Lesbian dating married woman

I tell her I don't like snakes, and she asks me if I like geckos. I slide my thumb up and down slowly between her fingers.

I circle her knuckles, turning her hand over and over and always going back to the long, slow stroke, which is, of course, physical and metaphorical, alluding to something more.

Given my age, given that my hormones don't soar as high as they did in my twenties and thirties, I'm a little surprised I can have sex at all.

I have not had sex with my husband in some time; our children keep us bound.

Someone tapped me on the back, and when I turned around I saw an attractive woman with a short cap of hair and willowy limbs. Let me tell you what I mean when I use the phrase "in love." I want to live with this woman. I want to build a house of beams and wide windows, surrounded by fenced fields in which our horses will graze away their days.

I want to kiss this woman, and I have, placing my lips squarely on hers and giving not one kiss but a series of kisses that involved taking her luscious lip between my two teeth and biting down just to the point of pain.

Anna lives just 15 minutes from my house, in an antique abode with pegged-pine floors and soaring ceilings, her bedroom filled with the fragrance of jasmine from an actual jasmine plant, which is, the first time I see it, in extravagant bloom.

Her huge garden is in the back of the house, and we wander through it just as summer starts, filling our baskets; and then, back inside, she slices a starfruit, a melon, a vibrant red pepper, placing them on a white plate in a circular arrangement.

I love that her name is the same spelled forward or backward; this palindrome suggests that despite the softness of her sound, Anna is indestructible, a solid pillar of a person. We spent the entire seven-hour ride complaining about our marriages.

As I was saying, sex with her is entirely different than sex I've had with a man. Perhaps that's because I sometimes found it slightly painful, but I don't really think I enjoy sex with Anna because she lacks a penis.

I enjoy it because it's a full-bodied, sensual experience of nuance and complexity.

She is not a professional cook or a professional gardener or a professional glassmaker, but everything Anna does, she does with ardor and competence, the combination producing an amazing bounty.

The pan heated now, Anna lays a pale fillet of fish in the skillet and sears it, a sudden flame jumping up, while I sit at the counter and watch her work, her hands shredding rumpled leaves of spinach, dicing an heirloom tomato.

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