Confessions of a Straight Gay Woman

eXtasy Books

Heat Rating: Steamy
Word Count: 44,726
0 Ratings (0.0)

Having sex with a woman isn’t all that different than having sex with a man—or so Rachel Havemeyer quickly discovers. Ray, a hapless alcoholic with a rare knack for attracting bad boys, simply can’t take another heartbreak. So her brilliant solution is to stop falling in love with men. There is only one problem…

Ray meets a woman who promptly falls in love with her! Will this staunch heterosexual be able to successfully navigate life as a lesbian? Or is she doomed to recreate the same patterns of heartache and hurt, only this time as the heartbreaker rather than the breakee?

As you follow Ray into a world of sexual exploration, you’ll find yourself wondering only one thing. What will this straight gay woman confess next?

Confessions of a Straight Gay Woman
0 Ratings (0.0)

Confessions of a Straight Gay Woman

eXtasy Books

Heat Rating: Steamy
Word Count: 44,726
0 Ratings (0.0)
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Cover Art by Latrisha Waters
Excerpt

Having sex with a woman isn’t all that different from having sex with a man—or so I quickly discovered. The first time I fucked a woman, I was twenty-eight years old. She was gay and I was straight. I have always been staunchly heterosexual.

For me, being gay was an experiment. I wasn’t even really sure what to do the first time I beheld another woman’s sexual nexus. I was awkward. She was experienced. Nonetheless, I diligently applied myself to the task. When I tasted her, she possessed a strange, exotic, spicy flavor. I wondered if I tasted like she did. Her fluids weren’t like the funky, manly spunk of any of my exes.

Her name was Leda. She was as graceful and as beautiful as the swan in Greek mythology. I was far less polished. I wore black combat boots with a mini-skirt. She dressed in tennis whites. At the time, I was newly sober and wanting desperately to be anything other than who I was. Reeling from heartbreak, fresh out of rehab, I had gotten a part time job making bad coffee and serving overpriced scones to wealthy Manhattan socialites. The tips were good and no one seemed to mind that my wardrobe was comprised of too-short skirts, ripped jeans, and t-shirts, which sported sarcastic sayings such as Virginity is not dignity. It’s just lack of opportunity, Warning! Contains Bitterness and Resentment, and Kiss me where I pee.

The day Leda and I met, I was in an unusually surly mood. I had just finished cleaning out the glass display case of bagels and baked goods. She walked in fifteen minutes before closing time. I had already cleared out the cash register. All I wanted to do was to head home, crawl under the covers, and pretend not to hate being sober.

Then in walked some prissy New York bitch in her tennis skirt with her racquet strapped to her back. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. I rolled my eyes at the sight of her. Leda looked like one of the girls I had grown up with back in Greenwich, Connecticut. She was a parody of middle class affluence. She was blond, of course. And beautiful. Still, the moment I saw Leda, what swelled up in me was not desire. It was hatred. I felt blind rage at the beautiful, clearly privileged, slightly sweaty stranger.

Leda had a sultry voice like a late night female radio host. It smacked of sensuality. Every word that she spoke hinted at sex.

“Is there anything left to eat?” she asked. “I’m in the mood for something sweet.”

“I’ve got some brownies, a couple of muffins, a Rice Krispie treat, and a few cinnamon scones,” I replied curtly.

“I’ll have a coffee, with milk, no sugar, and a cinnamon scone.” She smiled at me. “Please.”

“You want that warmed up?”

“Hot.”

I blinked awkwardly. Was she flirting with me? Her voice made even the most innocuous comment sound sexual.

“Could I get some butter and jelly on that?”

I heated up her scone, making it hot, as requested.

“What do I owe you?” Leda asked as I handed her the pastry along with her cup of coffee.

“It’s on the house,” I shrugged.

I wasn’t being suave. I was being lazy. I had already counted out my drawer. I didn’t feel like repeating the entire closeout procedure.

“Thanks.” She smiled at me. “My name’s Leda.”

“Okay,” I said snappily. “You need anything else? I’m closing in a few minutes.”

Leda laughed. Her laugh was startlingly loud, not at all feminine. It took me by surprise.

“How about your name?” She winked at me.

“Oh. Yeah. I’m Ray. It’s short for Rachel.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Rachel.”

“My name is Ray. No one calls me Rachel,” I told her.

“Well, now I do. And I’m not no one.” She winked again.

No shit! I thought as the girl with the name of a mythological swan glided out of the coffee shop. Suddenly, I found myself laughing. Leda had some nerve. She was sassy, spunky, and mildly offensive. But, I wasn’t angry. I was curious.

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