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Young lesbians stories

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I smoked pot when I was twelve. I dropped acid when I was thirteen. Losing my virginity was the next logical step.

Well, the pot, actually, was great—unless you are reading this and you are twelve, in which case it was awful. But the acid was a classic bad trip, during which I thought I heard the breathing of dead people.

With sex as with drugs, my interest in the entity itself was far less potent a motivator than my fervent desire to transform myself from tiny dork into Janis Joplin.

It felt like my job. I needed to do things that would make people gasp. Nobody would gasp if they heard a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old had lost her virginity.

I had a beautiful boyfriend when I was fourteen, with whom I was thoroughly infatuated. Josh had dark blue eyes and long, curly brown hair, which was prematurely streaked with silver.

He hung out on the steps in front of our high school with other boys who smoked cigarettes and, occasionally, joints in the bushes.

Both of our sets of parents were slowly but surely separating, and both Josh and I were paradoxically desperate to assert our independence from them by mimicking the very expressions of rebellion they had taught us.

We listened to Neil Young and Bob Dylan. We wore tie-dyes. We read On the Road and The Prophet. When Josh and I started going out I felt that I had been delivered from my isolation, my uncoolness, and my family.

It did not occur to me that I got the ideas for my outfits from photographs of my mother taken at a time when she looked happy to be with my father.

On the occasions when we found ourselves alone in bedrooms or on couches, our bravado dissipated and we became children again, unsure of what was expected of us.

We did not have a lot of lust to guide us. We found each other attractive, but we were so young neither of us had ever experienced clear erotic desire.

Josh, I knew, was as confused about what this entailed as I was. I never brought it up. It was all we could do to get past second base.

So, when I was fifteen, I started going to bars with a pack of girls who went to Catholic school in Manhattan and knew how to get fake IDs. We would go to crummy dives in the East Village to drink beer, listen to awful bands, and flirt with grown men.

I saw him only once. I was impressed by his advanced age and how shocking it would be if I told people he was my boyfriend, but even I knew that this was not enough grist for a relationship.

I met another guy who was funny and went to film school at NYU. He was twenty-two and had a tiny apartment on Great Jones Alley and I thought he might make a suitable boyfriend, or at least a suitable deflowerer.

It was harder than I thought. She looks at the scars on her thigh. The longest runs down the center of the right. It oozed and changed colors and smelled all kinds of awful.

She hid it for days. She tried to take care of it on her own. She never wanted to cause more problems for anybody.

They finally found it and she got beat good. She learned then that whether she said something or not, the result would be the same. She thought about him then.

Could she have changed his mind? He was leaving. He was in love with someone else. Are there words that hurt more? Sure, she thought.

She thought about cutting herself. It would help assuage the pain. It would ebb and dull. The situation would become a distant memory and the scar would last forever.

She was tired of feeling endless pain. She was finding herself wanting to die more than she had days when she wanted to live. She lit another cigarette.

Her fingers smelled of ash. She liked it. Sometimes, she touched herself and let the smells mesh into her own perfume. It was her scent. She inhaled slowly.

The plan manifested with each deep exhalation. Each detail materialized into a perfect scene. Someone else would pay this time.

They wanted to be together. They would die together, too. She sat down at her computer and wrote him a long email.

That she appreciated his honesty and wanted to remain friends. They had been together for five years, two abortions, three lost jobs, one eviction, and two temporary assistance applications.

They loved each other and that love should make it okay to be friends. She was, after all, his best friend in the world and he missed her. After several email exchanges, it was as though they were friends again.

She feigned coolness and made up interested beaus to throw him off. He began confiding in her about his new relationship.

They were, after all , friends. She was becoming an expert at having no feelings and wearing the facade of perfect composure.

Inside, she burned with rage. She fumed at the thought of another woman on top of him, of the secrets they shared when they were exhausted with passion, of the tender embraces — kisses and hugs that were hers.

It will be over soon. It was bizarre — the waiting. It required patience that she did not know she possessed. Months passed and the winter returned with a thunderous homecoming.

It reminded her of his words just one year ago. The pain was as fresh as the first snowfall. She began to drink from her misery, to imbibe herself into oblivion, to sustain herself emotionally and physically from the contentment of knowing that she would be redeemed.

She had kicked him out and he was returning to the only thing he knew. How many times did he do this before?

How many times had she phoned him when they had a big fight to find that he had returned to his ex? Are we just animals?

He came over with a few beers and a box of wine. Thoughtful and kind. Beer bubbles made her a little sick.

They ate and drank and laughed about memories that seemed to be invented just then. All she could remember was pain and heartache and loneliness.

We are together, but I am alone. She continued with all of the motions until he began to get playful. He was nearly there.

He removed the pillows that stood between them. She moved slightly more to the corner of the couch. He liked a challenge.

He put his hand on her knee. She smiled slightly. His fingers danced on her thighs. They caressed the seems of her girly cotton panties.

She had waxed so that he would feel her moistness right away. Maybe he slurred. She could not hear what he was actually saying.

She only heard the story that played out in her mind. He grabbed her thighs and slid her closer to him.

He lowered her panties and she began to pant. He kissed her navel and stood up on his knees to unzip his pants and undo his button. He slid into her and started to thrust.

The couch is going to get dirty. Oh, well. He grabbed at her breasts and pinched her nipples. She never understood why guys thought that felt good.

Maybe it felt good to them. She grasped onto him, whispering nasty little things that would goad him on. Give it to me hard. He moved faster and faster, but she felt nothing.

She was completely numb. She kissed his neck and screamed his name as she pressed her thighs into his waist. He began to convulse with sensation and collapsed onto her after a final release.

She hummed and he accepted her satisfaction. He had done good. He got up and went to pee. She dried herself with the pizza napkins and put on her panties.

His awkwardness was worse than the silence. He floundered looking for his jacket. I hope we can get together again real soon. She locked the door, turning each of the three bolts decidedly.

She wanted Nina Simone to keep her company. Here comes the sun, little darling. She used her panties to plug the drain. She opened the medicine cabinet and removed all of the small orange containers that she had been hoarding over the last nine months — Demerol, Prozac, Xanax, Zoloft, Parnate, Marplan, Percocet, Remeron, Cymbalta, Ludiomil, Vicodin, Strattera, Oxycontin, and Isentress.

She caressed the little marks in the nook of her arm. Each one had felt so good. She said goodbye. She would feel the best high of her life soon.

She started her journey by downing a bottle of Tylenol Cold and Flu. Then, handful by handful, she swallowed the contents of every single bottle.

She did it quickly so that she would be able to get through them all. When she thought she would gag, she gulped down the wine.

Instead of moving towards the light at the end of the tunnel, everything seemed to move further and further away. She sank down into the tub and the water submerged her.

She had quit her job a few weeks ago. She had enough money in her account to continue automatic payments on her rent for two months. She had no friends or family.

There was no need to come looking for her. In the end, she had written only a few sentences. All I know is that I am tired of being used.

I hope you appreciate the gift I have given you. Consider it my parting wish for your eternal happiness. I would only figure out how to hurt you worse.

I truly desire you the best. Oh, and if you happen to share the gift with Michelle, maybe even tonight, just let her know that she deserves everything she gets.

The two notes slipped from her hand onto the floor. She embraced the peace that held her warmly. She closed her eyes and she giggled a bit.

The words floated in the darkness of her eyelids. Aug 3, As told to Erin Zammett Ruddy. Jul 12, Including botched engagements and naked wedding-day selfies.

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