missy

"Much Obliged" By The Bionic Femme

Although we'd never met, she wasn't really a stranger. I'd been talking to this girl, Lisa, online for roughly three months or so. We met through a lesbian chat room on Yahoo. She lived in Houston; I didn't. It was refreshing to come back from my god-forsaken clerical job stationed somewhere in the pits of hell (otherwise known as The Financial District of San Francisco) and have someone sane to have brilliant IM conversations with when I came home. Sometimes we would talk on the phone, and we had lots in common. We'd talk for four hours in a single night, and sometimes had phone sex. The phone sex was fun. It helped convince me that I was not a loser with an absolute lack of a love life, because phone sex is somehow more perverse, and slightly less pointless than "cybering" which would really make me a loser. Lisa and I could talk about anything really, from Kant to cunt, and she had a southern twang, which was a masturbatory implement in itself. You really don't know arousal until you've had a southern belle threaten to fuck you upside the head with a strap-on in that voice.

Anyway, I took a liking to Lisa. I had a moment that was very Office Space/Falling Down when I realized I'd had it with my job and my life and dating apathetic, bitchy three thousand pound lesbians in San Francisco who would not only refuse to pay for dinner, but refuse to even watch me eat it if there were meat products involved in it's making. I went to work dressed entirely in black on a Wednesday, and approached my boss: a sterile, sexless man of 53.

"Mr. Weisenheimer...I can't make it in for the rest of the week. I just...can't. I found out I have a polycystic ovary and...oh God...the doctors think it could really be something this time. Really. I might not have children, ever. I might--!!!" I didn't finish the sentence. I started weeping uncontrollably. "I can't make it in for the rest of the week." He shifted his eyes to the desk, touched deeply by my story. I've noticed that if you tell a male supervisor that your job performance is affected by something wrong with your vagina, or the organs in it's vicinity, that they never really probe much deeper.

"We can work something out." He said. "Don't worry, everything is going to be fine. Take as much time off as you need. Well, actually be back here by Monday. Is that enough time?"

"Yes!" I said, choking through sobs. "Thank you for understanding!" I dashed out of the office holding my head in my hands like a hysterical 1950's femme gone mad, and hailed a cab to SFO. I bought the only plane ticket I could get to Houston.

"Lisa, I'm coming for you."

"Um...whut?"

"No, I don't mean that in a creepy way. I just told my boss I had a polycystic ovary and started crying, I said I needed time off. I'm coming to see you. I don't want to be here anymore. I need to be back by Monday but at least we can spend a few days together, huh?"

"Whut the Hell? This is sudden...but ah'm excited."

"Yes, so am I. My plane comes in at 7:05. George Bush Intercontinental Airport. I don't have anything packed with me, so I don't have any baggage. I'll see you then."


She picked me up at the airport and held me in an embrace that almost swallowed me. It felt like we'd always known each other, and had just spent a short time apart. So these were the eyes the color of the sky scenes in The Mission district mosaics; the eyes I had only seen over a webcam. These were the curves I vowed to traverse with my hands, the full red lips I wanted so badly to kiss but didn't in fear of being caught in public breaking Texas' fanatical anti-sodomy laws. My body ached with the urge to knock her over and fuck her erratically in the bathroom stall of the airport's ladies room. I refrained.

Lisa took me home and I was introduced to her cat Superman, a Persian, whom she had shaved to look as though he had legwarmers. I scratched him behind the ear.

"Why does he look so pissed off?"

"He jus' looks lahke his mama, that's all."

"Hmm...no. His mama looks more horny than pissed off." I laughed, and so did she.

"Maybe pissed off from y'all livin' so far away and bein' horny all the time through circumstaynce."

"Fuck it!" I said. "I'm putting on Bjork. Will you fuck me to Bjork? I've always wanted to be fucked to Bjork." I put on "Joga".

"All that no-one sees,
You see,
What's inside of me,
Every nerve that hurts,
You heal,
Deep inside of me, oo-oohh,
You don't have to speak,
I feel....
And you push me up to
This state of emergency
How beautiful to be"


"Ah don't believe ah've ever fucked to Bjork before..." She laid down on the bed and put her arm behind her head. I thought she looked beautiful that way, with classic southern belle features and her long, brown hair in a low ponytail. I took off everything I was wearing except a pair of black satin bikini panties.

"Would you fuck me if I ever wore a swan dress?" I put my pinky to my lip a la Doctor Evil.

"Yes."

"Would you fuck me in a swan dress?"

"No." A curt and honest reply. She flipped over on her back and legs in the air, and took off her jeans. From across the room I grinned at such a tease, such an adolescent panty shot.

"Damn, that was a nice angle." I laughed, and she sat up.

"Whut?" She looked confused and she still had her shirt on. I ran at her, and headbutted her smack in the shoulder so that she toppled backward on the bed. I pinned her below me, and in a flurry of heated kisses, barely licked the inner tip of her upper lip with the tip of my tongue, my hands grabbing at her hair. I pulled her shirt off and simultaneously pinched her nipples while nibbling on her lower lip. Hearing a bit of a moan, my hand traveled along her inner forearm to her hand, and held it for a second before slamming it down and pinning it above her head. I ran my tongue along the outer ridge of her ear, sighing breathlessly, and sucking on her earlobe. Surprised at my own eagerness, I realized that I was already straddling one of her thighs, grinding with a steady rhythm, and that she could feel me through the satin, hot and damp against her thigh. I whispered into her ear.

"Mmm...you've got me so wet already, can you feel it?" I nipped her earlobe.

"Yeah...but what the hell are yuh doin' on top?" She slipped out from under me like some sort of renowned escape artist and trapped me below her, spreading apart my legs with her knee. She slammed both of my hands above my head and bit a large portion of my neck, digging into it with her teeth. A loud groan escaped my lips.

"Oh God" I said. She kissed and gently bit her way down my torso, paying particular attention to the part where it met with my hip, and at that I shuddered. She moved to the foot of the bed, and got in-between my legs. Tracing the line of my panties with her tongue, she only once licked my clit through the satin, gauging the tease. She took my underwear off hastily, and tossed them behind her, gazing directly at me as though she meant business. At that moment "Hidden Place" came on, and I think I laughed.

Lisa buried her face between my legs and took me whole in her mouth, warm and wet and full. It had been about a year since I'd known this and I was urgently hungry for it. She sucked my clit into her mouth and flicked at it with the tip of her tongue, moaning as though it nourished her, and whispering, "Damn, you taste so good." She had a tongue that was longer than the other girls I'd been with, and she plunged it into me. I gasped and threw my head back. My hips spasmed upwards and my thighs gripped the sides of her head, my hands again grabbing into her hair and pushing her deeper into me. After a few minutes, she went back to flicking at my clit and, having coated a couple of her fingers in my cum, pushed them inside me, twitching rhythmically at that blessed upward corner known as the g-spot. I wasn't used to something that felt so wholesome.

My last girlfriend raped me, and the way she entered me was violent, impure. This experience was diametrically opposed to that one.

She traveled upward, and I kissed her like I was starving, tasting myself all over her mouth. Her thigh was between my legs and I gripped it hard, rubbing against her with force and raking my nails hard down her back, especially her lower back, where I would feel her shiver. I slid down beneath her and groped for the soft warmth of her breasts, nipping and licking and sucking with anxious fervor.

I raked my nails down her back. I flipped her over and ran them hard down the inside of her thigh, and felt her shiver deeply. I dipped three of my fingers into her mouth, and she sucked on them in agreement. I slid into her pussy gently, and twitched at the corner. She gasped and I knew that I'd hit the right place. So I did it again, to a rhythm, rubbing her clit with the ball of my thumb. The muscles inside of her contracted, I felt her whole body shake violently and she came all over my hand, crying loudly, again in the southern exclamations. She held me close to her, as though I had done a good thing, and I curled up into her chest. We fell asleep that way, and in the morning I marveled over the contrast that her dark eyelashes made against her skin when her lids were shut and the sun came over them. All was peaceful until Superman leaped energetically into her window blinds at 6am, and got his head caught in-between the metal blades, which caused him to meow in loudly in agony.

That was only one of our encounters during the next four nights I spent there, on leave for my supposed polycystic ovary. I remember I called her when I came home, fake sobbing into the phone, "Oh Lisa, I think the baby's yours!"

"Oh hush!" She'd say with Texan sincerity. I began to think about the good and bad aspects of the Information Age. Sometimes you are better off living on a need-to-know basis, not needing the information that lets you know a woman is exactly right for you, 1,500 miles and four states away.


Radical and gynocentric feminist Bionic Femme specializes in short, modern day urban fairy tales of lesbian lust and shame centered around the erotics of loss. She has been published in the 2001 and 2002 editions of the Ignatian literary magazine, writes a lesbian youth column for The Bay Area Reporter, has written several electronica music critiques for The San Francisco Foghorn and is the first place winner of San Joaquin's Red Ribbon essay contest, 1998. She is currently working on a novel entitled, "The Adventures of The Bionic Femme" that focuses on one young lesbian's quest to reinvent herself after a pivotal heartbreak by charading in SF's hotspots as an activist supermodel.

Never unmasked, her true pen name remains a mystery...but she can still be reached at bionicfemme@hotmail.com for personal submission requests and inquiries regarding publication.