She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not by Newman Lesléa

Author:Newman, Lesléa [Newman, Lesléa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1555837018
Publisher: Curtis Brown Digital
Published: 2012-06-27T04:00:00+00:00

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I love to watch them watch you. I stand in the back, leaning against the wall, one foot crossed in front of the other, arms folded, left over right. You are up on stage, of course, warming up the crowd in a fitted black jacket and tuxedo pants with a sexy silk stripe running down either side. You’re wearing a white shirt and a burgundy tie, which you tied yourself this evening. Remember, it was me who taught you how to tie a tie. It was me who untwisted the knots your clumsy fingers made, who laughed as you cursed every time you didn’t get it right. It was me who taught you to perfect your butch look, to swagger across the stage, to smile at the crowd and wink with one eye.

Your brush cut stands tall, short on the sides, long in front, stiffened with pomade. Only I know what it feels like to run my fingers through your crowning glory. Only I know how that stiff hair feels against the inside of my silken thigh.

Music fills the room, and you open your mouth and begin the first song. Women gasp, they swoon, they inch closer to the stage in one hungry wave. I can practically hear the disbelief churning through their minds: A woman as handsome as that can sing too? A femme in black Lycra wipes her chin with the heel of her hand as if she’s drooling over you. She wouldn’t be the first. Another femme sticks her tongue out as if she’s panting like a dog.

You work the mike like it’s an enormous clit, drawing it close to your lips, your tongue, caressing it with your hands, all the while singing words of love. I can feel all the butches in the room break into a collective sweat. They know they’re in deep, deep trouble. How many of their femmes will wish they were going home with you tonight? How many of them will imagine it’s you kissing them, you undressing them, you laying them down softly on the bed or you taking them roughly against the wall? How many of them will actually say, “Why aren’t you more like her?” and gloat at the hurt the question brings to their butch’s eyes? And how many of the butches will say to their femmes in a moment of self-doubt, “Am I as butch as she is?” knowing that the answer, “Yes, dear,” is as transparent as Cinderella’s glass slipper, an out-and-out lie.

I watch you flirt with a femme in the front, close to the stage. You pretend you’re singing to her, only to her. You drop onto one knee and extend your right arm. You pretend she’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more. You will never hurt her. You will never lie to her. You will never leave her. You will fuck her into ecstasy each and every night of her entire life. You will never fight with her over stupid things like money or the dishes.

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