I’ve read previous editions of Best Lesbian Erotica and this year, with its new editor, I feel like I’m getting a whole new anthology. Each story is a fierce kind of hot and explores every taste from sugary sweet romantic to illegal in five states kinky. I follow the editor Laura Antoniou faithfully on Facebook because her unique and quirky personality is so entertaining and I feel her in the pages of this anthology, even though they’re written by a variety of authors. You can read Best Lesbian Erotica 2015 from beginning to end without stopping. The range in this lesbian orgy of erotic tales is too unique to ever bore and, just like with real life sex, the more you have, the more you want. Let you eyes, and your fingers, take a nap and then read it again!

I wonder how much longer it’s going to take for the 2016 edition to come out and if I can wait that long.

Best Lesbian

by BD Swain

I cleared our glasses and we headed out for a cigarette. I hate smoking, but I always smoked with her. It seemed sexy. Still does. I liked the way we walked down the sidewalk together. Side by side, boots hitting the pavement hard. Jeans slouched down resting on the curves of our asses. Her vintage shirts. Her perfect cuffed sleeves. I usually had my jacket on. Zipped up tight. Shoulders hunched. We walked in silence. Smoking. I crushed my cigarette out under my heel while she lit up another. I jammed my hands deep in my jeans pockets and nudged her with my hip. She laughed. I looked at her. “C’mon,” she said and jerked her head toward one of the dozens of bars open in the morning in the city. Our city. The city that felt like ours, together, because we met the first week we both lived here.

It felt so good, so right, to drink those beers together. It wasn’t ten in the morning yet, and I felt the buzz hit me halfway into the bottle. We didn’t say anything. We drank and read all the words on the coasters, the labels on the bottles, the signs behind the bar. She turned around and leaned her back against the bar and looked at the empty tables and the one old man sitting there with his drink. She stared at him when she talked to me. “Listen. I’m glad we’re going to do this. Stay friends, I mean. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said. That felt like bullshit. She started fucking some other girl and dropped me without warning weeks ago. I was pretty sure what she’d do without me was exactly what she was doing already. But I didn’t want to lose her either. “Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

“You’re my best friend, you know,” she said, and I shoved her hard enough that she fell off the bar stool and had to grab the spinning seat to keep from landing on her ass. “Fucking jerk,” she said, and we laughed. I ordered us two more beers and two whiskeys. Fuck it. We were going to get drunk enough, I guessed. We deserved it. I didn’t think we’d fall out like we did. But we did. Fall out of line, I mean. Fall out of our senses. Maybe I should have known. I just didn’t think she was still into me in that way. So I didn’t look for it. Or maybe I did. Maybe it’s what I had planned the whole time. Sitting there with my knees wide and my hand resting between my legs. Sucking on the bottle good and hard. Looking stoned. Looking dead to everything. Hard and stiff, just like she always liked me. Just like I wasn’t.

“I need to piss,” I said and slid off the bar stool, walking slowly toward the bathroom, knowing my ass looked great in those jeans. I had a drunk smile on my face when I pushed the door open. I stood there to take it in. I love dirty bathrooms in bars. I love them. The sticky floor with wadded-up toilet paper jammed into corners. The tiny porcelain sink that would pull right off of that wall any day now. The floor was tiled with square-inch black and white tiles. Filthy. The toilet bowl permanently stained with a rust-colored ring. I wanted to stand to pee but I’ve never been good at that and especially not when I’m drunk. I squatted over the toilet with my jeans held at my knees. “Maybe we’ll fuck in here before we go,” I thought. Stupid idea. I shook my head to rattle the thought out of there. The water in the tap was hot, really hot. I cupped my hands and splashed my face over and over again. I ran wet hands through my hair until it was all slicked down. I combed through it with my fingers and wiped my face on my shirttails. I looked at my teeth. “I’m stalling,” I said out loud and turned to go back.

“Rudolph Valentino,” she said, and whistled at me. I slicked my hair with a smile. “Errol Flynn,” I answered. I never liked Valentino. She never remembered anything. Why was I sitting here strutting for her. Preening. Fuck her. Nothing was right between us when we were going out. Nothing. The fucking was great. It was everything else that was a total disaster. But when the fucking is great. When you hook up the way we did. Lost little puppies in a big new world. Well, the fucking can get you pretty far. The fucking was unlike anything I’d ever known before. Jerk my pants down, bend me over, shove spit-covered fingers into my holes. That kind of fucking. Nothing about sweet kisses and polite little pets. No more fawning about how soft each other’s cheeks were. This was fucking. Like boys. Our tiny little cocks. Ramrod stiff. Stiff jeans. Shiny boots. Thick belts. Slicked hair. Fall in line, little boy, because this is how you show it here. I fell in line for her. Or she fell in line for me. Or we both fell in line because that’s what you fucking do.

The fucking. The way we fucked. Tossing back and forth. You fuck me. No, you fuck me. We both wanted to be fucked. We both wanted someone stronger than either of us. Or weaker. We both wanted something that was more opposite. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think she knew. How could we know anything? How can you figure anything out when the fucking is so good and you’re both new? I remember the time she grabbed my stiff, black comb out of my back pocket and held it against my neck. It hurt like a knife. It felt dangerous. I didn’t feel like a kid playing dress up. I felt tough. Dangerous. How I wanted to feel. She cut my back with that comb. Raking it across my shoulders, she let it bite into me. Jagged red lines.

I felt the booze swirl around in my brain. The warm rush in my belly. I stared at her with my wet lower lip hanging open. A dog. She was telling me some story. Something dumb. She was shaking her head and laughing and telling me about some asshole on the bus. Something about makeup. Or maybe it was a pregnant lady. I wasn’t listening to her. “I want you to fuck me,” I said, too loud, in the middle of her story. She looked at her knees for a second and then grabbed my arm and we headed out the door.

She walked ahead of me, still gripping my arm, and led me to her place. She stumbled off the curb once and nearly took us both down, but she never looked at me. Not until we got inside her apartment. When the door closed she turned around and shoved me up against it. She grabbed my crotch and spat her words at me. “You want me to fuck you? You don’t hate me yet?” she hissed. The words stung. Prophetic. I was going to hate her after this, I knew. It didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. Maybe that’s why I wanted it.