Mail to Monica

Hi! My name is Sharon and I’m a lesbian. Did I scare you? Perhaps you think all lesbians are squat and ugly and angry. I’m not. Please keep reading. I saw you on your first day at work, standing nervously at the reception desk, twirling your hair and squeezing your legs like you needed the girls’ room. I loved the way the silk in your pantsuit fell over your beautiful bottom, and the waves in your dark hair. I was the girl with the ponytail who passed you from behind and turned to look at you. But then everybody else did too, I guess. I wore black pants and dark red blouse. You probably didn’t notice. Have you ever been in love with another girl? I was about twelve the first time. She was fourteen and a friend of my sister’s. Had long hair and cute breasts, and she used to braid my hair occasionally. I loved the touch of her hands and the way she sat behind me with legs around me. One day she told me a guy had kissed her, and I asked what it was like. Like this, she said, and kissed me full on the mouth. I nearly wet my pants. Ever had sex with a girl? Ever touched another girl between the legs? Stroked her breasts, fondled her hair, kissed her on the mouth? I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. I wanted to stroke your face, kiss your lips, cup your pretty breasts in my hands, hold your narrow waist, and press my longing sex against yours. The next day I dressed as prettily as I could, with my tan pants and matching top, and my hair hanging free, hoping you would notice me. All day I hoped for a glimpse of you, passing by my desk. You smiled, and I had to touch myself under the table. Your dress was lovely. The hint of lace on your bosom, the way your cute belly rounds under the fabric. I need the little girls’ room. Will you come with me? We could giggle and laugh and swap lipsticks, and I would brush your hair back. Then you can watch me pee. I love the intimacy of going to the bathroom together. God, I have to go. Sorry for the delay. No, of course you don’t notice that, reading. But I just had to wee, or else. I imagined you beside me in front of the mirror, maybe dressed in the yellow blouse and the tight jeans, and I had to press my hand between my legs to keep from weeing. Actually– no. Yes. Actually I dribbled a little, from pure lust. I had to step quickly into the cubicle, pull down the side zipper, wriggle my pants down, then slip my panties down, and sit before I lost control. The relief! Have you ever wet yourself? It happened a lot when I was a little girl. Always waited too long, from carelessness. Sometimes even for the thrill. Could I make it in time? The fullness gave me a strange tingling between my legs, and if I wet myself – oh, the shame and joy at the same time. The last time was only a few weeks ago, on my way home. I was wearing a dark red corduroy boiler suit, and was kind of desperate before boarding the underground. I was pacing, crossing and uncrossing my legs, feeling the pressure build. Finally the train came, and stepping up nearly made me pee my pants. The urge grew, and I shifted in the seat, sitting on one buttock, wanting to clamp my hands between my legs. I counted stations, feeling my swollen pussy lips against my panties. My nipples grew hard. On standing up I felt a little go in my panties, but I managed to hold on. Then came the walk home. Each step a poke in my bladder, the movement of the fabric a constant stimulation of my sex. The boiler suit made it impossible to squat between cars –not the easy lifting of a skirt, but the total removal of the garment. Waiting at a red light I stopped caring and just held myself. One street further I gave up. Standing on the pavement I let the warm wee flow, soaking myself completely. Sharon, twenty–six years old and a big girl, peeing herself on the street, dreaming of you. Do you pee in the shower? I pee in the bathtub. I bring a book and a lot of tea, and when I feel the need, I just let go. I stroke myself and then pee when I come, thinking of you. I wish you were in the tub with me; we could wash each other. Maybe I could shave you. I imagine your naked pussy under that dress I just saw you in. I imagine you in see–through panties, in leggings, in jeans. I imagine you in my bed, waking with your arms around me. I imagine you saying, Sharon, I need to pee. I imagine me answering, Monica darling, just go ahead. My name is Sharon and I’m a lesbian. Will you be my girlfriend? (Should I? God, I’m bursting. No. Yes. Monica!)
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