Shannon was one of the regrets. We’d met online—I think on one of the more serious non-Tinder sites—and arranged drinks.
She had long corn silk hair and a blue-eyed stare that felt direct and unmediated enough to draw me in. I’m not especially into the blonde/blue type, maybe because I look that way myself, but she wore it well. Her looks and surname made me think of her as Scandi, though she’d been born here.
I liked her too because she felt age-appropriate, around 32 at the time. (The women I usually met were in their twenties.)
To date she’s the only Montanan I’ve met, and had an interesting story. She was near completion on her doctoral degree, and trained as a clinical psychologist. I respected that. She had the sort of helping personality I associate with those professions. She was also a lesbian. Or at least had only been dating women and was still in a long term relationship with a female partner.
I learned a ton about the local lesbian scene from her. Basically, it was clannish. Her relationship wasn’t feeling right and she was rethinking it, but didn’t want to tell other people in the community about that, because it was too small and might blow things up for her. She definitely couldn’t go out with another woman from the scene. So she’d decided to try me. She was sure she wouldn’t run in to anyone she knew at the bar where we met.
I was charmed and into it. We had our couple of rounds and I piloted her back to my place. All the usual things happened, including me going heavy on the cocktails, so let me skip forward.
We were in my bed, lights out, semi-clothed. I was a bit too drunk, and dimly aware of that. We were messing around. She kind of pulled back and was loud and clear: “I’m not having sex with you unless you put a condom on.” It caught me off guard. I could hear her greater sobriety and command of the situation—we weren’t operating at the same level. And I hadn’t thought we were quite yet at the point of sex.
But I took the green light, and dutifully rolled the condom down my shaft as she watched. (I’d been completely hard and just in my boxers for awhile, totally aroused just to be near her with our skin touching.) She turned over on all fours, looking sculpted and almost artificial in her gloriousness. An amazing pert ass, and a pretty pink pussy. That was strange for me: I’m straight, but I’ve just never been into vaginas themselves, qua vaginas. Even her asshole was cute.
I was mesmerized. I looked down to see my cock moving in and out of her, to the rhythm of her own rocking motion, and I swear I could even perceive how she was gripping me, and how her labia stretched just so at each part of the stroke. I definitely dissociated, sort of seeing myself there, and imagining how it all looked from a third party point of view. I felt lucky, happy, and aware how I was plowing this classically, stereotypically great looking woman. I was slower and more gentle than usual. It almost felt like romantic love making, especially when we switched to missionary and she wrapped her arms around me and I listened with my ear by her mouth to her soft sounds.
Drunkenness and the post coital glow sent me to sleep not long after I ejaculated, though I saw her tidy up both me and herself. She woke early, and I with her, with minimal pleasant talk, composed myself and saw her out the door.
I never heard from her again. She didn’t respond to a friendly text about the great time I had suggesting we meet again, and I didn’t press after the second time. I wondered maybe if I hadn’t half roofied myself with drinks she’d have liked me enough to meet again.
Two years later (so say January 2018) she popped into my head and I found her socials: she was clearly dating a man by then, much older with a biiiig beard, an engineer at google. It looks like she still lives with him now in Seattle.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/m7k3l3/semiswede_f_goes_unlesbian
You can’t be un-lesbianed