It all started (like certain things always do, I guess) with a query letter. Not usually thought of as the sexiest thing in the world, I know — but bear with me.
I used to work as a secretary for a major publishing company. Oh, I’m sorry, “assistant.” That’s the politically correct term now, isn’t it? Well, I felt like a secretary. A cog in the machine at this big, faceless company that published everything from literary novels to down-and-dirty men’s adventure. I won’t tell you which publisher, because that would be revealing too much. Just suffice it to say that you’ve no doubt heard of them; you’ve no doubt read their books. If you’ve ever called their editorial offices, you might have even heard my voice.
Two years out of college with a liberal arts degree, six months after getting this job, I was given the highly skilled task of opening up and sorting through the queries sent by hopeful writers. There were fairly loose guidelines, but it was still a pretty easy job. 98% of the query letters and manuscripts sent were wholly inappropriate for my publisher, or just so unremittingly bad that I could reject them on the spot.
Sometimes, though, they’re so bad they’re fun to read.
This one, the one that started it all, the one that almost got me fired, was different. It wasn’t just fun to read, it was a hoot.
Please review my enclosed manscript of my novelistic fiction piece Query Letter. It is a lesbian erotic thriller in which a young editorial asstant at a major publising compny is entranced by a book propsal for a lesbian erotic thrller whose authro, unbeknownest to the girl, is a slim, boyish lesbienne serial killer with striking red hair and a voracias sexual apptite.
Tempted into request the complete manuscript, she is slowly drawn into a web of seduction by the killller, who wants to hae sex with her. As she reads manuscript, she realizes that the novel in progress is being written about her.
Soon the hapless seduced damsel with a voluptuous sexy figure and large breasts is the killers hopeless sex slave, pleasured by her full lips and forced to service her enormous clitoris, seduced into lesbian lavage, her only hope to solv the mistery befor it is to late and she becomes the next victim.
Lucky I keep a dictionary by my desk; I had to look up what “lavage” meant. See what four years at a private college in the liberal arts department will buy you?
Okay, I’ve changed it a little so the guy doesn’t track me down and sue me, but that’s pretty much the gist of it. I say “guy” even though the letter was signed “Voracia Lustwitt” and purported to be by a woman. Right.
Normally, like employees at every publishing company, I would pass it around the office and we would all chortle. This time, though, everyone else was at lunch and I was sitting at my desk alone, so I flipped through the partial manuscript — about 80 pages of dreck in 10-point Helvetica.
I sat there giggling as I enjoyed the guy’s bad prose and cheesy descriptions, which focused a lot on the shape of the “svelte” serial killer’s body and the way she would pick women up and have torrid sex with them. The killing scenes were all sort of “off-camera” — but the sex never was. I read about 10 pages and it was 90% sex. By the time he finally got to Chapter Two and the description of the poor editorial assistant, (whose name, by the way, was Blossom Fuller), I had given up any hope of a kill scene and was reading faster and faster to find the next paragraph of sex — which I figured probably won’t be very far down the road.
When he was describing Blossom Fuller in Chapter Two, the author lingered on a detailed description of how her “voluptuous” body looked and felt in her tight businesslike clothes as she read the novel proposal which the author mentioned suspiciously often was written by the lesbian serial killer. The author also mentioned suspiciously often how the hapless Blossom was “tempted,” “intrigued” and even “excited” by the lesbian scenes in the novel proposal. As he described Blossom reading the sample chapters and squirming uncomfortably in her seat, the author digressed into a flashback of the esteemed Ms. Fuller trysting fervently with her college roommate. That, I could relate to.
It was highly entertaining in its badness, like watching Valley of the Dolls with a theater full of screaming queens. Only two problems: one, I was alone, with no one to help me enjoy this truly wretched piece of so-called prose, and two, it was turning me on.
Now you know why I’m using a pseudonym for this piece. I mean, sometimes I get turned on by the strangest stuff. But this was really out there.
I don’t know what it was: The descriptions of the serial killer’s seductions were explicit and involved a lot of kissing, feeling up and — you guessed it, “lesbian lavage.” Which meant that the serial killer always got her women into the shower right after sex so she could stab them with an icepick. Besides facilitating lesbian lavage, doing the deed in the shower enabled easy cleanup afterward — and kept the serial killer close to her shower massager, which she put to good use immediately after each killing, as described in loving detail by the author. As I read, I began to think fondly of my own shower massager…
The guy wasn’t just a crappy writer; he was exceptionally crappy. I’ve read submissions that made my head spin, they were so incomprehensible, bizarre and offensive. But this guy was over the top, footnoting — that’s right, a serial killer novel with footnotes — that the large nipples and large clitoris of our main character indicated a sociopathic personality. This was according to academic studies which, it goes without saying, this guy obviously made up.
See, it’s not entirely my fault that my thoughts drifted into my own life when reading this; my lover Alex, after all, has very large nipples. And her clit, at least compared to the other women I’ve slept with, is huge. It stands out full and swollen when she gets turned on. I love the way it feels against my tongue.
As this guy lingered over the intricate description of the shape of the serial killer’s oversized clit, I couldn’t help but note a similarity to the shape of Alex’s. And that always turns me on.
You know how, in certain moods you can be susceptible to getting turned on by something totally stupid like Playboy or a softcore porn movie on HBO? Maybe you never do, but I do. It made my clit swell and pulse; made me so wet I just knew if I snuck into the bathroom and felt myself up a little, I’d come almost instantly. I’d done it before, a couple of times, though always out of sheer boredom, never because of a lesbian shower scene in a bad crime thriller.
But this time, the shower scene was doing the trick. Probably at least partially because just last night, Alex and I had shared some of the hottest sex in the shower we’d ever had.
Coincidence? Or twist of fate? You decide.
Because as I was rereading for the fourth time the awkward but spirited description of the serial killer’s clit rubbing against the doomed woman’s soap-slick leg, I was shocked out of that world of bad prose by a familiar voice:
My heart stopped; I looked up, and there was Alex.
“The security guard let me in. He knows me by now,” Alex said. “He’s such a queen.”
“You scared the shit out of me,” I said, catching my breath.
“Sorry. You were really engrossed in what you’re reading, I guess. Something good?”
I fixed her with a disapproving stare. “Definitely not.”
Alex smiled, which always melts me. She’s good-looking in the way that manages to be both pretty and handsome, though she’d probably be offended by the “pretty” part. She has a strong jaw and big, shimmering blue eyes. Her shoulders are broad for her size; she’s petite, a couple of inches shorter than me. She was wearing a tight black Dickie’s Pocket-T without a bra, and her large nipples were just visible at the peaks of her small breasts. Her jeans were tight, belted by a black textured police belt.
As she came around the side of the desk to hug me, I saw that she was wearing her boots. The shin-high zip-up boots I love, with her dark blue jeans cuffed toward the top.
I stood up on trembling legs. When she hugged me, I softened against her, sinking into her firm embrace. She kissed me on the lips, just a quick hello. Except that my lips were slightly parted.
“Mmmm,” she said after my tongue grazed hers. “I like that. Does everyone here know about me?” She gave a nervous glance around.
“Oh, please,” I said. “This is homo central. My boss just married her girlfriend of 12 years.”
“Cool,” said Alex.
She kissed me again, this time her tongue sinking more insistently into my mouth. I felt a surge going through me as she pulled me close and held my body against hers.
“Sorry to drop by without calling,” she said. “My cell phone’s on the blink. I figured we could go have a picnic lunch.”
“There aren’t any parks around here,” I murmured, distracted by the way she smelled and by the firm image, still burned into my brain, of her hard, full clit pressed against me in the shower.
“Then we’ll find a bus shelter somewhere,” she smiled.
I was lost, remembering the touch of her tongue on my own clit, the feel of her body naked against mine, soapy and slippery.
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Follow me.”
It was a bad idea, I know that. Masturbating in the bathroom is one thing. I think most of us have done it — the horny ones, anyway. You get bored, you wank. A simple, common occasion.
But taking your girlfriend into the supply room — that’s a different thing entirely.
Alex is pretty adventurous. She’s up for anything, really; that’s one of the reasons I love her. But this was pushing the boundaries for her. As soon as I closed the door to the cramped supply room, she looked at me quizzically.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.
“What do you think?” I whispered, and pressed my body to hers.
After that, there were no questions.
The door to the supply room doesn’t lock. Everyone else was at lunch, sure, but they’d be back soon. We’d have to be quick. I pushed her down on some cases of paper, started working at her belt.
I unzipped her boots and pulled off her jeans. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
She had to suppress a moan when my tongue first touched her huge, swollen clit. She tasted sharp, delicious. I drew my tongue up and down on her, suckling it gently. One of the other things I love about Alex is that she loves having her clit gently sucked. And when I’m doing it, I always make her come.
I could feel her hands running through my long hair, messing up the meticulous job I’d done with the barrettes. I slid my hands up her shirt and felt her nipples, rolling them between my thumbs and forefingers. Alex moaned as I brought her closer. And closer. I felt her thighs tight around my face, her muscles tense as she climbed toward orgasm. Then her thighs relaxed, and she spread them wide, open and vulnerable to me. I could tell she was going to scream; luckily, she maintained a sense of where she was, reached out and found a stack of Post-It notes, stuffed them in her mouth and bit down.
Then, easy as pie, Alex came.
Her whole body grew taut, her back arched, and her naked ass pressed hard against the cardboard boxes. She shuddered under the strokes of my tongue and my fingers, and she sank into rapture as I continued working her clit and her nipples.
A few seconds later, her shaking hand pressed against my forehead and I lifted my face from between her thighs, smiling.
She spit out the cellophane-wrapped block of Post-It notes.
“Your turn,” she said.
Alex is smaller than me, so I didn’t fit as well on the makeshift bed of cardboard boxes. But I managed to totter there, and as Alex sank down on top of me, I could feel her pussy, wet against my thigh. She kissed me, hungrily lapping up the taste of her own sex. Then she slipped my pants and underwear down, and ran her hand between my legs, smoothly pressing two fingers into me as her thumb touched my clit.
I was so wet that her fingers slid right in; my body wrenched with pleasure. Alex has this amazing technique: she fingers me with her index and middle finger, working them in just the right way so that each stroke presses her thumb against my clit.
With her other hand, she worked under my silk blouse and gently caressed my breasts, never missing a stroke into my pussy and onto my clit. I spread my legs and dissolved into the sensations, feeling her body bearing me down against the cardboard boxes.
If I’d been touching myself, I wouldn’t have come any faster. Alex knows my body amazingly well. When I came, I didn’t bite any Post-It notes; I clamped my teeth down tight, forcing the moan of pleasure deep into my throat. It came out in a strangled sob as I experienced one of the most intense orgasms of my life.
Alex kissed my face gently as I came down from the high peak of orgasm. “I guess you could call this a picnic,” she said.
We stood up and slid back into our clothes, doing our best to smooth them down and make it look like they’d suffered only normal workday wear and tear. People had just started coming back from lunch, so I don’t think anyone spotted us coming out of the supply room. I made a quick stop in the bathroom to wash my face and fix my makeup. When I returned to my desk, I found Alex sitting on a plastic chair in the waiting area, looking like the cat who ate the canary.
My boss was sitting in her office across from my cubicle. The door was open. I said hi to her and walked over to Alex.
“So how about that bus-stop picnic I promised?” she said.
“Oh, I think I’d better just eat at my desk,” I said. “I’ve still got a manuscript to get through.”
“All right, then,” Alex said, then kissed me goodbye.
After she left, I turned and went back to my desk. I put the offending query letter in a bottom drawer and tried not to think about it — until the end of the day, at least.