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I am Pisces, which to me explains 2 things:
#1: why I am bisexual
#2: why I love to fuck in the water
Let me explain.
About #1:
Pisceans are sometimes described as wishy-washy and indecisive, or as flighty and always coming and going. This notion probably comes from the image of the two fish in the sign: Each one swims directly opposite to the other.
A friend of mine once told me that Libras are more likely than other folks to be bisexual. Something about the Scales, and always struggling to remain in perfect balance. Well, I’ve decided to appropriate the bisexuality argument for my astrological sign, too. One of the fish is pulled toward the boys; the other swims fast and furious toward the girls. There you go: perfect balance dictated by the stars.
About #2:
I adore being in the water. When I was a child, my mother had to pull me by the hair from the ocean on more than one occasion because, despite chattering teeth and pruny fingers and toes, I refused to get out of the water.
I remember tubing down the Delaware River with a boyfriend of mine a few years ago. We went with a bunch of friends from school. A group had scouted out where the van would drop us off; they had a cooler of beer in the bushes nearby. Once the van had taken off and most of the suburban family day-trippers had floated off down the river, we pulled out the cooler and hooked it up between a few of the tubes with some rope.
The sound of the rushing water and the sun warming my neck and shoulders were all I needed for the Craving to kick in, but I suppose the beer also helped to make me lose what few inhibitions I do indeed have. My tube and my boyfriend’s tube had drifted behind those of our friends. They paid us no mind as they splashed around and sucked down their beers. I used the rope to pull my tube over to his and climbed onto his lap. I had just planned on a little kissing, but as I bore down on him, and felt the thick, unyielding seam of his jean shorts pressed to my pelvic bone, his erection growing against the fleshy inside of my thigh, his tongue probing the warm, wet recesses of my mouth…
Somehow I managed to get my bikini bottoms off and tucked them into the front of my bikini top, under my T-shirt. I thrilled as the cold water splashed against my ass, and dripped from the thick, black hair between my legs, the drops spiraling down the crinkly strands like kids going down one of those corkscrew slides. My vaginal muscles had that quick little spasm that tells me I’m really turned on—it’s kind of like the mild tremor before the Big Quake—which sent cold water shooting up my cunt, making my head spin.
He slipped out of his shorts, leaving him completely naked, but that was okay, because he was on the bottom and pretty much out of view.
And then we started going at it.
It was incredible. It’s remarkable we didn’t drown, actually. Just as I started to come, we hit rapids and the tube nearly flipped over. There was fear in his eyes, but I couldn’t really care at that point; my nails dug in to his back as I struggled to hang on to him and the violent shocks traveling out from my center, wave upon wave, vibrating from my vagina to the tips of my fingers and toes.
Once we reached calmer water, I realized that I had lost my bikini bottoms somewhere along the watery way. I had to rip off the bottom half of my T-shirt to wrap around my waist as a makeshift skirt.
When I am depressed, or stressed, or can’t get to sleep, the thing I love most is a shower in the dark. The absolute dark that unplugs your ears before it morphs into a soft gray and the eyes take over once again. The sounds of drops hitting the vinyl curtain, slapping the porcelain tub like waves against the sides of a boat, the tiny pool of water forming in my navel—all work to soothe me.
I met a woman once who hated the dark. She told me she always slept with the TV on when she was alone. Once inside my starkly lit bathroom, I unbuttoned her jeans and tried to persuade her that a shower in the dark is one of the best things in the world. She seemed pretty convinced after I bent down to trace the lines of her navel with my tongue. She dropped her pants and laughingly showed me the shimmering wetness in the crotch. She is one of those women who never wear underwear. This has always struck me as slightly dangerous—rebellious, anyway. I couldn’t even imagine what my underwear must have looked like.
Anyway, this is beside the point.
That shower was where I first lost my “queer virginity.” Actually, that needs a little clarification. Women had gone down on me before, but I never really thought of that as lesbian sex; probably because it really irked me in college when girls I knew called themselves “experimenting” but would never in a million years let girl juice get in their mouths.
Anyway.
In the shower that night, in the dark, we kissed and kissed and kissed… I remember the heady sensation of feeling like I was losing myself in her mouth… drowning, in the water, in the circling of her tongue, in desire. I was delirious with the smells of her and me, at first separate, then mingling, then distinct again. The pattern of my breathing chased after hers; panting, shallow. My tongue traced the paths of her ear, around the outside curve, and then spiraled inward, flicking at the tiny hoop in the piercing as the hot breath from my nostrils steamed inside and caused a shiver. I kissed one breast as I squeezed the other, sucking, letting my teeth graze the hardening nipple… My tongue trailed down to her navel… I love belly buttons, and the way abdomens curve out from their sinkholes…
On my knees, I parted her hair with my tongue. She began to sway, and leaned back against the wall. The shower spray hit the side of my face and tickled my eyelashes. The smell was deliciously sharp; she tasted more salty than the Me I had tasted on her lips and my own fingers.
And I think of all this now, as I awaken with pruny fingers and wrinkly toes in the arms of the woman who currently holds my attentions and fascinations. Surprised by a thunderstorm, whose pelting raindrops were much too cold for the middle of August, we stripped down as soon as we reached the apartment. I ran a steaming bath and sprinkled the water with eucalyptus leaves and scented oils (I am a woman seduced by powerful smells) while she raided the refrigerator for the strawberries she had been craving all afternoon. When she climbed into the tub with me, it became clear that she hadn’t craved the taste. She clamored for the experience. The easy sinking of her hard, sharp teeth into the soft, yielding fruit; the deep, deep red shocked by that sparkling white; the curve of the berry as she curled her tongue around it; the roughness of the seeds stroked by the tip of that playful tongue; the luscious juice dripping down her chin and making a soft splash in the water.
I chose one of the larger berries and trailed it down her neck before taking a bite. The bite uncovered the coldest, wettest part of the fruit, deceptively pink beneath the ripe red of the dry, seeded exterior. I pressed this wetness onto her collarbone and smeared it down her chest, eventually swirling it around her nipple before it disintegrated and I had to lick the mess from her body.