Photos by Luna Photographie | Words by Robbie Freid
Closed-Door Prose is a sex-positive feminist erotica column. You may not wish to read it at work!
June couldn’t make out her brother’s orange vest through the trees anymore. His footfalls were getting more distant. He was always running from something. This time it was her.
She wasn’t going to run after him. She’d followed him into the woods looking for a place to shoot squirrels. Now she’d have to find her way out by herself. She took two steps through the leaves, and practically ran into a petite woman who she could swear hadn’t been there a second before.
“I’m sorry,” June said to her. It seemed she was always apologizing for something. “I didn’t see you.”
The woman smiled. “It’s only that I saw you first,” she said. Her hair was dyed corn-yellow, and a hoop earring strung between her nostrils glinted, seeming to wink. June was not used to seeing anyone around here with so much as one eyebrow hair out of joint, and yet here this woman was, unapologetic, strong in her own skin, a lighter shade than June’s, very soft-looking. Something in June opened toward her.
“I was out here hunting with my brother, but he ran off because I told him I think I’m gay, and he doesn’t know what to do with that,” she found herself saying. It practically fell out of her mouth.
“I know,” the woman said, then she took a step back and dropped her cloak from her shoulders onto the ground.
She had on a dress that barely covered her in the front—it hung over her breasts like loose curtains that could be brushed aside with one gust of wind, one touch. June’s voice was caught in the lump of desire that had formed in the back of her throat, which was also radiating down her center and turning into that familiar burning between her legs that she had only ever previously let herself feel alone, in her room, in the dark.
“I’m gay,” she said again, because it felt so good to declare it to this receptive audience—she couldn’t believe it, the woman’s nipples were now standing out through the dress. She wanted to touch them, kiss them, circle them with her tongue.
The woman knelt down before June and put her hands on her ankles, then moved them up slowly over her jeans. Why did this feel so good? Her knees buckled, and she fell into the woman’s arms. The woman leaned over and unzipped June’s puffy orange vest, then unbuttoned the plaid shirt she had underneath. She pressed her face to June’s chest, kissing her naked breastbone once, declaratively. Then she climbed her hands inside the left cup of June’s bra, and June’s body began to surge with feeling. She was a string that was being played, some kind of instrument, her old violin, on the deepest, lowest,best, sweetest note. Fear, her brother, hunting, guns—they were all receding into the distance, all was a big ocean of pleasure, and then the woman’s tongue and lips were on the underside of her breast, kissing, slowly approaching her nipple. She was becoming so wet. She unbuttoned her jeans. “Touch me,” she said. So clear and imperative. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so direct about what she wanted. “Touch me,” she said again, pulling her jeans down over her hips.
The woman sat back. June couldn’t read her expression. She’d never been this close to another person before, and suddenly she was afraid. Then the woman smiled and slid her hand down inside June’s jeans, between her legs, and June’s body erupted. The woman smiled. “You’re so wet,” she said. She thrust two fingers up inside June’s pussy while her thumb circled around the edge of her clit, up and down and around. June started to tremble, the woman touched now up and over and under and over and over and up and up and up and the old June was gone and there was someone new now bursting out of her, moaning, laughing, crying, so glad to live.
Robbie Freid is a writer in Virginia