Does it turn you on?

scribblemoose

Getting up for going out, short skirt, lipstick, fishnets, boots. Leather boots, buckles, straps, men's boots, feminised, boots reclaimed. Lacy top, high neck, low buttoned, victoriana reinvented. Silver chains and bangles jingling, bright magpie bait, shiny, pretty things. For me. For her. Not for you, for you is leather, warm and dark, and beads and feathers tribal dancing at your throat. One feather flutters on your breasts, disturbed by breath, by laughter. I watch it, trying not to gasp. Too early, yet. Not yet. Not yet.

Music loud, guitar, rock beat, sing a long, old songs. CD rereleased from vinyl. Getting ready, warming up, sway of hips while making up, lips kiss tissue, sticky gloss. Girls together, spirits high, old friend new friend, dressed to slay, come what may, seize the day. No man can get in the way. I turn to you and laugh, and say "you're slut perfection, babe."

Does it turn you on?

Hitting town, drinking first, just enough, for me, for her, but not for you. You drive. You drive me crazy, but not yet, not yet. McMillans first, to watch the straights, the dull, the young we know too much about, and drink cheap happy hour aftershock and rum, and water. Your lips around the bottle, soft and wet, your eyes slant mine, your dimple shows, you slut, you tease, you amazon. The music's crap and men are leering, bar is heaving, breasts are heaving, arses wiggling. Men are stupid, no sense of fun, just sense of sex, gods gift unwanted, underaged and unworthy. Too old, in eyes if not in face, too used to getting, not to giving.

We came prepared, aware, beware. We swap the signal, you and me, and she. I lock eyes with her, lock hands with you and then we put our arms about, a mystic wall, without a doubt and revel in the power. The men fall back, defeated, conceited, and watch us share affection they don't understand, but want? Oh how they want, but we deny. We're laughing as we leave, broken dicks in our wake. Her laugh is different, lovely, rich, infectious import.

Does it turn you on?

The good stuff next, buzzing now, high on victory, men's rejection now our own. Xenith calls with silver poles and glass-topped tables, girls in cages, dance of ages. Better men in cages, but not yet. Not yet. We dance to tease, to please the crowd, too close, too flirty, down and dirty. You sit one out and watch us writhe, we wreak revenge upon the men, we mirror lust and slutty style, we let them think what might have been. We read their minds, as dicks get hard, they save for later images of what they think we might have done for them, or us alone. Tonight we'll be there in their heads, as they recall through drunken haze the love they'll never have. Your eyes are different, you watch with pride, with knowledge deep, you understand the language men will never use, you know our code. Not for you the memory of what might have been, for you the fact, the contrast to our same, the tip to our sweet triangle of lust. Soon.

You join us now, unable to resist, and break hearts with a sway of hips, your arms about us both, you kiss my ear, whisper deep and throaty, and I whisper back a moan.

Does it turn you on?

Later, now, we tumble through the streets, us three, no more but three, and share remembrance of our dreams, of shi-ne glares and cowboys sweet, of men with men and men in cages. We enter Deans with open eyes, hungry now, for food and men. Chocolate, for her and me, mocha for you, who never has enough, we watch the men, the pretty men, hip-grinding, blinding, pretty men. We watch invisible, untouched, as they press cock to cock and tongue to tongue, we watch and learn, and empathise, and slowly, slow, but no surprise, I know you've come alive.

It turns you on.

It turns her on, and you, and me, oh, me too. I can see you both take mental notes, I know this scene will come around, in Tokyo or Balamb soon, your sniper sluts and tortured souls, your minds alive, this magic that you have, you share. You ask for mine, but I can't give, I'm not for that. My gift is to receive, the humble uke to your words, yours and hers, wonderous, glorious words, yours and hers. I want to tell you that, one day. Not yet, not yet.

I touch your knee, to better reach across and fetch my bag, you press your thigh to mine, a sign, a hope. I sit back and run my hands through gold-brown hair, I toss my head and run my tongue across my lips, and turn to her and see her look my way and wink.

Does it turn you on?

We go and lie on summer grass, moon-lit, gazing up at God's contorted angels. On my back, I hold you to me, both, I kiss your hair, affection pure and girlish, sigh. I want to move, but my hated self holds back, not yet, not yet, not yet…

And then you move, she moves, I'm caught between not yet and late in perfect time. A hand on each short-skirted thigh, you reach across me, knowing what I want, and kiss each other, hands in hair, and turn to me, and weave your spell. Oh yes, and she weaves just as well. We kiss and touch, and touch, and sigh, and laugh, and then when footsteps sound nearby she sits up tall and leans to hide your hand that flutters on my heart.

Does it turn you on?

At last to bed, and covers warm, discarded at the futon's end, three bodies tumbled, candles' glow, a kiss, a touch, and love's sweet flow. We tangle limbs and fingers strong, we daisy chain and kiss so long I can't remember who's is which, it matters not, no right or wrong. I snake a hand between her thighs, and find yours there, she sighs and arches back for us, you bend to kiss and long dark hair cascades in waves across my arm, I enter deep and feel your kiss on her sweet flesh as mine.

We come as waves across the beach, not all at once, but all as one.

She kisses me, you look at me and grace me with your smile. We share a secret, you, and her, and I.

I know what turns you on.