THE HAPPY ENDING BIKINI WAXER

Several years ago, when I lived in Clinton, I had a client--I'll call her Vikki. Vikki came in every month or so for color and wax. She liked to keep her hair "up top" super blonde, and her hair "down below" freshly waxed. I'd call her attractive: she was slender and had obviously been a hottie in high school. But she had now begun showing signs of her age, and she seemed to be resisting as much as she could. She often wore tiny tight dresses that showed off her nice legs and as much cleavage as her breasts would allow. I never judged her, though. The salon was a place free of judgements.

There is a bond that forms between women, especially when it comes to brazilian waxes. I'd set Vikki's color with foil, and then we'd move back to the wax room. Vikki would lay back on the table and hitch up her mini-skirt. The first time it actually shocked me, because she wasn't wearing any panties. She explained that the procedure left her skin feeling a little raw and the cool breeze under her skirt helped sooth it.

Vikki parted her legs, and I began to spread the wax in a downward motion to match the direction of hair growth. Some salons use synthetic wax, but I always like the real stuff: bee's wax. It has a stronger grip, actually, and when it comes time to pull, I want to give my client's a clean strip. Normally, I only do a strip along each edge of the bikini line--that's the area that can get red and bumpy from a razor. But the hair that grows right along the vulva is often not as course, and can be kept clear with a simple razor. Vikki, however, wanted the full treatment. When the wax was set, but still pliable, I'd peel it off. Vikki would cry out in pain, but also with a sigh, as if she really liked the sensation.

When Vikki lay on the table, her legs spread, she alway wanted to talk about sex. She told me about her husband, and their sex life, and how he wasn't very good in bed. "He was mediocre when we started," said Vikki, "and got worse." She would tell me in vivid detail about his inability to please her sexually. There is something about the setting of a salon, and the relationship between hairdresser and client that is confessional. A priest is a figure of authority; an analyst is a clinical professional. But a hairdresser is the peer. Vikki could tell me anything, and I'd listen. I'm a good listener. It comes with the job.

Vikki said that since her husband never gave her oral sex, she stopped giving it to him. Their sex life had completely come to a stand-still. And, she said, her husband had been going to "massage" parlors. She'd found the credit card bills, and make a call to them, questioning the hundreds of dollars each week as fraud. They promised to investigate, and then told her the purchases checked out. Vikki looked up the business name and when she drove by, saw that it was clearly one of those places that offered a lot more than just a massage. "Too bad they don't have those sort of things for women," said Vikki. "It's not fair."

"It's not fair," I said. Agreeing with a customer was always the right answer.

The waxing took about 20 minutes. As I finished up, I'd wipe her with antiseptic to avoid infection, and then powder. She'd have her eyes half open, sort of glazed, and her mouth parted. She looked like she was really enjoying the sensation and she'd let little moans escape her lips. I could see her freshly bare vulva parted, swollen red, and wetness seeping from her and mixing with the powder. I knew that any unprofessional contact with a client could get me fired, and maybe even my license revoked. Still, I knew a woman's responses as I knew my own. Vikki would roll her hips just slightly to my brush strokes. She'd bite her lower lip with her teeth. I knew it was crossing a line, but I secretly enjoyed teasing her. I'd flick my powder brush over her newly bare skin and tell her, "It looks very nice."


After I was done, she'd run a finger down to inspect my work, and say things like, "Ohh, I just love the sensation of a fresh wax" or "oooh, so smooth."

"I need to wash up and get some things ready," I'd say as I gathered my things. "Why don't you meet me back at my station is a sec, ok?"

A few moments later, she'd return, her mini-skirt pulled back down, with a smile and a glow on her face. I could guess that she'd just rubbed out a quick climax in the waxing room. But hey, women came to the salon to relax and feel good about themselves. And as long as she tipped well, and kept coming back, it was all good with me.

I made good money at the salon, but as time went on, rent went up and student loans were coming due. I also had some credit card debt, and it seemed to get bigger each month. I thought about Vikki and her story of her husband, and his big spending at his weekly "massage."

I knew the reputation of massage parlors where businessmen would go on their lunch breaks. I knew the term, "happy endings." I knew women used the salon as their form of relaxation, like pedicures. Vikki used her waxing session to release a little pent up sexual energy. I wondered how far I dared go, if maybe I could help her a long a little? Give her a helping hand, so to speak, and a happy ending? If the massage parlors could triple their tips from leaving clients happy, what hard was there in helping one of my clients?

It would be potentially easy, I figured. Vikki didn't need to be a lesbian or even bisexual. It wasn't about her attraction to me, but simply, my ability to provide an orgasm for her. It seemed my brushing powder on her got her wet and all worked up for her private time. All I needed to do was keep going.

The next time Vikki lay on the table, her legs parted, I simply continued to dab powder, flicking her with the brush, lightly. As usual, her hips would subtlely push up to meet the flicks, her spine arch. Her hands grasp the table. I gently swirlled the brush around, lightly. How a woman likes to be touched. Like a tongue lapping. He clitoris had grown swollen. It stuck out, completely visible with only bare skin around it, like a small, shiny pink pearl.I pretended to let my hand "accidently" graze it. This sent a visible shiver up her back.

I knew I had her. Her eyes were mostly shut, glazed over. She wasn't looking at me at all. It was as if I wasn't even in the room. She was laying on her back, legs wide, her pussy soaking with her own excitement, her clit swollen and ready to be touched. This is the moment of making love when a guy will say something and ruin the mood. He'll ask something obvious and stupid like, "What do you want?"

He should know. She should see her body open, waiting, eager for the touch as Vikki was. I knew no words were needed. I simply continued to swirl the powder brush over Vikki's vulva, and gently touched her clit. A sigh escaped her lips, that I knew meant "yes, continue." With one finger, I began to rub her clit. Now that permission had been granted by both sides, her hips began to thrust upward. With on hand, I continued to rub her spot. With the other, I turned the powder brush in my hand. I didn't use the cheap plastic brushes--I took pride in my work and giving my clients the best. I had always preferred an old-fashioned boar's hair natural bristle brush with a wooden handle. The wooden handle made a nice small dildo that I knew, when pressed upon her opening, would combine the sensation of penetration and clitoral stimulation.

Her wet lips enfolded easily around the head of the brush handle. Just then she reached toward the brush. "Oh no!" I thought. I panicked. I'd gone too far. I'd pushed beyond external teasing to actual sexual penetration. I almost stuttered out my appology, but before I could, I realized her hand was simply guiding my brush lower. As she raised her hips higher off the table, she pointed the brush handle to her freshly waxed anus. Slick with her own juices, the top of it pressed into her flesh. She let out a load moan. "Oooh yeah," she sighed.

She was now wriggling on the table, her hands clutching the table, her hips thrusting upward, trying to take in more than the few inches of the brush handle. With my finger stimulating her clit and the pressure in her back, she began to shake. Her sharpe breath got shorter and shorter and higher and higher ptiched. The she seemed to tense completely, frozen, the expression on her face totally blank, as if seized by her orgasm. Then she collapsed, her whole body going slack. Her eyes still stared at the ceiling as her breath slowed.

I then quietly said what I had always said, "I need to wash up and get some things ready. Why don't you meet me back at my station is a sec, ok?"

Vikki returned a few moments later, as usual, with a glow and a smile. I finished up her color, cut, style, and set teh next appointment. Nothing was said about what had just happened; it was something two women understood. The tip was, as expected, generous. I smiled, thinking of her husband seeing the credit card bill and not being able to do a thing about it.

Read more »

WHEN THE WOMEN'S MOVEMENT CAME TO MADISON

"You see, Carol, it's called a dildo. I put it in my vaginia."

"Ghee, I don't know Linda. Are you sure? It looks awful big?"

"Oh sure, you betcha. Fits in just fine. If you use a little Vaseline, you can even put it in your anus."

"Golly Carol. I never."

"Oh don't be bashful. Here, give it a feel."

"Oh ghee. Feels like the real McCoy."

"But it never goes soft and is always ready. Unlike our husbands!"

Read more »

ROADTRIP ROOMMATES

Claire and Amy met freshman year. They had mutual friends, but weren't really that close until Junior year. That year, neither had plans for spring break. Claire had finally broken it off with her high school boyfriend back home. Amy couldn't afford to join her friends in Cancun. Neither had seen Yellowstone and they figured it was only a two-day drive from their college, and they could buy some simple groceries to fix for meals, split gas, and share budget motel rooms. All in all, it'd be an affordable adventure for Amy; for Claire, it beat sitting around thinking about her ex.



During the long drive on the first day, the girls got to know each other. They found much in common and laughed easily. The first night, they pulled off the highway at roadside motel. They could save more money by getting a single room with queen bed, than a double room. Three years of living in dorms had prepared both girls for living in tight quarters. So they slept in the same bed, brushed teeth, and changed in front of the other without a second thought. In fact, after her shower, Claire came out in her towel, and opened her laptop. She spent the next hour logged onto facebook, to see if her ex had posted any spring break photos. "He's probably already found some bikini bimbo," Claire said, more to the room than to Amy as she unpacked.



After the long drive, Amy was sore, tired, and tense. She was ready to unwind. As she stepped into the small bathroom, still steamed from Claire's shower, she knew she'd masturbate. For years the running water from a bath spigot was a sure way to get her off. Instinctively, her body became wet in anticipation. Amy stripped and started the bath, letting the water warm to her touch. With her other hand, she was already playing with herself. The water was just about perfect and her knees were already getting a bit wobbly. But she realized she'd forgotten her hair tie, and she didn't want to sleep with wet hair.

Amy started to open the bathroom door, but stopped suddenly. In the motel room mirror, she could see the reflection of the bed, and on the bed Claire. She was still on her knees, staring at her laptop. But her towel had come loose from her waist. The mirror gave a perfect vantage of Claire's backside, her smooth, upturned buttock, and between them, her hand, and a finger, slowly sliding in and out.

Amy stood, frozen, silent, transfixed. Peeking through the bathroom door into the mirror, Amy could see the entire scene. To see Amy, Claire would have had to turn all the way around to look into the mirror, and even then, from the bed, it might have been too low an angle to see Amy, peeking from the crack of the door. With the water still running, Claire had assumed exactly what Amy had assumed--that each girl had at least 15 minutes of private time. Apparently, Claire was just as much in need of a good frigging as Amy.

While Amy loved the sensation of running water, for Claire, it was online porn. She'd learned this almost by accident. About a year ago, while visiting her boyfriend, she'd borrowed his computer to check her flight info. She was surprised when she found a list of porn urls in his browser history. Apparently he'd either forgotten to clear it, or never thought she'd look. Regardless, she'd seen it, and when she confronted him about it, he said: "Look, we're long distance and I still have needs...wouldn't you rather me looking at girls online than in person?" Mad and shocked and hurt and confused and mostly embarrassed as she was, she agreed. She had him show her the sites he frequented. To her surprise, the images of women aroused her. Looking at them, she could play herself in the scene: she could be both the woman giving pleasure and the one receiving. When she returned to college, she explored the sites in more detail.

At first, Claire liked the video clips uploaded by amateur couples. As she watched, she could imagine herself and her boyfriend. Again and again, she found herself fixating on the female and almost tuning the man out. Maybe because the long distance relationship was becoming more and more distant, more strained. She and her boyfriend were getting in more and more filghts, misunderstandings, and misread emails. Or maybe she just liked looking at girls her age, imagining herself in their place. She spent more and more time visiting sites like Sapphic Erotica that showed galleries of girls with other girls. As she surfed, she'd grow wet and aroused. Soon she'd be touching herself. And then she'd be no longer surfing but fully masturbating, and then shaking in wave after wave of orgasm.

Now Claire was on the motel bed. Amy had just stepped in the shower, and Claire knew she had some alone time. Claire had been checking facebook, that much was true, but as soon as Claire heard the water running, she flipped over to one of her regular sites. In a few seconds, she was enjoying the sight of two girls. Still on her knees, she reached back. She wetted her finger with her own juices and circled it around her clit. It swelled and hardened in response. She flicked it lightly, imagining a tongue. It wasn't her ex-boyfriend's tongue, no. It was one of the girls in the pictures. Or maybe a girl like Amy. She was pretty cute. She had dark brown hair, almost black. It was straight and fell to her shoulder blades. She had a nice body. A-cup breasts, like Claire, and a great ass. Before the shower, Amy had been standing at the mirror in a thong.

Amy had never actually been with another girl, but as she touched herself, she began to fantasize. On her knees on the bed, her hand moved up and down over, her finger slipped in, and pulled her wetness over her clit. She shuddered, imagining Amy's tongue grazing her clit, nibbling, and then sliding into her. It felt so good to imagine Amy's breath on her folds. She pushed her hips up, imagining Amy's tongue sliding up from her folds to her sensitive wrinkles. She so was sensitive there. Her boyfriend, he'd poke in that area until it hurt. It wasn't a place that could be forced. It was a place to be unlocked.

She let out a little gasp as she worked a finger into her back. She knew it was soon. With one finger in back and the other hand rubbing her clit, she worked herself closer and closer... the water was still running...she knew she could do it. Closer and closer, she could feel the waves begin to build. She could imagine Amy now laying below her, the two of them locked in a 69. With Claire's face pushed against the bedsheet and her hips in the air, she imagined her mouth locked on Amy's pussy, while she humped Amy's face. Her hips bounced up and down on her hand, pushing in her front and back, releasing intense spasm of orgasm after orgasm. She made a sound like a whimper as she tried to hold it in and not make a sound.

What she didn't know was that Amy had been fixed at the door the whole time. Amy had watched in the mirror as Claire brought herself to climax. Perhaps it was the fact that Amy was already pre-meditating a good solid masturbation session, perhaps the sound of running water triggered in her a pavlovian response. Perhaps because she'd already been touching herself, eager in anticipation. Maybe it was all of these things combined, plus the sight of Claire on the bed, her hips up and spread, her finger disappearing in her vagina. Amy had never watched another woman masturbate before. But she couldn't stop looking. Without even thinking, she found her hand matching the pace of Claire's hand. She was shocked to see Claire's finger slide out of her soaking vagina and circle her anus. Claire gasped when she pushed her finger into her back, and Amy let out a gasp, too. But she couldn't help it; Amy let her free hand slide behind her. With a curious finger, she began to caress the tight ring of sensitive flesh. "Oh!" thought Amy, "that is nice." It tickled, but in a good way. She felt the sensation connect to her clit.

Amy watched Claire in the mirror. She moved her hips as Claire bucked her hips up and down. Faster and faster, the two girls moved in unison. Amy watched as Claire drove both fingers deep. Claire began to shake, and Amy bite her lip to hold in a cry.
She was coming. And coming. Her knees buckled and she nearly fell. She caught herself and quietly closed the door again.

She sat on the toliet, regaining her breath and balance. She waited a minute or two to let Claire recompose herself. Then Amy turned off the bathwater. Running water had been her best private moments, but what she just experienced was completely different, and so much better, she thought. She wasn't tired anymore, but refreshed. She felt energized and flush. She cleaned up a little and slipped on some fresh underwear. She'd picked her lime green undies with a mismatched green and white camisole for bed. It wasn't her sexiest outfit; all cotton, she'd picked it just for sleeping. She looked at herself in the mirror, her small breasts framed by her tight top, her nipples still hard, poking through the fabric. She and Claire had similar bodies. The way Claire touched herself felt good as Amy copied. Maybe their bodies felt the same, responded the same? Where Claire's breasts the same firmness when squeezed? Was her trimmed pubic hair soft or coarse? Did she smell the same, taste the same?

These were the thoughts running through Amy's mind when she heard a soft knock at the bathroom door. Claire entered, dressed for bed in a camisole and red cotton underwear. Amy tried not to glance down at Claire's nipples, also hard and poking through the thin fabric. Amy had hugged plenty of her friends over the years, but somehow it'd always been about the hug, not the physical sensation. It was always so platonic. Now she wondered what it would be like to hug Claire, and feel their nipples, hard, and touching through their shirts.


Without realizing it, she had moved closer to Claire, as Claire, in turn was being pulled to Amy. It was like feeling a tug of gravity Without a word or without looking at each other, they came together. Amy lifted her hands around Claire as their mouths met. They began a long, slow kiss. Their hands moved over each others' backs, shoulders, through their hair. Amy's fingers slipped across Claire's shoulder, and the thin strap fell easily.

They didn't know what was next, but they knew where it was heading. They knew soon enough they'd both be on the bed, completely naked, their legs entwined. Kissing, lips and breasts and down each other's belly's for a first taste. They knew they'd feel each others' fingers penetrating, opening them in ways they'd never been opened. And, at age 21, they knew enough about life and love to know first times are what you make them, and first times always matter.

Read more »

THE SUMMER OF LOVE


1967, the "Summer of Love," a time to break down the barriers, to be free to explore, to love whoever, whenever, wherever you wanted. Sandra was eighteen when the hippies danced in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park. She wasn't a hippie. She was a student at the state college. The college was Co-Ed, but her dorm was all women. He freshman roommate turned her on to free love, shedding her innocence like shedding her clothes. It was, for a moment, a beautiful time.

Read more »

SHE LOSES HER VIRGINITY BY THE RIVER TO HER BEST FRIEND

Summer. I was home again, so I called Laura. She picked me up in her old beat up volvo station wagon. In high school we spent our free time together. Best friends, each having stupid high school summer jobs, and lots of free time. She was old and had the car. She went to college first, a girls college in california called Mills. Summers she'd return and we'd pick up where we'd left off, two high school friends packing towels to the river.

To sit on the river back, to soak up the sun, our skin glimmering and warm. Bring a bag of chips, sun screen, and a flask she'd brought back from college. These were slow honey golden afternoons, with dragon flies hanging in the air, sweat salty on our upper lips. Wear cut-offs and bikini tops. Boys with coolers of beer willing to share. And always, always cheap sunglasses from whatever gas station along the way.



We loved to lay out in the buff. Sometimes boys would drift past on rafts holding beers aloft, and cheer and hoot. Or sometimes it was two hippie boys in a canoe with a guitar, puffing reefer, and giving us a slow nod. This was the late 70s, and people spent a lot more time nude, and no one seemed to care.



When we'd get hot, we'd scramble to the rock outcropping and dive into the swimming hole. The current spun a slow back turn eddie here, but if you swam out into the middle of the river, the current would pull you downstream and then spit you back out on the sandy beach where our towels awaited.

The first summer back from college, I called her, and so we returned to the river. Everything happened as usual, and we worked up a good buzz from her flask of gin. But this afternoon seemed sexually charged. I thought I caught her staring at my breasts, or making a point to bed over and linger as she unstrapped her sandals. She talked of a new love in her life, a girlfriend she'd met at school and how she was technically a virgin still, because she'd never been with a man. But I'm not a virgin in my heart, she said.

We were pretty drunk by the time we scampered up the rocks to jump. She climbed in front of me, seemingly offering a good view of her thatch of dark curls.

We jumped and treaded water in the swimming hole. We moved, circling around each other, closer and closer. And then, touching, naked in the water, bumping knees and elbows as we slowly churned our arms and kicked. We kissed. I long, wet, passionate kiss. All the years of high school we had developed a friendship, all the care we had for each other, but no way to express it. It all happened, suddenly, and even though unexpectedly, it was completely unavoidable. It had to happen. we kissed and the river current pulled us downstream, and when we broke our lip embrace, we were back at the towels.

We climbed out, dripping, shivering, and weak in the knees. I looked at Laura with eyes that asked, is it over? She looked back with a sparkle in her eyes that said, do you want it to be over?

I nodded. She took my hand and we sang onto the towels. Our lips met again, and then her hands began to move over my body, and without thinking, my hands began to explore her body. Her lips caressed my neck, my breasts, and gentle blew her warm breath on my river-pinched nipples. Then I felt her finger wiggle into me. I gasped, shocked. My breath escaped me. I looked around nervously, what if boys came in a raft, or a fisherman? She pushed deeper. I was wet and reeling from her touch. I didn't want her to stop. Then her lips moved down my belly. And down. More nervous, I tensed. "Wait..." I said, "not here..."

"Relax," she said. "Let me."

So I did. And her mouth moved to my curls, parted them with her fingers, and her warm wet tongue touched my skin. It was the softest sensation I'd ever felt. I melted. I closed my eyes, and the sun on my eyelids made everything orange. I could her the river lapping at the bank, and her low grunts and she licked and slurped my juices from my inner folds. And then it began, the low, slow orgasm. Lifting like water, making me weightless and buoyant. And I came. And came and came.

When it was over, Laura looked at me and winked as she wiped her mouth. "Yummy, you taste like a river."

Afterwards, I tried on her. I don't know what I was doing, and I don't think I gave her an orgasm. But she told me it felt wonderful, and that it gets better with practice and time. "You still have three years of college," she said.

At school, I met boys, and had boyfriends, some serious, some not. It's been decades now, and I'm married. I never got together with Laura again. She got a summer job, or internship, or something the next year and didn't come back home. We didn't have email or facebook then, and it was easy to just fall out of touch. I think Laura wanted it that way. She just stopped calling, stopped answering letters. I don't know why. I was my first broken heart. And my first sexual experience. I know what she meant by losing her virginity in her heart.

That afternoon was when I lost mine.

Read more »