Excerpts - cont.

To Lola, With Love
© 1998 Alison Tyler
Excerpted from "Sex Toy Tales", Down There Press, San Francisco

I'm not exactly sure how to admit this - it sounds funny to say, and looks even funnier on paper - but my girlfriend is having an affair with my vagina. She'll readily admit to this. She's even written love letters to it. Yes indeed, Jo, my normally sane, very lovely, dyke-sweetheart has taken pen in hand and written to my cunt.

At first, she simply cooed to it, sliding one deft pointer between my nether lips, then lifting that finger to her mouth to drink the nectar from the tip, whispering softly, "Oooh, pretty thing, pretty pussy. Oooh, what darling kitty lips you have. I'm gonna lick 'em. Yesss, I am. I'm gonna drink all that sticky sap from deep inside. Oh yes, darlin', oh yes."

She employed the exact voice that some slightly deranged people use when talking to babies or small animals. That sing-song, nonsense tone. That wuvvy-duvvy cartoonish croon. That nausea-inspiring simper that suggests the very early stages of puppy love.

But this love has lasted.

And so has the love affair Jo has held with my vagina.

Now, she's not totally off the deep end. I mean, she hasn't proposed marriage to it or anything. But she brings it presents.

"Won't you look pretty in these satin panties?" she crows. "Oh, yes, oh yes, so pretty for mommy...."

Excuse me?

"Mama Jo got them special. See the lace, pretty lace...."

Okay, she's talking to my cunt, I thought, at first. I can handle this. I can get a grip. Except, she was talking to it as if it had the brain of, say, Jell-O. So, I came to a decision: if my cunt is gonna have a love affair behind my back - no, that's impossible - in front of my back, then it had better get treated with some respect. I wanted intelligent conversation, not baby-doll cooing. And I told her so.

"None of your business, really," is what Jo had to say.

"Excuse me?"

"It's none of your business what Lola and I do, or how we talk.'

"Lola?"

"Yes, that's her name."

"You named my cunt?"

"No ... she told me."

Too much. Too fucking much.

"My cunt told you her name?"

"Well," Jo said, shrugging her built shoulders at me and giving me a withering stare, "Not in so many words, but I knew."

I didn't have anything to say to that. At least, not until the flowers arrived with a pastel note that read in gently sloping cursive: "To Lola, with love." I called Jo at work.

"Seventh Street Cafe," she answered, that familiar smile in her husky voice, "You've reached the bar."

"Jo, why did you send my cunt flowers?"

"Hey! You weren't supposed to open the card, it was for her."

"Um, what's "she" gonna do with them?"

"Smell them. Enjoy them."

"We have to talk," I said.

"Sure, Angel. I'll be home at one."

I paced through the apartment, unable to park myself at the computer and get my work done. I'd started to feel as if sitting were a bad thing ... I mean, sitting on her. And I suddenly felt the urge to take a bath, to shave Lola cleanly, to stand naked in front of the bouquet so she could enjoy the flowers.

I ran the water in our claw-foot tub, adding raspberry-scented bubble bath and lighting a few candles. Normally I wouldn't get so carried away, but this seemed to be a special occasion - flowers, and all. As I spread on the shaving cream, I found that I touched myself more gently than normal. I slid the razor over that softest skin and admired it. When I was through, I powdered all over, then went and got the pretty panties Jo had bought and put them on.

Lola was happy. I could tell.