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“Is your leg okay?” Lana asks, her voice crackling with the bubbles of the champagne they got from her parents’ wine refrigerator. Her parents have a wine refrigerator.
Marina stops scratching and forces her hand lie flat on her calf. “Yeah, it’s fine.” It’s easy for her to smile and laugh when she’s tipsy with champagne, disoriented by this surreal setting, lounging on a bed that she hasn’t been on or in since Lana’s twelfth birthday slumber party. All the girls had been swooning over the new NSYNC CD Lana got, while Marina had silently stood ground as a Backstreet Boys fan. All the girls had talked about the cute boys at their private school, while Marina had bitterly dwelled on memories of only a year prior, when Lana was her best friend and hadn’t known any of these private-school girls. Marina hadn’t invited Lana to her twelfth birthday party that fall.
But here she is, sitting at the head of Lana’s bed, reluctantly watching Lord of the Rings because Lana apparently still thinks Marina is the same Tamora Pierce-loving 5th-grader who devoured fantasy novels the way other kids ate candy. Marina doesn’t know how to tell her that she’s a different person. She resents that she should have to tell her. It should be obvious that Marina is the kind of person now who listens to Linkin Park on her CD walkman during lunch, who wouldn’t be caught dead in a library, who has given blowjobs to eight different boys—the first four because it made her feel good about herself, and the second four because it was easy.
She doesn’t feel good about herself much at all these days.
She doesn’t know how to say, My legs and my armpits and my crotch are all itching like crazy because I shaved with a dull, rusty razor because I can hardly remember to get out of bed to shower let alone feel motivated to shave and monitor the status of my razor. Especially since that then opens the door to the question of why she shaved today, of all days. She doesn’t have words to describe why she felt the need to look nice and presentable when Lana invited her out of the blue to come over and reconnect after five years of hardly seeing one another. She doesn’t want Lana to know that she cares what she thinks of her.She doesn't want Lana to know she got ready the same way she would have if Lana were a boy.
Marina takes another swig of champagne, right out of the bottle. Lana giggles.
It’s kind of nice, making Lana laugh. Even if it pisses Marina off at the same time.
“Liv Tyler is so hot,” Lana sighs, looking at the tv. Marina rolls her eyes, tired of hearing this same thing every time Liv Tyler comes on screen. She’s not sure why it makes her so mad, but it does. Wanting to be hot is such a waste of time. Trying to be hot is an even bigger waste of time. Boys don’t even care, if you shave, if you have razor burn. They’re probably just as shitty if you look like Liv Tyler. And Lana is prettier than Liv Tyler anyway, so it’s just so fucking stupid.
“Boromir is hot,” Marina says stubbornly. Just so Lana knows where she stands on the issue: girls are stupid for trying to be hot for boys, when men are much more worthwhile.
She looks over at Lana, and her heart gets erratic when she sees her. That keeps happening tonight, her heartbeat going wild and confused when she sees how much Lana has changed, how much she’s grown up. Her face is round and soft as ever, but even without makeup her eyes seem bigger, or heavier. And her jaw has this new square shape to it, like something you’d hold in your hand. Her neck is corded with strained muscle that was never there when they were kids. It makes the hollow of her throat look that much softer. Her lips are full. They’re lips that have been kissed.
Lana is sad, Marina realizes, really notices for the first time tonight.
“Stop scratching,” Lana hisses, only it doesn’t sound annoyed, it sounds moved and concerned and curious. Marina holds the champagne bottle up in front of her in defense as Lana comes closer, bearing down on her until Marina’s sitting back fully against the pillows and her knees pressed tight and suffocating against her too-big boobs. Lana places her cool, dry hands across Marina’s shins, shaking her head and looking so sad.
Marina takes another sip of champagne. “It’s just razor-burn,” she admits.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Lana coos, her voice low and dreamy. She crawls onto her hands and knees to reach over to the other side of the bed. Her stomach hangs soft and tender where it peeks out from her tight camisole. Her thighs look pale and smooth and waxed in her tiny velour shorts. Then Lana is right back where she started, sitting on her feet in front of Marina’s propped knees, studying the pattern of painful red bumps. “Can I?” she whispers. Something about the way she looks up at her through her lashes for permission makes Marina’s breath come up short. She doesn’t want to think about what that means, so she nods her head, even though she doesn’t know what Lana has asked.
Then there’s cool, tingling wetness spreading across one of her legs, and the overwhelming smell of candy apple in the air. Marina opens her knee to the side just enough to see Lana’s hand spreading up and down the length of her calf. Marina hates the way her calf looks huge in Lana’s hand, hates the way the flesh moves instead of staying firm and still. But—it feels nice. Marina just moves her knee back so she can’t see and takes another sip of champagne.
“I missed this. Hanging out.” Lana’s voice sounds like a sigh and a hymn all at once.
Marina feels the ends of Lana’s long, straight hair tickling her other leg. Lana is leaning in so close. It’s like they’re kids again, but not at all. Not the slightest bit.
“Me too,” Marina says, caught off guard by her own honesty. She gasps when Lana drops down and kisses her shin, an unbelievable softness on the chaffed, angry skin.
Lana smiles when she lifts her head again, her eyes bright as she looks at Marina—she can probably see her startled expression. “Kissed it better,” Lana explains.
Alarmed by the burning threat of tears in her eyes, Marina lashes out. “Like that’s the only place it hurts,” she huffs dismissively, hating herself for being so weak that she has to defend herself with sarcasm.
Lana looks at her, cool and calm, gently spreading lotion over her other leg. “Where else does it hurt?” Her voice is quiet, her tone more tender than Marina has ever been addressed with in her life. Lana sounds like a therapist—a therapist that actually works, unlike the ones Marina’s parents have made her see. But she’s just the same as Marina, they’re both just the grown-up versions of two stupid boyband-obsessed girls who pinky-promised not to grow apart when they got sent to different middle schools. Who did grow apart, breaking that promise.
“Everywhere.” Marina’s confession comes out wet and on an exhale. Her whole body aches and it has for years. Maybe, if someone knows, it’ll feel better. Her breath shudders pathetically as she tries to draw in air. It hurts to be seventeen.
“Oh babe,” Lana says, moving up to sit right next to her, like she knows that hurt. Marina bristles when their arms brush and Lana just looks at her, like an animal at the zoo, the way her therapist looks at her. But then Lana’s hand comes up to her face, and she brushes the hair off her forehead. “Me too,” she says. Or Marina thinks she does. It’s so quiet, she’s not sure it’s real.
Lana kisses her temple, and it’s somehow the most terrifying and most calming thing ever to happen to her. She melts into it. She struggles to breathe. She shaved to make herself look like a normal, popular, successful teenager so that Lana wouldn’t see this side of her. But here she is, sniffling while her childhood best friend kisses a tear off her face. She doesn’t know what anything means.
She turns and kisses Lana’s cheek, in the hollow that wasn’t there last time they were this close. “There,” she says with false certainty, trying to pull herself out of the well of her tears. “Kissed it better.”
Lana’s eyes are painfully slow to open, her eyelashes fluttering like they don’t want to let go.
“You’re prettier than Liv Tyler,” Marina blurts out. She bursts into laughter as soon as she hears herself. The laughter is a blessed relief, a lifting of weight. She falls back against the pillows and offers the bottle of champagne to Lana, who opens her eyes and spurts in laughter too. Her pinky brushes across Marina’s on the neck of the bottle. Her lips pucker at the mouth of the bottle, and Marina’s temple prickles in memory.
“Well you’re definitely, definitely, hotter than Boromir,” Lana says through her bubbling giggles. She lies back, letting her head drop onto the same pillow as Marina. They point at the tv screen and laugh, they sip from the bottle and laugh, they cross their pinkies and laugh. Marina looks at Lana’s lips and wonders.
—-
They finish the champagne and Marina is dizzy, limbs heavy and hot as she stares at the ceiling while Lana scampers off to the kitchen to sneak yet another bottle from the wine fridge. While she’s gone Marina gives into the urges she’s been too proud to indulge in Lana’s presence, gross and base. She unabashedly scratches the razor burn in the ditch between her thigh and crotch, wincing at the way her nails scrape over the angry bumps, making them sting. She also takes inventory of the room, allows herself to snoop from the bed, peer with narrowed eyes at the disposable camera photos stuck to the mirror, all of them of Lana laughing with friends, making kissy Myspace duck faces with friends, staring at the camera at an angle with vapid eyes and a chin tilt with friends. Marina is in none of these pictures, is none of these friends. It makes her ache, and she hates that. It feels stupid and pointless to wish they were close again, to resent Lana for abandoning her when he was Marina who allowed herself to be pushed away. When she's here, lying on Lana’s bed on Lana’s invitation, drinking her parents’ expensive wine. Receiving her sweet, tender kisses.
Lana sashays back into the room, and Marina snatches her hand back from under the waistband of her silk shorts, watching as Lana switches DVDs. “The Two Towers, next,” she says, pressing play and flopping back onto the bed, those lips soft and pink around the neck of the bottle. “And Moscato. This is sweeter than the Brut.”
Marina is annoyed Lana is telling her this, like she just knows she’s not aware of the difference between one sparkling wine from another, but she chooses to ignore it, taking the bottle from her and swigging low and deep. It tastes like a kid’s fruit juice and she coughs, nearly choking. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”
“I told you! S’dangerous,” Lana giggles, eyes twinkling as she flops back down next to her, their faces so close Marina can feel the hot huff of her breath across her own mouth, even sweeter than the moscato. It opens up all sorts of wild, nameless feelings inside of her, and she doesn't know what to make of them so she decides not to make anything, and just lie in the messy ruin, lips tasting like sugar as she licks them.
“This is my fave of the Lords of the Rings movies,” Lana whispers, like it’s a secret, like she still thinks Marina cares. Neither of them are watching it, instead lying facing each other on rumpled sheets, tipsy and giggling over nothing. It feels reflexive for Marina at this point, like she can’t take the rich, deep, sad sad sad darkness of Lana’s eyes without nervously deflecting with laughter.
“Really?! Why?” she asks, heart stopping and breath catching as Lana tangles their legs together deliberately. It shouldn't feel like this, to have her so close. Like she's going to fuck up, like Lana is some flighty dove that’s just landed on her and if she moves, she’ll send her flying off into the ether. It shouldn’t feel more fragile and intimate and special than blowing guys in the photo-room supply closet at school.
“Well,” Lana says dreamily, reaching out and petting Marina’s hair idly, twirling a few strands of frizzy black fly-away around her finger while she stares unfocused over her shoulder. “Um, I guess all the horses. I like them. And Eowyn, too, I like her.”
It seems contrived, at this point, for Lana to keep bringing up girls. Something about it pricks Marina, digs between her ribs but she’s too dull-minded right now to press on it, so she just sighs, shifting, wishing there was a not-awkward way to say I’m not who you think I am, not anymore. We can start over. Be something new to each other. Instead she just reaches for the infuriating itch of her razor burn again, scratching her crotch without thinking about it, hand brushing Lana’s knee in the meantime.
It should be embarrassing, but Lana just frowns, like she’s sad, like it hurts her to think of Marina hurting. “There, too?” she asks, petting Marina’s hair again, looking at her like they’re the same sort of girl, even though the both know they’re not. Haven’t been for a long, long time.
“Yeah, it’s the worst,” Marina gripes, pretending she doesn’t care, like it’s not making her cheeks burn up to have her bleeding skin dragged into the light.
“Waxing is better,” Lana offers sympathetically, her hand suddenly on Marina’s thigh, brushing he fingers light and tender up the line of her quad. back and forth, manicured nails razing, making her shiver, her stomach drop. “It’s expensive and hurts but it’s so smooth, and doesn’t leave the burn,” she murmurs, touch dancing up to the waistband of Marina’s PJ shorts where they gently, prettily trace it. Somehow, Lana makes things which should seem suggestive look lovely, like an ad for acrylics, for the PINK brand Victoria’s Secret silk boxers Marina is wearing. Like girl’s night innocence, champagne and moscato and sugar on sugar. If Marina were to do the same things, they wouldn't look that way. They’re sullied with blackened fingers.
“I don’t care that much,” Marina tells her, voice coming out softer than she means for it to. She swallows thickly, shifts closer, feeling so drunk. She convinces herself in this moment the only way to push past this is through it. Peel back the layers so she can confirm for herself Lana Del Rey really does think she’s cooler than her, more important with her private school and her wine fridge. If she’s just being nice, being real, Marina won’t know what to do with it. It’ll shake too many of her foundations. “I don’t care what I look like,” she lies.
Lana blinks those sad eyes. “Yeah, you do. We all do. You don’t need to though, you’re pretty, so pretty,” she sighs, fingers still tracing idle and teasing over the crinkle of her waistband. “Marina,” she breathes, leaning closer, so their foreheads touch. “Have you ever kissed a girl?”
It hits Marina like poison. Curdling her insides, washing over her in a sudden, prickling wave of shock. She hasn’t kissed a girl, not in the whole of her life, though she’s thought about it. Back when she loved fantasy, Eowyn and Alana and Mulan all dressing up as men in this way that turned her stomach and made her cheeks warm and tight at the idea of doing the same. But this, this is different. This is Lana, who she bathed with in third grade, Lana, who was the closest girl in her life before she became a star in some distant dark sky, forever out of reach. “What?” She says in a hush, stomach tensing under that gentle pressure of Lana’s pale hand.
“Never mind,” Lana says easily, and she’s about to move her fingers when Marina suddenly panics, the core of her taking over as she reaches for her, encircles her narrow wrist, feels the pulse speed up in her grip.
Lana’s eyes get darker, sadder, hooded beneath lashes and that's when Marina blurts, “I haven’t, but I’ve thought about it,” she confesses.
It hangs in the sweet, thick humidity between them.
“I have, too,” Lana whispers after she blinks, looking somewhere around Marina’s clavicle, sneaking her slender index finger between the waistband of her shorts, and her fever-hot skin.
They lie there for awhile, too long, long enough the taste of Moscato gets bitter on Marina’s nervous dry tongue and she has to pull away, otherwise she’ll burst into flames, or else be drowned in the sudden, mortifying slick between her thighs, where she’s still itching, burning. “Sorry,” she says, ripping away, swigging from the bottle before collapsing back down, closer this time, very nearly pressed flush. “I’m just—I—“ she cuts herself off, biting her lip, because Lana is pressing the warm cup of her hand to the mound between Marina’s legs and gently, gently squeezing.
“I can kiss it better, here, too,” she whispers, lip swollen and pink between her teeth.
And Marina is so stunned and curious and moved by the lymph-leaking raw of Lana’s pleading, that she says, “ok,” tilting into the pressure, so fucking turned on she's dizzy, she’s drunk. “If you want to.”
And Lana laughs, like the suggestion is funny.
Marina rolls onto her back, parts her legs, and fists her hands in Lana’s expensive sheets, trying to keep her hips from rolling. She tells herself this is going to stop before it starts. That Lana is bluffing and teasing and she’s not actually going to kiss Marina between the legs, because who does that, who asks to do it, who follows through on such a crazy, humiliating thing? She's sure she’ll be made a fool of, that this is the climax to the building prank Lana’s been laying down between them since she invited Marina to reconnect in the first place. To fake seduce her, and for real break her heart. It would make sense, anyway. More than any other explanation.
So, she lurches dramatically when it actually happens, heart imploding, breath stolen.
Lana holds her thighs, bends her head as if praying, and chastely kisses her right where it stings and burns. To the left of where she’s soaking, like a arrow grazing the target without actually pricing it. “Better?” Lana breathes, exhalation hot on Marina’s core, making her squirm.
“Feels good,” Marina whispers, wondering if this is sex, or experimentation, or some extended version of a girlhood ritual she’s been banned from, alongside a whole host of others. Getting ready for parties, braiding each other’s hair, making friendship bracelets, telling secrets. She thinks, she wonders, she wants, she wants, and then Lana kisses her again, and longer, and closer to where she aches, and she stops wondering.
She lets her head fall to the side, and inhales from Lana’s pillow.
It smells like things she wants, but has never understood. Always on the outside, cheek pressed to cold glass while she watches magic unfold, sad eyes and Polaroids and the sweetest, most cloying wine passed from kissed mouth to kissed mouth.
Lana licks like she’s a kitten and Marina is cream, and it feels so fucking good even though the barrier of Victoria’s secret silk that Marina wonders if this is belonging. Or if she’s been gay, this whole time, and thats why sucking off boys is easy, because it feels like nothing.
It’s too scary to think about, so she just surges into the heat of Lana’s sweet, healing mouth, and whimpers, deciding she’s experimenting, because that’s the word she’s heard for the sort of thing that isn’t the stark, isolating terror of lesbian and its unkinder synonyms. Lana is her experiment, her late night mistake, her scientific method. So it’s ok for her to feel this maddeningly perfect.
After all she’s also her childhood best friend, the prettiest girl she knows in real life, the person she’s spent years obsessing over in dual longing and loathing but also loving. Wishing. Missing. “You can take them off,” Marina murmurs, snapping her own waistband against her flat, heaving stomach. She’s dizzy, she wishes she had more moscato, she wonders if Lana tastes like moscato, or like the filthy terror between her own legs, slick like something has melted. “If you want.”
Lana sounds like she’s sobbing, small and ripped and delicate, somehow, because everything she does is pretty. “Thank you,” she might say. It’s hard to hear over the pound of blood in Marina’s ears, the reflexive, wheezy laughter bubbling up from her lips.
Lana giggles too, and it sounds wet. Her breath tickles Marina’s irritated skin as she lifts her hips off the bed and struggles out of her PJ shorts, rolling them down her thighs along with her panties. She’d be embarrassed by how ugly the razor burn looks (she imagines Lana’s skin unnaturally baby-smooth everywhere, imagines she’s never had to pop the coarse, black nubs of hair out in a mess of blood and lymph because she’s perfect) but Marina is so far past being embarrassed. This has ceased seeming real, so its not worth feeling shame over. The wine-drunk haze of her mind has her floating, and she watches from somewhere above their prone bodies. The heave of her own chest, breasts soft inside her shirt. The shine of Lana’s hair, the white flicker of her hands as she smoothes down down the outside of her thighs, everything tender, slow like syrup.
They don't look like lesbian porn, which Marina has watched out of curiosity, been disgusted by, been turned on by, nose wrinkling up even as she gets wet and her stomach knots. They just look like two girls at a sleep over, giggling, playing together. Its strange, how normal this seems, even though nothing about it should be.
“Oh wow,” Lana sighs, gently smoothing her thumbs over the inside of Marina’s thighs. “You’re so pretty.”
Marina laughs; she can’t believe this is happening. That Lana is looking into the center of her with soft sad eyes and calling the razor burn on her vulva pretty. She’s always been acutely insecure about stuff down there; her inner labia don't fit neatly into the fold of her outer labia, and as a result she feels sloppy and messy, like she's spilling out of herself all the time, like she wishes things were smaller, tidier, like a Playboy centerfold. It’s surreal to have Lana studying this part of herself she’s always found repulsive, and to hear her affirmation, when she’s been so afraid for so long that Lana was off with her pretty private school friends rolling her eyes, talking shit, criticizing Marina from afar.
“It’s a vagina,” she says flatly, pretending she’s not weirdly reassured. “It can’t be pretty. Vaginas are just…ugly.”
“No they’re not! They’re like flowers,” Lana gasps, sounding scandalized. “God. Don’t be mean to it, now I really want to kiss it better,” she says coyly, and Marina’s stomach drops, because this is flirting, this is almost sex, and somehow, still, it doesn’t feel like that. It feels safe and soft and…nice. A far cry from the suffocating choke of boys she never cared about stretching her mouth until it stings and she gags.
“You can, I’m not going to stop you, even if I think it’s weird,” Marina declares, gesturing loosely with her hand, which feels weirdly heavy and disembodied from her. She lets it flop down onto her stomach, distinctly aware her clit is throbbing from the idea of Lana’s mouth, but also just from Lana’s eyes, the tender, careful way she’s looking at Marina like she thinks this hideous wet gash like a wound is beautiful.
“Ok,” Lana says, reaching for the moscato and taking a long swig of it, the flicker of her throat golden an sweat-dewy in the warm glow of her bedside lamp. “First, lemme fix you up,” she says as she sets the wine down, eyes hazy. She sways a bit as she reaches for the lotion, and just like she did with Marina’s legs, she pushes a dime-sized bit out onto her palm before rubbing it carefully, tenderly over the creases of her thighs.
It stings, and it’s so close to where she actually wants to be touched her breath catches, her back arches. “I can’t believe I’m actually horny right now,” she says.
Lana makes a purring sound, chewing her lip. “I can believe I am,” she says, very quietly. “You’re so hot.”
A girl telling her she’s hot shouldn't make Marina feel like crying, it shouldn't move her so much. It’s weird because the approval of a girl, especially a girl like Lana, means so much more to her, really, than the approval of a boy. Boys are easy, and stupid, but girls are mean. They compete and tear each other down and here she is, lying with one sitting between her legs, touching the ugliest part of her skin and licking her lips. Telling her she’s hot.
“Not as hot as you,” Marina says, and she doesn't mean it as flirtation or as a compliment, just as a fact. Something objective, but it ends up coming out soft and breathy because Lana is shifting to she's on her stomach, putting her pretty, hollow-cheeked face right there.
She leans in, and presses her lips right to the skin she’s just rubbed the lotion in. It’s a closed-mouth, gentle kiss, but Marina groans involuntarily anyway. “There,” she says, before kissing the other side, lashes fluttering against her cheeks, Marina’s thighs.
“Um,” Marina says, because she forgets what words are. She can feel her heartbeat in her clit and she’s aching and she doesn’t know why but she so, so badly wants Marina’s lips right there, softsoft and open and sucking. She wants her tongue. She wants her childhood best friend she’s been profoundly jealous of for the last several years to eat her out and maybe if she weren't drunk and raw and mindless with desire she could figure out a way to make that about power and not about want, but the reality is that in this moment, it does not feel related to anything other than a pure, hungry flame in her stomach. She wants it, and maybe she’s always wanted it, maybe there was a reason it hurt so badly when Lana left, maybe the weird flip-flopping she felt in her gut every time they’d share a bed in grade school was this, all along.
It’s too much to think about. Especially when Lana’s kissing over her mound, each press of her lips so gentle, so lingering, so certain. Like a confession. “Can I keep going?” she asks, mouth open, panting, hot.
“Yeah,” Marina says. “Fuck. It feels really good, actually.”
“Good,” Lana breathes, kissing her again, closer to her clit this time, just above the little hood of it. “I want to make you feel so good.”
“Kiss it better then,” Marina begs, there now, broken open and wanting and dripping as she reaches for her bent knee and pulls it to her chest, opening herself up wider.
Lana makes a small, cut off sound in her throat before licking her pretty lips slick and pressing them right where Marina is hardest, swollen. It’s a gentle kiss, no tongue just yet, but the pressure alone is enough to make Marina gasp and pulse and whimper. “Wow,” she breathes, eyes watering as she stares down in disbelief, Lana’s head bent, her eyes closed while she pulls back, lip glistening.
“Can I taste?” she asks, lashes dark and fluttering.
“Mhm,” Marina urges, nodding, relieved Lana asked for more because she wouldn't have known how to tell her that was what she wanted. “You can like. You can help yourself. To whatever you want. Like, go to town,” she says, giggling and Lana giggles back, looking so relieved as she reaches up and pulls her hair back away from her cheeks, ties it back in a pony-tail. It’s so fucking hot, that intent, Marina recognizes it from all the time’s she’s given blow jobs and never, ever did she imagine what it would feel like to see a girl do that for her.
Lana leans back in, thumbs open Marina’s inner lips to exposed her slit. “So, so fucking pretty, like candy,” she says quietly, almost to herself, and then she’s licking up the length of her, the tip of her tongue catching on the swollen nub or Marina’s clit and making her lurch in overwhelm. It’s the best thing she’s ever felt, mind-numbingly sweet, but then Lana affixes her whole mouth over her and sucks, licks, delves deep and filthy and that becomes the best thing she’s ever felt. So incomprehensibly wet, so warm, she cannot even fucking believe it’s possible to feel so intensely.
“Oh fuck,” she whines, rolling her hips, abdominal muscles shuddering under the layer of softness on her stomach. “Oh my god.”
Lana moans right into her, face crumpling, cheeks red as she pushes closer, tongue flicking back and forth over Marina’s clit before she pulls back, gasping. “I love when you make noise, tell me I’m going a good job,” she says, eyes still sad but more hectic now, dangerously black like something Marina could fall into.
“Uh, a great job, I’m exploding,” Marina tells her, laughing and breathless. “It’s not gross?”
Lana shakes her head, beaming. “It’s like drowning in honey.”
“That sounds gross,” Marina tells her, half joking.
Lana isn't listening though, she’s shifting again, further back so she can push her tongue right up into Marina’s slit, fucking her open. It’s so wet, weird and deep and delicious and Marina feels her hole flutter around the invasion involuntarily. “How about that? Is that good too?” Lana asks, cheeks shiny with spit and Marina as she pulls away.
“Yeah, it’s all good. Weird but good.”
“Better than a boy’s ever done, I bet?” Lana asks then, eyes glinting as she coyly kisses Marina’s clit with soft lips.
“Uh, a boy has never done this to me,” Marina admits, cheeks heating up. “Boys just want their dick sucked and to grab my boobs. They never return the favor.”
Lana looks affronted, gasping. “That’s so sad.”
“It’s just true.”
“Well then, I’m going to kiss it so, so good you’ll never want it from a boy,” Lana tells her very seriously, mouth open and shiny and gorgeous, and Marina can’t believe this is happening, has so many questions she would ask if she remembered how to talk. Have you done this before? Are you a lesbian? Do boys offer to eat you out or am I just disgusting? Do you think they just see me as a hole to come in? Am I a lesbian?
“Ok,” is all she can manage to say, heart pounding, stomach a fizzy mess of wine and nerves and want and want and want. “Go for it.
Lana smiles, licks her lips, and drowns in honey.
—-