Lesbian Flirt
I was only 17, but gained nightly entry into the Gay Club using my fake I.D. Once in, I was usually short on funds, but I could always find someone who was willing to shoulder my tab, so Billy Jean was my victim that night.
Or was I hers?
BJ, as she was called, looked and dressed like a man, was 12 years my senior and always pestered me for a date. That evening was no different than the others. She made good money working at the Naval Ship Yard and she was more than willing to spend it on me. I didn’t see any reason to hurt her feelings, so I slipped into the booth next to her and started flirting. The food and drinks rolled in.
The club served excellent food and sported a huge dance floor with the spinning light ball and strobe lights which were so popular at that time.
An all girl band was playing that night.
Though music moves my very soul, and today I can dance my ass off, back then I felt clumsy and self conscious and would rarely approach a dance floor. I would do the line dances, (they had just come into being popular), and I’d slow dance a little, but never fast dance.
BJ knew all of that, so when the band broke into a slow number, she stood up and asked me to dance. Since I was already 3 mixed drinks, a roast beef dinner and a coke, into her pocket, I felt obliged to accept.
I knew nothing about leading a slow dance and was thankful that she took the lead when we hit the dance floor. I leaned into her, closed my eyes and swayed back and forth with her.
I wasn’t used to mixed drinks, and soon the swaying, combined with the strobe lights and the smell of her manly cologne, got my stomach to rolling. I swallowed hard, trying to will it to settle down, but it just got worse.
I told her I felt ill and she immediately looked concerned. “What you need is some fresh air,” she said. “Come on.”
Gratefully, I followed her outside into the cool autumn air, where she took my hand and lead me through the packed parking lot, to her car. She opened the back door and told me to sit for a minute.
Earlier, I had snuck one of my mother’s girdles out of her dresser and struggled for 10 minutes to squeeze into it. I wanted to keep my slightly pudgy tummy looking trim that evening. As I sat down on the car seat I felt the girdle’s tight elastic band, roll down down off my stomach and onto my hip bones. Instantly, my nausea subsided
“Better?” She asked, offering me a cigarette, then lighting it for me.
“Much!” I said.
The girdle’s tight band was already cutting into the top of my hip bone, but I could deal with pain much better than I could with nausea. I took a big drag off my cigarette, exhaled and smiled at her.
She smiled back and motioned for me to slide over so she could slip in next to me.
I did.
She was a smooth operator. As soon as she sat down, she pulled the car door shut, rolled the window down a bit, and the next thing I knew she was all over me.
I flicked my cigarette out the window, so I could have two hands free to fend her off.
It didn’t phase her.
I had no intention of ‘putting out’, but I still felt a bit guilty about leading her on and spending her money. So I figured I’d give her a couple of the kisses she was trying so hard to take. That would make her happy and ease my guilty conscience at the same time.
Big mistake.
She took that as a green light and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my back and she’s on top of me, pinning me down and struggling with my jeans snap.
I kept trying to fend her off, but she had the advantage of body mass and gravity.
I felt the snap give. Heard the zipper slide down.
I squirmed harder underneath her, but she continued fumbling around. Then as suddenly as she had pounced, she stopped.
“What in the hell are you wearing?” She demanded and lifted up off me so she could see better in the light from the streetlamp.
“What do you mean?”
She reached down, wiggled her fingers just underneath the tightly rolled, girdle band, lifted it as high as she could, which wasn’t very high since the girdle was wicked tight, and then let it go. The elastic snapped back hard on my hip bone.
“Ouch!” I said. “That hurt!”
“What the hell is all of this?” She repeated, more confused than angry.
I took advantage of her hesitation, pushed her the rest of the way off me, jumped out of the car and zipped up my pants.
“Its a girdle.” I said.
“A girdle?” She asked incredulously. “Why are you wearing a girdle with jeans?”
I was more embarrassed than angry, and not at an age where I could come up with a good come back.
“Because I want to!” I turned and started walking. “I’m going back in.”
“Hold up.” She said locking up the car. “I’ll go with you.”
I don’t remember much more about the evening except that BJ didn’t get any further with me.
I lost touch with her for several years. Then about 10 years later, I ran into her again, while I was shopping. We stopped to chat over a coke, and she reminded me of the ‘girdle incident’ and we both had a good laugh.
Then she asked me if I was wearing a girdle.
I said no
She asked me for a date.
I laughed and said no.
Though that girdle worked as good as a chastity belt and saved me from unwanted advances that evening, I never wore one again. They are much too uncomfortable and I’ve come to the conclusion that its much better to feel good, than to look good – if you only have the choice of one or the other.
I ditched my bra a year later, but that’s another story!
Bone Digger