Ingrid

In spite of my history with Anna and the intimacies we shared as students, I’ve not considered myself to be a real lesbian. And since that time I have never, or nearly never, had the desire to make love to another women.

There have, I admit, been times when woman have come-on to me, and I don’t know whether they recognised something in me, or whether they were merely chancers, who hit on pretty girls all the time. I’ve been flattered by their interest, but not found any such interest stirring in myself toward them. Therefore I considered the chapter closed, but not forgotten.

I have number of lesbian friends who I’ve met through Christian, who’ve never made even the slightest suggestive comment regarding my sexuality, either because they’ve not fancied me, or have seen me as a purely heterosexual female.

After the strange evening and night spent with Christian, and running across the Dutch model, who here I have called Ingrid, at a gathering of happy hedonists, something about her seemed to bring her to mind very often in the following weeks.

It might have been the delicacy of her kiss, and the taste of her mouth that stirred something that took time to grow, and be recognised as desire. Or it could have been the sad smile she gave me, even as she was being pleasured by the woman up against the wall. Something in that look cried out, begging to be saved. I just didn’t recognise it through the haze of marijuana and booze.

Even as her face tensed, and her body shook as her eventual orgasm washed through her, her eyes were locked with mine, and I found that I couldn’t look away, even though I felt a great sense of shame – not for witnessing her orgasm, but for the loneliness and desperation in her eyes, which seemed to beg for my personal forgiveness.

More of Inga later.

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