Law School and Lesbians Rachel Kramer Bussel

Before you take the law school preparatory exams, the LSATs, they tell you not to change anything in your life too much. Don't suddenly alter your schedule, get a new job, or start a new relationship. They probably also meant "don't have sex with a woman for the first time," but I didn't let that stop me. It was my senior year of college, and I was a very young, naive, and whimsical nineteen. I'd been slogging away at practice test after practice test, trying to learn the ins and outs of logic problems, trying to outsmart my examiners. In the meantime, I was hanging out with Jenny, a tougher, older chick in several of my classes. We were totally different; I was sheltered, nerdy, my head permanently stuck in a book. I'd never been to a pride parade, and my only dyke acquaintances were older family friends who seemed far removed from campus life. But Jenny was exciting; she'd lived on her own, she'd bedded who knows how many girls, she plowed through class and campus totally unashamed of taking up space, while I was trying to shrink myself, holding back at every turn lest I become too visible. I was alone in more ways than one, and having someone so larger-than-life interested in me made me feel pretty, wild, exotic. I was fascinated and, yes, a little frightened of Jenny. She'd grab my breast as we walked to the supermarket, pull me into unexpected public displays of affection, challenge me to go outside my little insular comfort zone.

That first night, our kisses turned into something more, and one of my first thoughts as we embraced in my upstairs room on College Avenue was, I can't believe I'm doing this. And I couldn't. It just wasn't me—not the kissing a girl part, but the breaking the rules, deliberately disobeying the standards set for me. I was totally nervous, yet excited; all the weeks of our flirting and stumbling and silly fun had led up to this. We moved over to my bed, a typical simple college twin, and she showed me how to touch her. I started off tentatively, playing with her clit, examining her pussy, admiring her body's combination of hard and soft. I'd never really touched myself too much before, so stroking her clit and feeling her react was something new. She kept her tampon in, so I was on the surface, but that didn't seem to stop her from getting totally aroused. I was amazed, but didn't have too much time to dwell on the novelty. She knew it was my first time, but like everything I did back then, I wanted to play it cool, to dive right in and act like I knew it all. And maybe that's the best approach to sex one can have, because confidence breeds skill, or at least is a necessary precursor.

I went slowly at first, my fingers prowling through her pubic hair to get to her clit, then dipping lower, exploring her lips, tracing, tugging, brushing over the white string and wondering what she felt like inside. I went back to her clit, two fingers circling, pressing, rubbing, trying to get it right. My heart was pounding, and it was dark so I couldn't really see, but I loved the way I made her moan and move and push back against me, loved how lost I was clearly making her feel as I stepped over into my own personal pussy wonderland, one so different from everything I'd known before. In a few short minutes, I'd made her come. "Damn girl, you're good," she said, and pulled me on top of her for a kiss. I slid my leg in between hers while she cradled me in her strong, powerful arms and I felt more than a little like I'd stepped into some strange, brave, new, uncertain world.

Of course, the next day, as page after page of standardized test questions rolled across the desk, all I could think of was the previous night. Of our embrace under my dingy light bulb, of that sublime satisfaction of her short, simple, breathless words, "You're good," after I made her come. Somehow, I pulled it off, a 660 if I recall, though looking back, I certainly deserved to have bombed the LSATs. I cracked the test, but wound up retreating from her, scared by either Jenny's boldness or my own misgivings. Her girlness was so big, so overwhelming, and it didn't feel like I could keep us in our safe, special private box anymore. Before I gave up entirely, though, I tried my best to make it work, wanting to see just where we could go—together.

Jenny had a tattoo above her pussy, and this was the first of either one I'd really seen up close. We took a shower together one day at her place. I took the soapy sponge and rubbed it all over her body, the white foamy suds clinging to her skin. She put her hand over mine, leading my way down, down, down, until the sponge hovered over her tattoo. I knelt down, looking up close at her colored skin, her pink lips, as water sluiced over both of us. I ignored the stream beating down on me and positioned myself between her legs, my own tucked underneath me as my tongue parted her clean, slippery entrance. I felt her pubic hair nestling against my skin and wondered if I was doing a good job. But soon her taste shifted, and I could tell when she heated up from the inside. I tasted her salty, special flavor, felt the way her pussy's entrance greeted my tongue, sleek, slippery, not giving me any single place to cling to. I pulled back, looking up at the tattoo, an image that's faded in my mind after a decade's worth of licks; was it green? Tribal? Big? Small? The details escape me, but that ink's what I saw before I returned my mouth to her clit, holding one hand steady on her hip while she moaned and tried not to fall as I suckled her hard nub for all I was worth. Here was something I could latch onto; I could be rewarded by feeling it harden beneath me. The water still trickled around us, growing colder, but I didn't care. I liked being down on my knees, liked feeling the tub's hardness against my shins, her womanly body, all muscles and curves, strength and power, a sturdy beauty, above me, reassuring. Already, then, I liked getting other people off, liked the sense of power and submission, approval and desire, test and reward all rolled into one. In that shower, I let go, in a way I hadn't done before; I lost the nerdy girl who wanted to please everyone in the world in favor of someone who simply wanted to please one special woman. I let the water fall around me, my eyes closed as I tasted her while she pressed down against me, giving me the only feedback I truly needed.

The rest of our courtship is a bit of a blur. I remember watching Dr. Katz on TV, playing with her cat as I teased him with catnip, sitting in a restaurant on Shattuck while we analyzed whether looks had anything to do with one's queerness. I remember laughing with her at huge, snorting private jokes that turned into kisses once we were alone. I remember her sneaking me into the gym where she worked, and sharing jelly beans on campus. I remember being nervous when she came in and kissed me before class, sure that everyone around me knew what I was doing in my off hours. I remember her telling me, casual as could be, that an old friend was coming to town. They might have sex, but it would be no big deal, no strings. No big deal? No strings? I was far from conversant in the language of polyamory at the time, and had been starting to feel trapped, confused. We worked on one level, but on another things were starting to feel strange in a way I wasn't sure I could handle.

Eventually we parted ways, and only saw each other a few more times around campus. I remember she had a girl on her arm as her graduation cape flowed around her, while I felt timid, hovering in a corner in mine, changed by our relationship, but thus far only on the inside. Is it a coincidence that I got to know my dykey side while in law school, sneaking out from the rigors of torts and contracts to explore other kinds of mysteries, to wade through crowds of hot girls until I found another one who wanted to come home with me and teach me a thing or two about getting and giving it from another woman? Maybe, or maybe the two became inextricably linked that first night as visions of pussy and passing scores mingled in my mind while Jenny made me dizzy with her tongue. Either way, she made my world orbit in ways that I could only imagine at the time. Wherever she is, and whether she realizes it or not, I owe her one.