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The odd thing about miracles is that they never happen the way you
expect. Some miracles seem downright perverse.
* * *
I'd been seeing Carlie, not very seriously, for a couple of months.
We'd met in my feminist poetry class. I was still in college, at age
twenty-five, on the . . . what was it then, eight-year-plan? I work most
afternoons and evenings at Sister Sarah's, which is, of course, the local
Anyway, Carlie dropped in on me at the store one afternoon, and
mentioned that her mom wanted to meet me. The queasy, sinking "thunk" in
the pit of my stomach was instantaneous.
"Why?" Visions of an outraged heterosexual mother with a shotgun
flashed across my brain.
"Well, we had a long talk last night. Ever since I came out to
her, I figured she didn't want to know about my lovers, you know. But all
this time she's been feeling hurt that I never brought anyone home."
And so, you see, I was trapped: I mean, it would have been
downright callous to to refuse to go. Now, Carlie is a cool woman, she's
bright and funny. But there's a kind of immature self-centeredness to her
sometimes that puts me off a bit. And, though she's cute enough, frankly,
my physical attraction for her was less than overpowering, and . . . I
dunno . . . she never really heated me up when we slept together. In
short, the affair seemed, at least to me, to be fizzling. And now all of a
sudden I was being taken home to meet Mother, like a fiancee or something.
* * *
Well, later that week, I put on my most respectable looking jeans
and blouse, and rode my Bianchi (that's a bicycle) over to Carlie's
mother's house for dinner.
Carlie met me at the door and ushered me inside. I was comforted
by the scent of Italian cooking.
"Mom, Roberta's here."
An attractive woman, around fifty, plump, with silvery-gray hair,
strode out of the kitchen. She was wrapped in an apron that said
"N'attendez pas de miracles."
"Hi, Ms. Lombardi, I'm Roberta."
"Roberta, welcome. Please call me Greta. Would you like a glass
"Thanks." I liked her instantly, and I was feeling much more
comfortable than I had anticipated. But I was completely unprepared for
the jolt of lust that hit me as she shrugged off her apron, glimpsing her
heavy bosom straining against her blouse. Not that I think big breasts
are everything (I'm not a guy, after all), but I've always been kind of
attracted to full-figured women. And, oh my, she has really big hips too,
and a nice round tummy. Carlie, I guess, is built more like her dad. But
Carlie's mother . . . well, Venus of Willendorf had nothing on this women.
I gulped my wine, trying not to stare at her.
"Carlie tells me you're majoring in folklore."
"Um, yeah," I recovered, "also known as pre-unemployment."
"Well, I'm sure there's a place for a talented folklorist somewhere
in this world. I've just been reading "Mayan Dreams," by Suzanne Santiago.
Do you know it?"
"Yeah! It's fantastic, isn't it? The way she blends literary
criticism and feminist critiques of anthropology. And of course the
stories themselves are so incredible."
This woman knew about Suzanne Santiago! I forgot about my lust
attack, and an intense conversation ensued, which lasted all through
dinner. Not that we kept talking anthropology: the topics kept shifting,
to politics, to the history of the labor movement, to her recipe for
homemade cheese ravioli (which is what we were eating). I learned that
Greta is the director of the art history department's prints and slides
collection. Greta was in the midst of a very funny story about the time
she had dated the sculptor Istvan Szalai (back when he was just an
eccentric art student), when Carlie suddenly cut in, "Mom, I really don't
think Roberta wants to hear any more of your war stories."
I was stunned by Carlie's rudeness. "But, I DO want to hear."
"Well, I've heard 'em often enough. If you'll excuse me, I think
I'll go watch Seinfeld."
That, you see, is exactly the kind of immature
I-can't-stand-not-being-the-center-of-attention attitude that pisses me off
about Carlie. Of course, the conversation couldn't continue normally after
Carlie's flouncing off in a huff like that. Feeling embarassed and awkward
again, I made an excuse about needing to get home.
Greta saw me to the door.
"I enjoyed meeting you very much Roberta. Really. I hope Carlie
wasn't right, that I was boring you."
"NO! I loved talking to you. I mean, I was talking as much as you
were. I don't know what gets into Carlie sometimes." Smiling wanly, I
added, "I guess we'll just have to continue the discussion sometime without
* * *
I had it out with Carlie the next night over espresso at Kona
Joe's. She acted like she didn't understand what I was upset about: she
had wanted to watch TV, what was the big deal? I told her that if she
didn't understand basic politeness, then maybe we should stop seeing each
other. Fine, she said, Marcia had been wanting to date her for weeks.
With that, she left.
I felt relief, but I also felt the sting. And also sadness that
I'd never get a chance to talk to Carlie's mom again.
* * *
For the next week or so, I wallowed in self-pity, venting it
liberally on friends and co-workers. Then, one evening, the bookstore door
jingled open, and in walked Greta. Jolt of lust number 2.
"Roberta," she beamed, "I was hoping you'd be in. I'm looking for
'The Invisible Malign' by Madeleine Breault: do you happen to have it?"
(Of course we did -- any bookstore in town would have.) I quickly found it
"Um, Roberta, I just wanted to say I'm sorry about you and Carlie.
Have you been all right?"
"Yeah, I'm OK, I guess. Thanks for asking." Pause. I could smell
"I'm sorry that . . . well, I really enjoyed meeting you the other
night. It's too bad things have worked out this way: I think you and I
could have become good friends."
Gulp. "Well, I suppose there's no reason you and I can't be
friends, even if Carlie and I aren't together."
Greta's face seemed to brighten. "Yes. You're absolutely right.
Well . . . maybe we could have coffee sometime."
"I'd like that."
I gave her my phone number. She bought her book. She left.
Sarah, my boss, poked her head out from behind the periodicals
rack. "Umh-umh, somebody give this girl an oxyen mask."
"What are you talking about, Sar?"
"Talking about you look like you're floating on air, girl. Who was
that silver-haired seductress?"
"That 'seductress' was Carlie's mother."
"Oh. I see."
"You see what?"
"Mmm. I see I should mind my own business."
* * *
We met for coffee a few days after that. We talked about Carlie,
of course, but not very much. Soon we got onto my family, and the
neighborhood where I grew up. I found myself suddenly being very
entertaining and vivacious, which felt good, since I'd been moping around
like a wet dishrag for the past two weeks.
I called Greta a few days later, and we met for coffee again. Soon
we were meeting a couple of times a week, not just for coffee, but for
movies, museums, lunch, feeding the pigeons in the park, whatever I had
time for, between work and classes.
Now, the part that's hard to understand, looking back on it, is
that, all this time, it didn't occur to me that I was falling in love with
her. I mean, I looked forward to our times together immensely. Greta was
extraordinarily charming, and sweet, and very encouraging about my
schoolwork. (I started to think that if I buckled down I could graduate by
next Christmas and apply to grad schools in the spring.) And she seemed to
know about everything, to have done so many interesting things. In short,
I was swept off my feet. And as for physical attraction, Goddess!, I
rubbed myself to orgasm nearly every night thinking about her heavy
breasts, her generous hips, the smell of her perfume, imagining her naked.
But . . . she was old enough to be my mother, and she was straight, of
course. For crying out loud, she was the mother of my ex-girlfriend! All
of which put her so far off limits in my mind that I never let myself think
of her as anything but a friend, sort of a beloved mentor figure. And as
for my lustful thoughts, well, they seemed to have as much connection with
reality as erotic daydreams about movie stars.
* * *
Then, one day, I called and Greta told me she was busy. She seemed
upset, but I figured she'd tell me about it when she wanted to. I called
again a few days later, and she said she was sorry, but she didn't think we
should meet anymore.
"But Greta, why? What have I done?" I could barely get the words
out of my throat.
"You haven't done anything. It . . . has nothing to do with you,
it's my problem. I'm so sorry. I really can't talk about it." She
started crying. "I've got to hang up now."
"But, Greta, please . . ." [click].
Slowly I put down the phone, and then collapsed on my bed. I
couldn't cry, couldn't stand up, couldn't do anything. Eventually I fell
* * *
Now, who is the least likely person to turn out as the heroine of
I was awakened the next morning by the sound of my doorbell. I
stumbled to the door, and there was Carlie.
"Roberta, you look like death warmed over."
"I came to talk to you about Mom."
Well, that got my attention. I invited her in and started to make
"She's in love with you, you know," Carlie said.
I stared weakly, unable to wrap my mind around this.
"It pissed me off at first. That dinner we had together, she kept
showing off for you in front of me, and you kept staring at her like she
was Aphrodite herself risen from the foam. After we broke up, she told me
that you two were staying friends, and she hoped it didn't bother me. It
did a little, at first, but I got over it. I think it's excusable for a
woman to feel a little p.o.'ed when she gets dumped for her own mother."
"Dump you for her?! This is crazy, I . . ."
"Look, I believe you didn't consciously think of it that way, but
you never were very honest with yourself about what you want. If you had
been, I don't think we would have kept dating more than a week. Now let me
finish. Like I was saying, I got over it, seeing how happy Mom seemed, and
you seemed too. Then a couple of days ago, I teased her about whether
she'd gone to bed with you yet."
"You said WHAT?!"
"Well, you know I'm not the most tactful person. Sorry. Anyway,
she turned white as a sheet, and then burst into tears. She told me to
"You . . . FUCKHEAD!"
"I know. I called her last night. She was still crying. She said
my remark made her realize how ridiculous she's been, how inappropriate her
behavior toward you has been. She told me she stopped seeing you."
I started crying.
"Roberta, listen to me, dammit! She needs to know how you feel
about her. She thinks she's been acting like a child molester just because
you're my age, and, well, because you met her as my mother. I told her
that you're an adult and all, but she won't listen to me. She thinks you'd
be horrified if you knew she's attracted to you."
I stared dumbly, sniffling.
"Well, ARE you horrified?"
"No, of course not. I . . ." The pieces suddenly slid into place
in my own mind: my adoration for her, my delight in her company, my lust
for her, my longing for her. "I love her."
"Ah, honesty at last. Listen, you're right, I'm a fuckhead, but
I'm trying to straighten things out. And you'll be an even bigger fuckhead
if you don't tell Mom how you feel."
I laughed through my tears, hugging her. "Louie, I think this is
the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
* * *
As soon as Carlie left, I showered and changed and biked over to
Greta's house. It was Saturday morning; I hoped she'd be home. When she
opened the door and saw me, she stood there shaking like a leaf. Her eyes
were still red.
"Greta, please, can I come in? We need to talk."
"If you want," she whispered.
We sat down on the couch where I had first watched her taking off
that apron. I held her hand. She looked at me with a mixture of
disbelief, fear and wonder. "Greta, please, can I hold you?" I slipped my
arms round her, and she didn't pull away. I could smell her perfume: such
a faint, delicate scent.
"Greta, I love you. I need your love. I can't afford to pass it
up, just because it defies social conventions."
The smile that spread over her face, and the kiss that followed,
were worth all the pain of the last day, and all the unrequited longing of
the past two months. We couldn't keep our mouths apart after that, not for
a long time.
* * *
"Roberta, I've wanted this for so long, but I didn't dare hope . . . "
"Ssh. I know. I wanted it too. I want to make love to you now."
"Um, Jesus!" she laughed. "I'm nervous. I'm not sure I'm ready
for this. I've never done it before, with a women. And I'm afraid of what
you'll think of my flabby old body."
"I'm nervous too, Greta, and we don't have to rush into it. But
I've got a secret for you." I whispered in her ear, "Your body turns me on
"Oh, Roberta," she giggled, "you make me feel so hot talking like that."
I kissed her again, and my hand went up to her breast, cupping it,
feeling the weight of it, the immense softness of it, underneath the stiff
"Does that feel as nice to you as it does to me?" I purred.
"Yes," she whispered. I slipped my hand under her turtleneck
blouse, but the bra was in the way. She quickly pulled off the blouse,
and a moment later the two of us managed to get her industrial strength bra
How can I describe what it was like, seeing her bare breasts at
last? They lay like two sacks of flour upon her belly. But that conveys
nothing of the heart-stopping beauty of them, the delicate hint of blue
veins beneath the alabaster skin, the pinkish-brown nipples and areolas as
big as my palm. And oh! when I touched them they were so warm and soft,
not like sacks of flour at all, her nipples stiff and thick and hot between
my fingers. She cooed as I buried my face in them, kissing, licking,
kneading with my hands, taking one of the crinkly nipples in my mouth and
"Oh, that's so nice, ahh, darling, I didn't know it could feel . .
. this . . . good . . . ahh, yess! The other one too! Ooh, this is
embarrassing, but I'm getting wet."
This went on for quite some time, till I realized her crotch was
trying, unsuccessfully, to make contact with my knee. Resisting the urge
to reach up her skirt, I suggested that we go to bed.
She led me upstairs. Oh, the bounce of her unrestrained breasts,
and the sway of her huge, skirt-covered hips as she climbed the stairs in
front of me.
* * *
"You undress too, darling," she said huskily, sitting down on the
edge of the bed. " I want to see you."
I pulled off my sandals, tee-shirt and jeans. I never wear a bra.
"Oh my," she whispered hoarsely. "Stunning. The panties too."
I obeyed. I was enjoying this.
"Roberta, you're so lovely. So beautiful. I . . . am I such an
awful pervert for wanting you?"
"Ooh, you are. You're so perverted, and I love you for it."
She grabbed me then, pulling me to her. Her mouth fastened onto my
nipple and she began sucking hard, her hands roughly kneading my buttocks,
her warm breasts squished against my belly. I shuddered and groaned.
"Sorry. Did I hurt you?"
"No, silly, you're driving me crazy. But I want to get this skirt
off you. And I get to make you come first, since I'm the experienced
"No fair," she grinned.
* * *
She stood up to unzip the skirt, peeling it off her hips, letting
it drop to the floor, then doing the same with her soaked panties.
Oh, how nice, so hairy, just like Carlie's: I adore a hairy bush (I
never trim or shave my own), but Greta's was a veritable rug, covering much
of her lower belly and extending halfway down her inner thighs as well.
When she sat back down on the bed, I could see the wetness running down to
her knees, the hair between her legs matted and dripping. The scent of her
perfume was now mingled with the unmistakable womanly smell of her cunt,
filling my nostrils, intoxicating me. How can I describe her scent? Heady
like flowers, but not just sweetness, something earthier, more primal. I
dropped to my knees before her. Looking into her eyes for permission, I
parted her knees, and she leaned back on the bed, her plump belly rippling
I was too excited for subtle technique. Taking her cushiony thighs
in my arms, I parted her thick fur with my tongue and plunged it into her
wetness, lapping up her sweet nectar, while my nose nuzzled her prominent
clit. She squealed and nearly jumped a foot off the bed when my tongue
touched her; but I held on tight. Goddess, what a luscious cunt. Her
strong thighs suddenly clamped round my head and she was keening and
shuddering. I couldn't hear what she was saying; her thighs were wrapped
round me so tightly I couldn't see or move; I could barely breathe. I felt
the walls of her vagina contracting around my tongue. Then her thighs
released me and she was pulling me up to her face, kissing me. Her face
"It all happened too fast," she said at last. "It was wonderful,
but I never knew what hit me."
"I guess I got greedy," I grinned sheepishly. "But that was just a
little appetizer cummy. We'll make the entree last for hours, OK? Are you
ready for it?"
"No no, it's my turn to make you come now. I want to lick you,
darling, like you just did for me."
"Are you sure you're ready for that? You said . . ."
"Oh, honey, I'll show you how ready I am!"
And with that, she rolled on top of me, pinning me to the bed with
the weight of her body, as she kissed her way down to my breasts, down to
my belly. Then parting my thighs and nuzzling into my crotch. Her hot
breath was tickling me, her face brushing against my bush, then suddenly I
felt her hot tongue sweep from my anus all the way up to my clit. Then
again. My clit was on fire. I bucked against her face. I gasped as her
lips suddenly encircled my clit and began firmly sucking. I came, but she
didn't stop. I came again and again, calling her name like a mantra, till
I felt sweaty and drained. Then stiff fingers began thrusting deep inside
me, and I came twice more.
"Please, stop . . . I can't take anymore," I gasped.
At last, when I caught my breath, I said, "No fucking way you've
never done this before."
She grinned. "Is that a compliment?"
"You've really never done this before? You're incredible!"
"You inspire me, my beautiful young folklorist."
* * *
At this point, my growling stomach betrayed the fact that I hadn't
had any breakfast, or dinner the night before. Greta, of course, is a
mother, and did what mothers do best: offer food. She put on a bathrobe
and went down to fix us some brunch. Meanwhile, I phoned in to work to
ask Sarah for the afternoon off.
"You OK girl?"
"Yep. I've just been captured by a certain silver-haired seductress."
"No! Really? Well, I expect a complete play-by-play Monday, girl.
"Sure, Sar, but for your ears only, OK? Completely confidential."
"Oh, you're no fun. Well, you probably got more important things
to do with your mouth right now than talk to your boss."
"You're right, we're gonna have brunch now."
* * *
Greta and I had eggs and toast and coffee in bed. As she cleared
the tray away, I guess I was still gazing at her naked body.
"You really are physically attracted to me, aren't you?"
I nodded, grinning.
"You wouldn't like me to lose weight?"
"Don't you dare. Not an ounce."
"What do you like about me? If you don't mind me fishing for
(OK, Carlie, who says I can't be honest about what I want?) "Well,
I love the lushness of your body. Your breasts make a perfect pillow.
Your belly is so soft and inviting. Your vulva, mmmmmm, it could praise it
for hours, so I'd better not start. And your ass inspires positively
impure thoughts in me."
"My ass?" she giggled. "What kind of thoughts?"
"Mmm. I'd like to shower every inch of it with kisses, for starters."
She giggled again. "And I thought I was the pervert. OK." She
rolled over on her stomach.
* * *
And there I was, cheek to cheek (pardon the expression) with
Greta's magnificent bum: as big as two giant pumpkins, but oh so plush and
warm to the touch of my lips and hands. Pure lard. The creamy-white skin
blushing pink with every kiss. Greta's bush grew all the way back here,
poking out from the impossibly deep chasm between her cheeks, like grass in
the crack of a sidewalk.
"Roberta, this is really turning me on. I've got goosebumps."
Greta spread her legs, trying to press her mound into the bed, as I
continued kissing. The womanly smell of her again filled my nostrils,
making me light-headed.
"This is so satisfying, I could do this for hours," I said, grazing
her buttocks with my lips. "I think I should found a new religion that
makes this its main ritual. Think of the contentment it would foster."
She didn't miss a beat: "Dear, I think ass-kissing is already the
main ritual of politics and academia. Shouldn't we leave religion out of
"Ooh, the lady has wit as well as beauty. And she smells
"Don't stop kissing. Ahhhh . . . I didn't think I'd enjoy it this
much. You make me feel so sexy." She moved her thighs further apart. "So
loved." Wetness was dripping down her thighs again. "I know you said we'd
drag this out for hours, but you are going to let me come fairly soon,
"Yes, love, be patient."
Kneeling between her legs, I gently spread her magnificent cheeks
with my fingers, gazing in wonder into the deep fur-lined abyss. Ah, I
could see the crinkly pink bud of her anus. Lovingly, I blew warm air over
it; her ass hairs tickling my nose and chin.
"OH, GOD, YES!" she groaned.
"Did you like that?"
For her answer, she raised her wide-open ass right into my face.
Needing no further encouragement, I buried my face deep inside, licking and
nuzzling along the furrow, while my fingers slid inside her dripping cunt.
"I'm coming!" she screamed, scissoring her legs. But I was not
about to stop. My tongue found her anus: joyfully, I licked over it again
and again, feeling the living flesh winking and puckering against my
tongue. She was still coming, or coming again, or both. At last I jammed
the tip of my tongue against her anus and it slid inside.
"OOOOUH! YESSSS! ROBERRRRTAAA!"
I was rhythmically thrusting my fingers in and out of her silky
cunt, while my tongue caressed her anal canal. Greta's calf somehow found
its way between my thighs, and I began rubbing my cunt against it. I guess
I was pretty excited by Greta's ass, because, without any serious effort on
my part, I had a powerful little cummy. Meanwhile, Greta's orgasmic cries
and shudders went on solid for what seemed like minutes, at last dying away
to soft whimpers.
Beaming with joy, I planted one last kiss on each buttock, and then
crawled up beside her.
"Whew!" she panted, "Jesus . . . that was incredible. If I'd known
lesbian sex was this mind-blowing, I would have been more worried about
"I've never done anything like that with Carlie. Or with anybody
else. Greta, I love you."
"I'm all sweaty, but c'mere, I want you hold you. I love you too.
I could never let myself go like that with anyone else either. Really,
though: what other kinky tricks do you have up your sleeve? I suppose the
next thing is you'll make me come by licking my nostrils."
"Hmm, it's worth a try. No, Greta, I'm KIDDING! Mmm, darling, you
smell so good. Could I please lick you a little more?"
"Roberta, I just came five or six times back-to-back. I'm wiped
out. What about you? It's your turn now."
"I came already, while you were coming; I was rubbing against your
leg. You don't have to come again for me. I just want to taste you some
more. I'll be gentle. Pleeeease?"
And so she drew her thick thighs up to her belly as I snuggled down
to her cunt, licking along her nether lips slowly, like they were an ice
"Ah, careful, it's so sensitive after I come. Yes, nice soothing
licks, ahhh, just like that. I think I'd like a couple of fingers inside
me, gently, yes, don't move them, I just want to feel you filling me. Ahh.
I'm getting wet again, aren't I?
"You sure are. You taste so good."
"Ooh! That makes me even wetter. I . . . I think I can come again
after all. If you lick my clitoris a little, AOOUH, yes, yes, oh, I'm
gonna come for you, I'm gonna come . . . in your . . . face, Here I . . .
I must have been rubbing her g-spot, because she came in a gusher.
Thirstily, I clamped my mouth to her vaginal well and drank, but even so
the sheets got soaked, not to mention my face and neck.
* * *
We spent most of the weekend in bed together, talking, cuddling,
and lovingly fucking each other's brains out (I can't call it "making
love": the phrase is just too tame to describe it -- and, yes, I AM
Carlie came by Sunday evening (she called first, of course).
Coming in, she plunked down a shopping bag on the kitchen table.
"What's in this?" Greta asked.
"Presents, of course, for the new couple. Item one, for Mom, one
of my Melissa Etheridge tapes, to help you keep in touch with us younger
generation lesbians. Item two, for Roberta, a pair of knitting needles and
some yarn. If you're gonna be my step-mother, I want you to learn how to
make me a sweater."
We were rolling our eyes and giggling at this point.
"Item three, the wedding cake. Sorry, this is the best the bakery
could do on such short notice." It was three packages of ring-dings.
"Nice touch, Carlie," I smirked.
"Item four, a toast." She pulled out a bottle of champagne from
the bag, which, with some difficulty we managed to uncork and pour into
glasses. Carlie raised her glass. "OK, no more teasing. I'm very happy
for you two, and I know that you are going to be very happy together. I've
had a really strange role in bringing you two together -- I mean it's too
weird even to be on "Oprah"; but I'm proud of the end results. And item
five, hugs for everybody!"
We hugged warmly, and sipped our champagne and ate our ring-dings.
"Wait," I said, "I've got a present for you, Carlie. Greta, would
you mind parting with this apron."
"My apron? No. Why an apron?"
"Well, this is gonna be corny: brace yourselves. You were wearing
this apron the first night I met you. And it says "N'attendez pas de
miracles," "Don't expect miracles." I took a magic marker and crossed out
the N' and pas. "But Greta, you ARE a miracle, and our love is a miracle.
And Carlie, I know someday soon a miracle will happen to you too." Carlie
took the apron and hugged me again.
Greta began cooking us some supper. Carlie and I went out to the
"So, tell me," Carlie whispered, "how's Mom in bed?"
"Carlie! I can't believe you. That's none of your goddamned
business! . . . . And she's Fan - Fuckin - Tastic!"
End of Story