.
But my issue with this is that although I hate lies as much as the next person, I don’t feel like this really is a lie – it’s a game. You’re play-acting like you fancy someone in the same way as you might play-act a naughty schoolgirl, or an angry sargeant major, or a runaway My Little Pony. There’s nothing wrong with games as long as all participants know the rules.
The only time this falls down is if one of the participants doesn’t know the rules. If I pull you because we both fancy a guy and want to watch him get an erection in the pub, and if that guy knows that we’re doing that for him, then a good time will be had by all. But if one person doesn’t have that knowledge, and thinks the kiss is the start of something beautiful, then their legitimate and honest desire has been turned into something tawdry and crass.
Imagine someone you’d fancied for years finally getting up the courage to ask you for a snog, which you gleefully do, only to find out straight afterwards that they were doing it on a nudge and a wink from their partner. Horrible, heartbreaking, cruel, and immoral.
That’s what we should be disgusted by. Not the kiss itself, but the way it’s done. Kissing is, like all sex acts, intrinsically dependent on the enthusiasm of the other parties involved.
The person who is kissing you out of genuine love or lust has the right to be offended and upset if you’re being dishonest, and knowingly misleading them, but the people who scowl and whisper ‘lipstick lesbian’ have no such rights. They can guess at your motivations, but they can’t know what rules you’ve established with the other people involved. All they will ever see is two girls kissing – it’s up to those girls to decide whether they’re happy with that.
I need to clarify – if only because at some point my Mum might read this and be disappointed in me – that I don’t confine my toilet-based sexual activity just to wanking.
Here is a trilogy of toilet-based filth
At a gig
There once was a guy who couldn’t stop me. Persuasion turned to pleading turned to mutual obsession, as we’d fuck and touch when we hoped no one was looking. Sometimes they were looking, but I don’t think we really cared.
His friends played gigs in crappy dive pubs in my home town, and we went to see them hammer out some songs while we drank lager and Smirnoff Ice and groped each other in the crowd. When the songs were over we made out on a sofa that smelt like roll-up fags and vomit, and we watched the door of the gents to check when they were empty.
When the coast was clear he rushed in, with me sauntering casually behind him as if punky girls pissing in the gents is completely normal – which, to be fair, it is. I followed him in and we locked the door – pulling at each others’ clothes and kissing the way that kids do – all tongues and spit and desperation.
I pulled his trousers down to his ankles and he sat on the lowered seat of the toilet. He gripped his cock and grinned as I hiked up my skirt, pulled my knickers to one side, and sat down hard onto his cock. He put his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet as I fucked him – quick, hard strokes, squeezing my cunt tight to make him gasp, jerking sharply up and down so he could watch my tits jiggle in a tight, punky corset top. My boots were slipping on the wet floor, so I held onto the walls of the cubicle to get purchase. And I fucked him. And fucked him. And fucked him.
He shuddered as he came inside me, and I squeezed tighter to better feel his dick pumping the last few squirts nice and deep.
As we left one of my friends came in to use the loo. Noting my filthy grin he gave a cheeky salute. The boy closed the door behind him and followed me out, shouting after him:
“I wouldn’t use that one, mate – the seat’s broken.”
At a birthday party
A different boy – more recent now. But we’re still at the stage where we can’t stop touching each other. To be honest, I find this stage very difficult to escape from. With the last boy I loved it went on for about seven years – the constant need to touch each other – to press my hands against his stomach or push my face into the back of his neck, to whisper filth into his ear until his dick got hard enough that I could squeeze it through his jeans.
On the train, in the pub, on escalators coming up from a midnight tube ride – I cannot stop touching this man.
And the other day, at a friend’s birthday party, I made him hard enough that I couldn’t not hold him. I couldn’t resist taking his dick out of his trousers – looking at it and seeing how much he wanted me, how desperately he needed to fuck.
We excused ourselves for a few minutes and bundled into a toilet with a broken lock. Quickly and firmly he undid the buttons on his flies and pulled down his boxers – lovely tight boxers that show the perfect outline of his cock. He held the door closed with his hand as I held his dick with mine, and put the tip in my mouth. As I spat on it, and sucked, and rubbed him with my hands, the door rattled so slightly I hoped no one would notice. And he stifled lustful groans as he came into my waiting mouth.
In a karaoke bar
I wanted her so much I thought I loved her. For the brief time that we were together all I wanted was for her to be there. We were going out drinking – will she be there? We’re off to a party – can we bring her? We drank and we fucked and I loved her. And when it was all over and we could no longer fuck, I thought I loved her even more.
She had a dirty smile, and cat-like eyes, and a softness that was maternal. Everyone I knew wanted to bury their face in her tits, and most of the time she’d let them, and love them.
After we’d broken up she joined us at a karaoke bar – just a small crowd of mates, getting messy on cheap booze and caterwauling 90s classics. I’d brought a boy, but my desire to fuck him left when she entered the room. He was fun, but she was special.
I put my arms around her when she came in – breathed in the scent of girl-perfume and cigarettes and shampoo. I put my hand on her knee under the table. I put my hand on her thigh while I sang. I put my hand up her skirt and she didn’t stop me. I raked my nails down the inside of her leg, feeling the fabric of her tights pulling through my fingers. I followed her to the toilets.
When we got inside she said: “We shouldn’t.” But I wanted to, so – generous and full of love – she kissed me.
She gave me soft, feminine kisses – the type I’d abhor from a man just made her even better. And I kissed her back, hard, and reveled in being the one in charge. I lifted her top, pulled down the cups of her bra, and gave hard, sucking kisses to her nipples. I squeezed her hips and stomach through the fabric of her dress, and lifted the hem so I could rub my palms on her damp crotch.
I understand why men get frustrated with tights. Everything’s so close and so nearly there, but they’re hard to get down. I pushed her against the wall of the cubicle and tried to get a good enough grip.
I panted, and she sighed, as I rubbed her through her tights. She wouldn’t let me take them off. She’d let me kiss her nipples and touch her, but when I tried to remove them she stopped me, and in a hushed whisper said:
“Enough. They’ll be missing us.”
And she straightened up, and smiled, and kissed me on the lips. We went back to our friends and my boy, and he put his hand beneath the table so he could feel the memory of her soaking through my knickers.
“She fancies you.”
“No she doesn’t.”
“She definitely doesn’t.”
“You should fuck her.”
“But I’m not even bi.”
“But you fancy her.”
Whispered challenges at 3 am – not usually the start of a beautiful thing. But in this case the boy was right – she did fancy me. I knew it, and it made me tremble. It made me horny. It made me arrogant. It made me feel like the creepy guy who stares sleazily at girls as they hang off the bar.
She was smaller than me, and that made me feel powerful. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and protect her and carry her like she was mine. And she was so curvy – an arse you could slap with a satisfying ‘thwack’ and tits you could bury your face in. She jiggled when she laughed, and mesmerised not just me but the guys in the room too – even the gay ones. Fascinating tits, trapped in bras that were slightly too small, and tops that stretched thin over them.
After a drunken night out, during which I’d leched at her like a dirty old man, and accidentally brushed her tits with my elbow as I poured drinks for others at our table, she invited us back to crash at her flat.
The boy and I were lying in her bed while she settled down on the sofa in the next room.
“You could fuck her.”
“She wants you to.”
He stroked me roughly under the duvet as I listened to her moving around in the next room. Turning off lights, lying down on the sofa, getting up again for a drink. Shuffling papers as she rolled a joint. The boy put his face right next to mine and looked at me with challenging eyes. He touched me and felt how wet I was at the thought of holding her – sliding my hand down her pants to see if she wanted it too.
I left the room and stood in the lounge – knickers and a t-shirt and a challenging smile. She smiled back, jerked her head in the direction of the bedroom – wondering after the boy. I mimed “asleep” then went to get water.
She stood up as I came back into the room. Black dress – too small, far too small – hugging her curves, stretching tight across her tits, bra straps digging into her shoulders. I downed my water and turned to her. Casually, like I was just testing, I pulled her towards me and leant down. I put my face right in front of hers, and waited for her to eat me up.
She was soft, but so forceful. She kissed like a guy, but everything about her was girly – her smell, her softness, her small hands and hard nipples. I couldn’t help but put my own hands all over her – feeling beneath her dress for where her bra began, where the straps dug into her back.
I lifted her skirt up so I could feel the line of her pants on her ass – lacy girlish knickers that I could pull at and grab.
I tried to drag her back into the room with him. She shook her head, suddenly scared, like he’d be jealous and angry. Still holding my face in her hands, she walked back to the sofa. Raised her skirt up over her head and took her dress off. She was stunning – curvy and pale, with long honey-blonde hair. I bent my face to her neck and kissed.
I’ll admit it – I don’t know how to fuck girls. With boys instinct tells me what to do but with girls I’m lost – how do I even begin? I don’t want to tear them and break them, I can’t lie back and let them fuck me. I go gently, slowly, like I’d never do with a boy. So I kissed her neck, I stroked her, I pulled down her bra so her tits were spilling out. I ran my tongue over her nipples, and felt their cold hardness in my mouth. I squeezed her wherever I wanted to squeeze. I ran my hands all over her – her hips, her stomach, her ass. I kissed her cleavage and ran my tongue in the crevice under her tits. I tasted her sweat and her perfume and played my fingertips gently over her nipples.
And when I could think of nothing else to do I put my face into her crotch, buried my mouth in the warm wetness of her knickers and breathed in.
Holy Christ girls smell good. Girls smell different. Girls smell sour and hot and desperate. I hooked my hands under the waistband and pulled her knickers down, unhooking them from one ankle so I could spread her legs wide. I kneeled between her legs, she threw her head back over one arm of the sofa, and I kept my hands firmly on her ass as I buried my face in her cunt.
She was wet. It was too easy. She trembled on first contact, and as I ran my tongue harder over her clit her thighs twitched.
She put her hand over her mouth to stifle her panting – she didn’t want the boy to hear next door. Her other hand fluttered, looking for purchase on something, settling on my hair.
As she moved faster, grinding her cunt onto my face, I ran my hands up onto her tits. I took one nipple in each hand and tugged them gently. She let out soft moans, and bucked her hips as I licked her.
Despite trying to be quiet, she let out a few very soft, strangled noises as she came. Not spectacularly, not gushing – she just came. Her legs twitched, she let go of my hair, she shifted backwards slightly, and looked up. She grinned to see me – chin drenched in her come, grinning like I’d done something bad.
I kissed her goodnight.
Back in the bedroom the boy was waiting for me. He lay staring at the ceiling with sparkling eyes, breathing heavily as I entered.
I slid into bed and sat astride him, felt his rock solid cock twitching beneath me. I sat on it – just enough for the tip to sit inside me. He thrust his hips up, desperate to push it all the way in – harder than he’d ever been before. I put my mouth next to his ear. I whispered a quick account of what had happened. He sighed. I asked him if he’d heard. He moaned softly – yes. I sat down, sliding right onto him until his cock was deep inside my cunt, and I felt him shudder and come as I spat the taste of her into his mouth.