It's not Like I'm Gay or Anything

Ok - the usual disclaimers and warnings: This is a work of fiction and all characters in the story are completely made up. Any resemblance to any person alive or dead is purely coincidental. All of the characters are figments of my over-active imagination, but, if they WERE real, they'd be over the age of consent. This work is my own, private work and subject to copyright protection.

Enjoy!

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I'm not a lesbian. Lesbians are those chunky, butchy women with short hair who go around in boy clothes and have lots of tattoos and piercings. That's not me. I'm not gay. Just because I discovered that I like something doesn't make me one of "them."

A few years ago, my friend, Michele, got married. We've known each other since college. There was a group of four of us that continued to hang out after we graduated, but Michele and I were probably the closest. Even though she moved to another city for her job, we still kept in touch. We messaged and texted and called each other pretty regularly, and whenever one of us had a free weekend, we make plans to see each other.

Or, at least we did. Then, she got married. I was in the wedding party and it was a fabulous time, but after the wedding was over, she was Mrs. Baxter and I was still single and living in another city. We still called and texted, but not as frequently. I was moved to a new position at my job (you know the story -- a lot more work and no more pay), and then my mom got sick and, I dunno...I just got busier... and I suppose she got busy, too.

It wasn't like I ditched her; I really didn't have much time for any social life at all. The truth was, I was sort of losing touch with the whole group. Meanwhile, I had gone on a couple of dates with a few guys, but I couldn't even make a commitment to any of them. I had slipped into a boring routine -- work, gym, eat sleep, visit mom, repeat.

A year had gone by since I'd seen her at her wedding when she called me out of the blue. She had a high school reunion coming up and she would be coming into town for the weekend. Could I put her up at my apartment? I asked if Steve would be coming, too, but she told me that, no, he had to work and, besides, it's not like she wanted him to meet any of her old boyfriends. So, of course I said, "Sure, I'd love to see you."

She arrived Thursday evening. Friday evening, there was some sort of happy hour event for her class and then the main reunion was Saturday night. We went out for dinner at a local Mexican place and chatted over margaritas. She and Steve were doing fine. They were saving up to buy a house. No, no plans for kids yet. The company where Steve worked was going through downsizing, though, so they were waiting to see what happened with that before they did anything major. Of course, I didn't really have much to add. Her life sounded dreadfully boring, but it was downright thrilling in comparison to mine.

I had to work on Friday so we packed it in early. Friday night, she had her happy hour thing so I ordered takeout and stayed home with Netflix. She got in late and crashed almost immediately. Saturday, we went to a local winery for a bit and had some lunch before she went off to her reunion. She didn't get home until almost 4 am and she stumbled in loudly. I had given her my bedroom and I was crashing on the sofa, which, incidentally, is where she crashed trying to take her shoes off. I was awakened, but really groggy and out of it. She thought it was hilarious and was giggling like an idiot.

She tried to steady herself using me for leverage, but we both rolled off onto the floor. She landed on top of me with her face inches from mine. For a moment, we said nothing. Then she burst out giggling again. "Ok, ok," I said, trying to shift out from under her but caught in the blanket. "You're drunk."

"I am," she agreed. "Are you drunk?"

"No. I am sleeping. Like a normal person," I replied.

"You should be drunk," she suggested.

"You're squishing me," I said, ignoring her. She always got silly when she drank too much and acknowledging it only made her act sillier.

"You're squishy!" she proclaimed. "Squsihy little Katy! Squish squish squish." She mashed her body into mine.

"Ok, stop," I protested. "You're hurting me."

She frowned. Our faces were still inches apart and her breath reeked of stale booze. I wrinkled my nose. A different expression came over her face. "You're so pretty," she said. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"Someone needs to go get into bed," I said, trying once more to free myself. Then, without warning, she leaned forward and kissed me full on the lips. It was a big smooch that was over in an instant. I froze. "What was that?" I asked.

"This?" she said, and then kissed me again. This time, softer and she lingered a little longer.

"Yes, that. What are you doing?"

"You're so pretty," she repeated. "Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

"Michele," I said, "You're really drunk and you are going to feel really embarrassed tomorrow morning." Then she kissed me again. I was about to push her away. Except... except that this time, it felt nice. I suddenly realized that no one had kissed me in a very long time. She was out of her gourd and had no idea what she was doing and this was probably going to make things very, very awkward, but damn, she was a good kisser. This thought went through my head as I realized that her tongue had worked its way into my mouth and I was shocked at how amazing it felt. It was like I had never kissed anyone before. Ok, I thought, it's just kissing. If I had to be woken up in the middle of the night, I guess this wasn't so bad. I can enjoy some kissing.

We made out for a while. Then she stopped and pulled away. "Are we doing a bad thing?" she asked, her eyes darting around my face.

I put my hand gently on her cheek. "No, Michele, it's not a bad thing. But we need to stop and you need to get some sleep."

"I think I need to get some water and lie down," she said. She slid off of me onto the floor and sat with her knees folded under her. Her clothes were rumpled and her hair and makeup were a mess. She had a confused pout on her face. I got untangled from the blanket, yawned and stretched and then helped her to her feet. I walked her back to the bedroom, helped her out of her clothes and helped her flop into the bed. I went and got a glass of water for her, but when I returned, she was already snoring loudly. I left it on the nightstand and got her some aspirin from the medicine cabinet, figuring that she was going to need it when she woke up.

The next morning, I went for a run early. I had my earbuds in and was listening to my running jam, but all I could think about was kissing her. I wasn't freaking out that my best friend had drunkenly made out with me. I was still blown away by how nice it felt. I kept replaying it over and over in my head. When I got back to the apartment, she was still out cold, so I went ahead and showered and dressed. I put on some coffee and started to make some waffles. I was just about finished when she finally wandered out the bedroom wearing my bathrobe.

"So," I said. "Good party, then?"

She yawned and said that, yes, she had had a good time, but that she had stayed too late and now she was paying the price. Then she went quiet. I was quiet, too. I set our plates on the counter between the kitchen and the living room, heated the syrup in the microwave, and poured us some coffee. We were both still quiet. I was kind of hoping that the silence would pass, that we would move on to some other topic and that nothing need ever be said about our early morning make-out.

Michele took a bite of her waffle and said, "MMMM. This is exactly what I needed. Yuck. My stomach is in knots."

"I bet it is," I agreed. "You were pretty gone, there. How's your head?"

"I'm sorry to have come home in that state," she said. I guess I'm out of practice with drinking. Then we ate in silence for a bit. I didn't make eye contact. "So," she began in a small voice. "I'm guessing you're wondering what that was all about."

"What what was all about?" I was giving her the opportunity to take a pass on explaining her drunken behavior. It was all good, I was ok and there was no need to make it weird now.

"You know what what," she said. Great. Here it comes. "I'm sorry..."

"Shush," I said, trying to steer us away from the weird place. "Nothing needs to be said. Pretend it never happened."

"It's just...." I could see now that there was no avoiding this conversation. Michele wanted to say something so I was just going to have to ride this out. "It's just," she began again, searching for the words, "... I never knew how boring married life could be. I mean, Steve's great, and I love him and he's a terrific husband.... But... Good lord I am so bored. Every time we have sex, it's exactly like the last time we had sex. Over and over again. Every time -- exactly the same. Oh, I've tried to change things up. I've tried to be spontaneous, but there is no changing his patterns." She stopped. Her eyebrows knitted together as if she was wondering if she was over-sharing. She was, but I kept a straight face. Bored? I hadn't had sex in over a year. I hadn't even bothered grooming down there in six months. I'd have taken all the boring sex in the world at this point. She went on, "Sometimes... god, I just want to feel some excitement. Some thrill... you know?"

I did not know. I wanted this conversation to end, but instead, stupid me had to pipe up with a question. "So, have you been fooling around on the side?"

"No!" she blurted. "I haven't done so much as flirt with anyone. But I've fantasized. I've fantasized about everything and everyone. It's like I'm walking around like a ticking time bomb of horniness. Then, last night... It was like a singles' hookup party. All the married people left by ten, but everyone who hadn't gotten hitched stayed and it was like they were all determined to live out their unrealized high school sex dreams. All around me, people were hooking up all over the place, and I didn't even have Steve around for regular boring sex."

"So, last night was just you drunk and worked up?" I asked.

"Uh huh."

"And that's not going to happen again?"

There was a pause. "I don't want to freak you out," she said, turning beet red, "But I was actually kinda hoping maybe something would happen." There was a long silence. I arched my eyebrow.

"I see. Does Steve know that you swing both ways?" I asked.

"No, no," she said. "It's not like that. It's, uh... well..." She tried to find the right words. "I've been thinking about it and I decided that it wouldn't be cheating if I did something with another girl. I mean, if I had a fling with a guy, I'd feel horrible. The thought of what that would do to Steve makes me sick to my stomach. But if Steve ever found out that I'd dabbled in same-sex experimentation... he'd probably be into it. Hell, it might even inspire him to have decent sex with me for a change."

I was torn. On the one hand, I was pissed off that my own best friend had used me for an experiment. Like my feelings on the subject didn't matter. What if it ruined our friendship? What if it WAS ruining our friendship? On the other hand, I couldn't get over how awesome it was making out with her. I had been in a daze all morning. I had loved it and wanted to try it some more... but... I was so confused. I'm not gay. Not even a little bit.

"Are you saying that you want to get out your sexual frustration with your husband by fucking girls?" I paused. "Why me?"

"Because you're my best friend. I figured that, if there was one person I could trust with this secret, it would be you. It's not like I'm going to start hanging around in lesbian bars and start picking up random women. It's more like..."

"Like friends with benefits?" I said, finishing her sentence.

"Yeah, that," she said. "Besides, we're both pretty hot, right? I mean, come on, if I was going to get it on with a chick, why not a cute one?"

I laughed. We were not hot...not like movie stars or something... But we were both still in our late 20's and attractive and in good shape. My lack of any social life meant I was spending a lot of time at the gym and, yeah, I was proud of my body.

"I'm not gay," I said flatly.

"I'm not either!" She insisted. "This isn't the 1950's, Katy. No one declares you gay just because you experimented a little. Heck, half the girls in our dorm at college made out with other girls just to get more attention from the guys. None of them were gay. The world doesn't stick everyone into strict categories like that anymore." She paused. "Look, you like guys, right?

"Of course," I replied.

"See. But, tell me that you didn't enjoy that last night. I may have been drunk, but it felt.... Nice... and I know you thought so too. Am I right?"

I blushed. And then I could feel the corners of my mouth pulling into an involuntary smile that I tried to stifle. "Yeah, ok, yes. I was a LITTLE bit nice."

"And you woke up this morning still liking guys, right?"

"Yes."

"So, you can fool around a little bit, enjoy some physical action just for fun, and not turn gay, right?"

She had a point and I guess I was mostly relieved that I wasn't wrong about enjoying making out with her. It WAS nice. It DID feel good. And so what? Why shouldn't I have a little tiny bit of pleasure. It's not like I was even dating anyone. SHE was the one who was cheating on her husband... maybe??

"Ok, look," I said. "I did enjoy it and, sure, ok, I'm not opposed to doing it again... IF it happens naturally. IF we get together and we're in the mood and you decide that you need a little release of tension... we can see how far I'm comfortable going..."

She broke out into a huge grin and squealed "Yay! I'm so relieved. Oh, this is..."

"But," I said, warning her, "I don't know how far I'm willing to go. You have to understand and accept that you might try to go further than I'm ok with and you HAVE to respect that and back off if I say so. Otherwise, we will end up not being friends anymore."

"Of COURSE," she said. "I'm not trying to push anything. I don't even know how far I'M willing to go. Last night was the first time I ever tried anything like that with anyone and it took a whole lotta booze to work up the courage. Honestly, I think just knowing that we MIGHT try to play a little bit might be enough to relive my frustration... just knowing that it's something that is in the realm of possibility."

There was a long silence, then, she looked me in the eye and said, "So.... Are we ok?"

I hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. "Yes, Michele. We are good."

She left after a shower and a little time to get her things together. I didn't see her for nearly a month after that. Our texts and calls were all perfectly normal, like nothing had happened. I have no idea if she found someone else to experiment with, but I know that the thought never crossed my mind at all. I wasn't actively looking to hook up with anyone and certainly not a girl. I'm not gay, after all. When I did see her, she and Steve were in town looking for houses. Her company had an opening at their office nearby and Steve was working remotely, and the houses here were a lot cheaper than in the city where they had been living. Plus, she wanted to be closer to her family, so it all worked out.

They ended up buying a townhouse about 45 minutes away from me. After that, we got together a lot more often. We went out for drinks and shopping and dinners and out to parties. Sometimes it was just the two of us, sometimes some of the other women from our old college group joined us, sometimes it was with people she knew that I didn't.

Michele always seemed to have some excuse to get me away from other people, even for just a brief minute, and as soon as we were alone, she'd sneak a quick kiss. Sometimes, we actually made out a little bit... but nothing more than that. Looking back, I think that it was more the thrill of doing something naughty and the risk that we might get caught that excited her more than the actual kissing. As soon as she heard a noise, she'd jump back and pretend that nothing was happening.

Before long, she started to progress to more and more risky acts. Once, when we were at a house party for one of her neighbors -- it was one of those idiotic parties where the host tries to sell you something -- I can't even remember now what it was -- and we were both waiting for the bathroom. One of the guests was in there and we were in a hallway out of view of the living room. Michele felt up my boob when she kissed me. That was a first. Later on at the same party, she slipped her hand up my sweater and felt my boob through my bra. But once again, at the first sound, she converted back to her Stepford Wife persona in an instant.

After that, the seal was broken, I suppose. The next time I saw her, we went to a movie. It was some romantic comedy that Steve refused to sit through. In the dark, I felt her hand caressing my breast, but when I looked over, she was staring straight ahead, intently watching the film while absentmindedly playing with me. So, I lifted up my shirt and pulled the cup of my bra down, giving her access to my bare flesh. We sat there like that for a while, both of us glued to the screen, but with her squeezing and caressing my breast; feeling its weight in her hand and rolling my nipple between her fingers. I was happy to give her something she enjoyed with so little effort and I found that it didn't bother me at all.

After a while, I just stopped wearing a bra when we were going to get together. It just made more sense and then I wouldn't have an underwire poking me in the ribs while she did her thing and I wouldn't have to readjust all my clothing afterwards. She could just feel me up as she liked without a fuss. Which she did. Once, at an outdoor shopping mall, she guided me into a tight alley between shops and started kissing me. I was wearing jeans and she tied unzipping me and slipping her hand inside. But it was too tight for that, and all I got was a sharp jab from her fingernail. After that, I decided that, if she was going to feel up my puss, I should skip the panties and make an effort to wear looser pants or skirts when we were together.

She seemed to like that and before long, she had her hands on my puss whenever she got me alone. She never went inside; she'd just run her fingers through my trimmed bush (I kinda liked that), and then tease my clit a bit. That sometimes left me wet and the feeling of my wetness smearing my thighs when I walked after she did that was uncomfortable. I wanted to tell her to stop doing that, but she seemed to be happy with it, so I decided not to say anything.

It never progressed beyond that. I was fine with that. I had gone along with her far enough with her games -- a lot farther than I ever thought I would have gone. But after a while, it was starting to get old. I had gone on a couple of dates -- including one with a guy that she tried to set me up with -- but nothing stuck. I had fun, but the guys were either not really interested or only interested in jumping immediately to sex and I wasn't doing that. I'm not gay, but I'm not a slut, either.

After a while of being on my own, I started to resent what Michele was doing. She'd get herself all worked up by playing around with me, and then go do her husband. It was a perfect solution for her, and seemed to be solving the problem with her married sex life, but it wasn't doing anything for me. Sometimes when she'd be teasing my clit, I'd be secretly wishing she'd just full on finger-fuck me so that I could get some release. But it never happened. I got a tease and she went home to get a fuck.

I finally decided to invite her over for lunch one Sunday afternoon so that we could talk. I really needed to tell her that it was time to stop the games. She had her fun and I had enjoyed playing along, but now it was making me uncomfortable and our lopsided relationship wasn't fair. I made us some crȇpes with a salmon and white cream sauce filling and paired it with a Sancerre. I figured that, after a nice meal and a glass of good wine, we'd both be relaxed and we would be able to speak more freely.