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Message-ID: <48333asstr$1088507401@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Alexis Siefert <ealexissiefert@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} RP - I Taught Her That (Alexis S) (FF)
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Date: Tue, 29 Jun 2004 07:10:01 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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<1st attachment, "I_Taught_Her_That.txt" begin>

I Taught Her That By Alexis Siefert (c) 2003

I could feel her breath. She leaned in close, lifted up on her
toes to reach his ear, and whispered something naughty. I couldn't
hear what, but it didn't matter. I could tell it was naughty.
Whenever she whispered like that, with her fingers fluttering at
his waist and a hint of the almost-but-not-quite embarrassed blush
that started right at her collarbone, I knew whatever she was
saying was meant to excite her enthralled listener. 

I should know. I taught her that.

She used to do that to me. When we were together, in the
beginning, she'd stroke my side when we were together, just like
she's doing to him now. It was easy for her to do that in public.
No one had to know how intimate that touch really was.

And then she'd giggle, lift up on her toes, and whisper something
salacious and suggestive guaranteed to make me shiver. Then she'd
blush. And I'd melt. It was a cheap trick, and it worked every time.

I should know. I taught her how to do that.

Not the blush. The blush is all hers, and she gets a lot of
mileage out of it. Some endearing little traits come naturally, but
others definitely take work. Like a pre-teen schoolgirl practices
putting on her eye shadow and lip gloss and blush in front of her
vanity mirror, a young woman practices her laugh and her hand
movements so they look and sound casual, yet lilting. She sits at
her dressing table and practices looking up from under lowered
lashes and giving just the right delicate shake of her head to make
that errant lock of hair fall 'casually' over her left eye. After
all, what better way to get Him to feel her perfect skin and to
gaze deeply into her perfect eyes, and lean close enough to smell
the delicate scent of her thirty-dollar-a-bottle shower gel and
sixty-five-dollar-a-box after-bath talc, than to give him a reason
to brush that lock of hair back behind her ear? 

The men love that, the hair thing. Somewhere they've been told
that it makes them seem more 'romantic,' and they're convinced that
we women will get completely butter-kneed and unable to resist
their frighteningly transparent efforts to get between our legs.

But no one tells girls that they're supposed to practice, to teach
themselves how to be charming and sweet and sexy and sultry and
innocent all at the same time. So most of girls go through their
teen years desperately longing for a clue. Desperately yearning--as
only teenaged girls can yearn--for The Answer, searching for the
thing that will make the boys look at them like they look at Carrie
Newell, head cheerleader and all-around favorite girl.

Then, if they're lucky, somewhere at the end of their miserable
teen years, the penny drops, and the girls Get It. Carrie Newell
wasn't born like that. Carrie Newell doesn't roll out of bed
looking like God's gift to wet dreams. So, they sit at their
mirrors and take stock of their good points. They experiment with
honey-blonde rinses and Cover Girl blusher, they stop eating Mom's
mashed potatoes, and they start practicing. They wink and giggle
and flip their bangs back until they, too, know that the boys will
be slavering and sniggling, and although they protest and stomp
their pretty feet, inside they're thrilled to find out that their
name is included on the "girls we'd do" lists that the boys pass
around.

I was even luckier. I'm Carrie. The perky breasts and blonde hair
and blue eyes and peaches-and-cream skin are God-given. I couldn't
figure out what the big deal was. I couldn't understand why the
girls got all giggly and silly around the boys, but it seemed like
an important thing. But since it wasn't all that important to me,
the pressure was off, and I could develop those feminine wiles,
using my desperate, unsuspecting high school classmates as test
subjects. 

That was before it was "in" to be a lesbian, or to have lesbian
experiences. That was back when lesbians all had to have short hair
and tough-looking tattoos and no breasts. Perky blonde pretty
cheerleaders couldn't be lesbians, and in rural Iowa, the only
'experimenting' that gets done had best be with a member of the
opposite sex. 

So I figured the liking-guys thing would come with time. 
Meanwhile I taught myself how to be attractive, and I tried to make
myself want the boys. I had my sexual experiences under the
bleachers of the football stadium like all of the other perky
blonde cheerleaders. Fumbling, awkward experiences. There's nothing
at all magical about two teenagers having sex. They're not smart
enough about their own bodies to truly enjoy it. And what teens
understand about the opposite set of genitalia would fit on the tip
of my perky little teenaged nipple. So, I let the boys feel my
breasts and I put my hand down their Levi's, and everything was as
it should be.

It wasn't until I left small town high school that I was able to
figure out what sex was supposed to be like. Actually, it wasn't
until after I left small town college. After two years of flitting
around majors and departments, and trying to find lust and love
amongst the graduate student TAs responsible for giving me a
passing grade in Chemistry 105 lab, I came to the realization that
I didn't know who I was. And until I figured that part out,
shelling out tuition money each semester was a waste of resources. 

So, I left and went west. I kept going until I hit blue water and
warm beaches and an entire state full of employers awestruck by
anyone who got to work before 10:30 in the morning. I never thought
that growing up in farm country would turn out to be an advantage,
but there's something to be said for the Midwestern work ethic. I
signed on with a temporary agency to do office jobs and discovered
that I liked it. I worked when I wanted to, and since the jobs were
temporary, I could take off and travel around southern California.

And I explored. Not only were the employers awestruck, the men of
Southern California were all-too-willing to be part of a young,
relatively innocent, pretty farm girl's West Coast education. I
dated men from bars, from my apartment building, from the offices
where I worked, from the corner grocery store. I went to dinner,
and I went to clubs and, with some of them, I went to bed. Men who
were charming and smooth and confident at dinner or on the dance
floor, I figured would be charming and smooth and confident during
sex. If a man could move my body to the beat of the music, I hoped
he'd be able to move with my body in a sexual rhythm that I knew I
had somewhere inside. 

I discovered that even grown up men don't really understand a
woman's body. I knew I was missing out on something. I watched the
electric connection between couples on the boardwalk and I longed
to feel what they were feeling. I dated. I dated and dated and
dated. Men from bars, men from offices, men from the club.
Professional men, surfer boys, older men, father figures, and
grandfather figures. They'd lie over me, or beside me, and thrust
their fingers into my KY'd pussy in their obligatory foreplay
attempt. Then they'd spread my thighs, and push and pound and grunt
and groan for five minutes. I closed my eyes and tried to make it
feel good. 

Then I found out that men may not understand a woman's body, but
another woman does. Beautifully.

The first time was a surprise. I was nursing a vodka-on-the-rocks
and eating chips and salsa on the veranda of a Tex-Mex café,
watching the sun set over the ocean when Anita joined me. She
didn't ask, she just sat down without saying anything, drank her
drink, and ate my chips and salsa until all that was left were corn-
chip crumbs in the plastic basket, melting ice in our glasses, and
red streaks reflecting on the water.

Then she spoke.

"I haven't seen you around before. Why not?"

And, despite my attempts to be California-cool, Iowa-cheerleader
answered her. "I've only been here a few months. I'm still getting
my bearings."

California-cool arched eyebrow. "Oh? Tell you what. Come back to
my place and I'll help you get your 'bearings.'"

I could have feigned ignorance and left, but I didn't. Had a man
used that line, I'd have picked up my purse and walked out. But
this was a woman, and a beautiful woman. Where I was perky blonde
American Beauty cheerleader, she was exotic Like Water for
Chocolate sensual. Ebony hair, tanned skin, chocolate brown eyes,
and a voice that reached between my thighs and did very pleasurable
things to my insides.

So, I threw aside the Iowa small-town reservations, and I went.
And her voice wasn't the only thing that did pleasurable things to
my insides. 

Her name was Anita, and we stayed together for the next six
months. She opened herself up to me, and she was so patient. She
let me explore her body as I'd only previously explored my own. We
spent whole weekends in bed together tracing erotic pathways over
each other's breasts and thighs. She touched me the way she wanted
to be touched, and I imitated her finger strokes. We'd lie on top
of the cotton sheets next to the open window and let the salt
breeze wash over us as I learned what it was like to have an orgasm
brought only by someone else's tongue. Gone were the painful and
fumbling pokes and jabs and thrusts that I remembered from under
the stadium bleachers.

She took me dancing, and introduced me to places I'd only
imagined. Bars full of women, openly admiring each other. Clubs
packed with women of all shapes, sizes, colors, butch and femme,
dancing together, holding each other, sharing drinks and secrets
and strokes and kisses. Gatherings where no one was furtive. Where
being a lesbian wasn't being "different." I felt as though I'd
finally come home.

It didn't last. First romances rarely last. We drifted apart,
congenially, but there was a finality to our parting. She was my
first, and I'll always love her for that. She taught me how to be
with a woman, and I'll always love her for that.

~~~~~~

I spent the next year wandering from casual relationship to casual
relationship. It was easy. There were women all over the place.
Tanned women, fit women, bikinis and sarongs and sunglasses and
breasts and lips. I never lost the look of my Iowa Farm Girl
naïveté, and I reveled in the attention of the women ready to help
me explore the delights of their body. They all taught me something
new. 

Bekka taught me how to wrap my lips around her clit and suck ever
so gently, delicately drawing the moans from her throat until she
whimpered. Lori taught me to listen to her breath come in gasps and
starts and not to stop my tongue until she tightened her thighs
around my head and collapsed in a quivering heap on the bed. Chris
taught me that men are bedroom simpletons and all of the wonderful,
flirty poses and giggles and sighs that I'd perfected were
transparent to the women who had also perfected the same poses and
giggles and sighs. Holly taught me that there's no way to equate
the rough thrusting of a single, thick, stiff cock with the gentle
brushing, twirling, flicking and fluttering strokes of two flexible
moving fingers. 

 From them all I learned how to finally let go. How to discover my
own rhythm with another person. From all of them I learned that sex
is amazing.  I had always been beautiful, but now I was beautiful
and confident. I fell into Southern California with fervor. 

It was so easy. Falling in and out of love, falling in and out of
lust. I was enthralled with the smooth skin and soft bodies. So
different from the sharp angles and sandpaper-rough chins. It was
easier to click with the women. The bullshit back-and-forth that is
so fundamental between men and women was pushed aside. They knew
when I was full of crap. And it really was enough for a long time. 

~~~~~~

I met Chloë at the office. I had stopped working temp jobs and
settled into a secretarial position at a California steel building
company. Construction workers and project managers and designers
and contractors. It was a big firm with enough employees to keep
the workplace from becoming too cozy. We were all friendly, and
there were the occasional Friday night, just won a big bid,
celebratory drink bashes, but on the whole we did our jobs and went
our separate ways when the workday ended. With the exception of
baby showers and divorce announcements, I couldn't have told you
much about the personal lives of any of my co-workers.

Until Chloë started. 

She was a project engineer. A project manager brought in to help
oversee a massive office/hotel/convention center job we'd just
successfully bid. She looked like a construction project manager.
She had graduated from actual construction work, but from the
wonderfully defined lines of her shoulders and the delicately
sculpted muscles of her biceps it was obvious she'd paid her dues
working with a welding torch and she also knew her way around a set
of blueprints and specs. There were the initial, obligatory passes
made by the men--it was a sort of initiation--and Chloë held her
own. She gently, but without question, made it clear that she was
the boss, and not to be trifled with. 

The week after she started, some wiseass left a trashy pinup taped
to the wall of her cubicle, some black-and-white spread beaver shot
from a cheap magazine. Chloë didn't blink twice when she saw it.
She pulled it from the wall, glanced at it appraisingly, and
muttered, "nice tits" before wadding it and tossing it casually in
her trash. The guys pretty much left her alone after that. She knew
her job, she called bullshit on the men when they deserved it, and,
once they saw her leave for lunch, arm-in-arm with  an engineering
consultant, the dyke jokes pretty much stopped also. That's also
when I stopped looking seriously. She was beautiful, but not
charming. She had beautiful eyes and great lips, but there was
awkwardness in her demeanor that kept people from flocking around
her. She laughed too loud at the big boss's jokes during project
meetings, or she didn't laugh enough at the jokes told by everyone
else at the water cooler on Monday mornings. She wore jeans and
sweatshirts that hid the curves I suspected were longing to be
exposed. But she apparently had her man, and I had enough female
friends. So, I took her off the possibilities list and put her out
of my mind.

Until the day I found her in the Ladies' Room. I heard crying. I
could hear it from the hallway and it's not something you can
ignore. If it's bad enough to be bawling at work about it, someone
needs to do something about it, and construction firms--even large
ones--are critically lacking in the compassionate female category. 

Chloë was in a closed stall, but I could see her shoes under the
door. I knocked gently--I wasn't sure if she'd be open to my
overtures.

"Chloë? It's Carrie. Can I help?" 

The door pushed open and I stepped back against the sink. She was
a mess. Her eyes were puffy and swollen. Tears left black mascara-
tracks down her cheeks.

"I don't understand men, Carrie. I just don't get it."

"Fuck, Chloë. Men aren't that complicated. Give 'em the remote,
and a beer, fuck 'em, and compliment their skills at the grill.
What could be easier?"

She burst into fresh tears. Okay, it wasn't the right moment for
smartass.

"Oh, Chloë. I'm sorry. Tell me what happened. Maybe we can fix it."

"He found someone else, that's what happened. And he told me
today. Over lunch. I was happily enjoying my soup and, out of the
blue, he asks for his apartment key back. He's got my stuff packed
up, and he'll bring it by tonight, and could I have his stuff ready
for him to pick up? Damn it, Carrie. He didn't give me any warning.
I thought things were great. I don't know what happened."

"I don't know what to tell you, Chloë. Men are pigs. Do you want
him back?" I ran a paper towel under the cold water and handed it
to her.

"Here. Dab, don't rub, you'll only make it worse. You're a mess."

More tears, but with less heart behind them now.

"I don't know if I want him back, but I want to know why there's
always a someone else they're leaving to. What is it, Carrie?"

I thought for a moment. I knew what it was, but there was no nice
way to tell her. Especially not right now, as she stood appraising
her streaked and puffy face in the hideous fluorescent lights of
the Ladies' room. Men left her because the penny never dropped for
her. She never learned how to play the games. She was an
intelligent, capable woman, and although men think that's what they
want, pretty soon they start to wonder if it wouldn't be better to
have flirty and giggly and perky instead. The trick, the lucky
girls learned early, was to get that perky thing in as bait, then
hook them with the intelligent-capable combination. She didn't have
the bait. But it was the wrong time to mention it. I figured it was
girlfriend time. Female bonding in a male-dominated building. 

"Chloë, look. You and I both know that it's his loss and that
he'll get tired of whatever bimbette he dumped you for--or she'll
get tired of him and leave him the same way he dumped you. So
here's what you do. Pack his stuff in a grocery bag and have it
ready for him tonight. Let me bring over dinner. We'll be happy and
cheerful when he gets there, and he'll realize that you're none the
worse for him leaving. It will drive him nuts, and you'll feel
better."

She thought for a minute.

"You'd do that for me? Why?"

I didn't know why. It was a girl thing.

"Because that's what women do, Chloë. So, we're on? Your place.
I'll bring dinner and wine, you supply music and candles, and we'll
make him regret ever setting eyes on the bimbo du jour."

"Thanks, Carrie. I appreciate it."

I got directions, she washed her face, and we both went back to
work.

~~~~~

She was still a mess when I got to her place. It was obvious she'd
been cleaning and rearranging--there's no quick way to get rid of
the sofa-leg marks in the carpet when you move things around--but I
figured she was nervous about her now-ex showing up, not about
having me there. She'd taken some care with her hair and her
makeup, although there was still a telltale red tinge to her eyes
from what I figured had been an all-day, on-again-off-again crying
jag. 

She'd dressed carefully also. I could tell. A man might not have
noticed. Her jeans were a little tighter than what she'd wear to
work and her blouse showed a bit more cleavage than would be
appropriate. Nothing obvious, just care. I wondered for whose
benefit she intended the cleavage. My interest piqued, and I felt a
stirring in my belly. I forced myself to concentrate on dinner. A
woman freshly scorned is no woman to get involved with. Especially
a repeatedly scorned straight woman. This is friends only, Carrie.
She's not a date. Be a girl, not a Prospect this time. Damn
hormones.

Dinner was awkward at first. We didn't know each other and there
were a lot of pleasantries to work through before we could figure
out if we could be friends. Childhood, growing up, where, how fast,
other jobs, music, movies, the surface images of our lifetimes
exchanged over spaghetti and garlic bread and so-so white wine.

We had moved the dishes into the sink and opened the second bottle
of wine when the doorbell rang. Chloë nearly dropped her glass when
the chime sang through the apartment.

"Damn it."

She dabbed at the wine stain spreading above her left breast.

"I'm such an idiot. Answer the door, will you? Let me change real
quick before I see him."

"No. Stop. This is perfect. Trust me. Follow my lead, and I
guarantee he'll be regretting his decision before he's back to his
car."

She was skeptical, but when the doorbell rang again, she stood and
looked at me.

"Okay. Tell me what to do."

"Answer the door. Hold your wine glass in your hand and smile.
Like you mean it. Like you forgot he was coming. I'll be right
there." I went into the kitchen as I heard the door open. I
couldn't hear his words, but I didn't like his voice. He wasn't
nice. I hurried, grabbed a dishtowel, and ran it under the faucet.

In my sweetest, didn't-know-anyone-was-here voice, I called out in
the direction of the living room.

"Chloë? Don't rub your blouse--we don't want it to stain. I'm
coming. Who rang the bell?"

Mr. Steel Worker was standing in her door, dumbly holding a
cardboard box. Chloë stood just as dumbly, holding the door open. I
walked to stand between them.

"Hi. I'm Carrie. Chloë, let me see that stain." I slipped my hand
beneath the open collar of her blouse to push it away from her skin
and began to dab at the spilled wine. I could feel her pulse
pounding under my fingers and her skin was hot. She was starting to
blush and I was afraid she'd stammer if she tried to speak, which,
of course, would ruin the game.

"You must be...?" I let my voice trail off, but I didn't stop
dabbing to offer either my hand or my assistance with the box. 

"Matt. I brought Chloë's things."

I pretended to think, letting the silence build a bit. I could
hear him breathing in the doorway behind me, and I wondered how
long I could make him stand there. I let my hand linger and brushed
my fingers obviously over her collarbone before I turned to face
him. 

"Oh. That's right. Shees, it sure took you a long time to catch
on, didn't it? Chloë did mention you might be dropping by. You can
just set that box over there,"

I gestured vaguely at the dining table.

"Chloë? Where did you say you put Matt's things?"

"What? Oh. Um. There."

Not the smoothest chocolate in the box, this girl. No wonder men
weren't exactly falling over themselves to keep her around. She
pointed to a paper grocery bag. Good girl. I was afraid she'd have
his things neatly pressed and on hangers for him. I picked up the
bag.

"So, Matt," I added an emphasis to his name, dropping my voice a
half-octave as I spoke. "If there's nothing else?"

I handed him the bag and reached behind Chloë to start closing the
door.

"Look, Chloë," he said, full of bravado, "I'm really sorry about
this, but you know how it is."

I could hear her breath hitch, and I knew she'd break if I let her
talk, so I jumped in.

"Matt. Thanks, really, for stopping by. If there's anything you
forgot, you can call the office and Chloë will put it in the mail
to you. Or if she's not there, feel free to ask for Carrie. I'll
make sure she gets the message."

I put my hand around Chloë's waist and pulled her back gently
before shutting the door. We waited a ten-count before we heard his
footsteps heading away from the door, and I could feel her relax
against my shoulder.

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it? And I guarantee you he's
fuming about how delighted you were to be getting rid of his
things."

"Carrie? What do you think he thought? I mean...about you and me
and you being here and the wine and your arm and..."

I was wondering the same thing myself, and I wasn't sure I was
comfortable with my thoughts.

"Chloë, relax. He'll think all sorts of things., Which is exactly
what you want him to do. He's an asshole, and there's no point
wasting any more energy on him."

We were still standing at the door, and she was still leaning
against me. My hand tightened a bit around her waist and I started
to realize just how much of the wine she'd had. I wondered if I was
talking to rational-Chloë or to drunk-Chloë. I figured someone in
between the two.

"Carrie?"

Her voice mushed slightly on the r's.

"Carrie? You're not interested in men, are you? There are rumors,
you know, the men, how they talk? They say that you're a, well,
you're...you know."

Truth or consequences time. I wasn't in hiding, but I wasn't
"open" at work either. I didn't flaunt, because it still worked to
my advantage sometimes to be able to smile and flirt. I wasn't sure
I wanted to deal with the bigotry that was rampant in construction
firms. Hot chick-on-chick action is big with the burly guy crowd--
but only in stag films.

"I'm what, Chloë? A lesbian?"

"Right. A lesbian."

It was the wine, it had to be the wine. She flushed from her
collar to her ears, but it was cute. Damn-adorable-cute. It was the
first time I'd seen her relaxed since she came to work, and it took
away the awkwardness that always made her less than approachable. I
pulled her closer to me, experimentally, my hand tracing circles on
her lower back. She could pull back any time she wanted to. I
wasn't pushing, and I wouldn't push. But if this was what she
wanted...

I stroked her hair, brushing it back behind her ears. Her hands
came up to wrap around mine, our fingers intertwined. I brought our
hands to my lips and kissed her fingers softly. 

"Tell me to stop, Chloë. Tell me to stop and I'll stop and we'll
leave it at this." 

"No. I don't want you to stop."

I didn't. 

~~~~~~~

For the next three months I didn't stop. She wanted to explore and
discover, and I reveled in it. It wasn't perfect--relationships
never are--but it was close. She was warm and gentle. In bed, she
was tenuous and hesitant, and it was irresistible. I thought about
Anita and how she had introduced me to her body. I tried to be
loving and sensuous like Anita had been, and I found my new role--
as teacher instead of student--confusing and liberating at the same
time. 

We were professional at work and neither of us wanted to answer
questions about propriety in the work place. But nights were
different. Nights were ours. We left work at work, and closed our
world in around us like a cocoon. In the heat of the California
summer, we'd lie on her balcony, staring up at the sky as we shared
an ice-cold bottle of wine. She drew languorous illustrations on my
belly, tracing invisible lines as she'd trace the lines of a
blueprint, then with the tip of her tongue, lick away her artwork.

She became beautiful. She found comfort and confidence in her
body. I realized she was watching me during the day, imitating my
gestures and mannerisms. 

We talked about it once, about how beautiful she was. She didn't
believe me. I'd whisper to her, telling her how much I loved her
breasts and her cheeks and her eyes and her lips.

"Beautiful Chloë," I'd taken to calling her, "with lips like roses
and eyes like the sky. A face to drive men mad." She laughed at me
when I'd say it, brushing aside my compliments with a flick of her
wrist and a giggle. 

"Stop, Carrie. Don't tease."

She didn't see it, at first. She didn't see that the more she
loved me, the more she allowed me to love her, the more beautiful
she became.

She may not have seen it, but the men noticed. I saw them take
surprised second looks as she walked by. They watched her bend over
to retrieve dropped pens. She knew they were watching, and I think
she dropped her pens on purpose. She no longer cared, and because
she didn't care, they watched her all the more. 

Saturdays were ours. Only ours. I tried to introduce her to the
social life, to the world of being comfortable with being a
lesbian, but she was reluctant to take that step. She was afraid of
being seen, afraid of having to explain. So, we stayed in. Then one
day Chloë cried. 

"Oh, Carrie. I don't know any more. I don't know if this is who I
am, really."

I should have listened. But I didn't want to. I wanted her to be
part of me. I wanted to show her how happy she could be, how happy
I was with her. But it didn't last. It wasn't my first relationship
with a woman, but it was hers. And first relationships never last.
It was sudden. Friday night she was too tired to go out, and she
didn't want to stay in. I found out later that she wanted to stay
in, but not with me.

His name was Roger and he was one of our contractors. He noticed
Chloë--everyone noticed Chloë now--but the difference this time was
that she noticed him back. I didn't want to believe it. I told
myself that she was just flirting, trying out her new look, her new
bag of tricks. She was a beautiful woman, and she had learned how
to use her beauty. I saw it coming. She told me about it the next
week.

"I'm sorry, Carrie."

She cried. Big tears, real tears, turning her beautiful face puffy
and streaked. "This just isn't who I am. I thought I might be, and
you were wonderful, but it's just not me."

What could I say to that? So now, as I watch her flirt and giggle,
I know that she's happy and she's beautiful. And I know that she
knows it, because I taught her that.

There's another woman. She's in my building, and she's been acting
interested, but I'm staying away. I saw her boyfriend move out last
week, and it's not a good idea to get involved with a woman who
wants to explore her sexuality. I know this now.

Chloë taught me that.


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