Let’s DanceLet’s Dance


Heads up! This story does not contain sex! Turn back now if that’s a deal-breaker for you.

This story lives in the Lesbian Sex hub because it’s an exploration of one woman’s erotic intention, the hopefulness of her attraction to another woman, and what it feels like to want without getting. In other words, it’s a story about lesbian sex, without any lesbian sex in it. You should read it if you like stories. 😉



I made a dance for you. To show you how I feel. It’s simple. Nothing more than it needs to be, nothing less.

I should have just written you a love letter like a normal person. But you’re so lovely. You’re so alive. Longing has tied my tongue and I’m full of clichés; that’s why I made a dance for you. You’re so _______ that words come up short.




“Cute shirt.”

“Ha, thank you. It’s so old.”

“The best shirts always are. I think the fashion hive-mind only makes cool stuff once every couple years.”

“Seems like bad business.”

“No, it’s so they can separate the wheat from the chaff. So they can see who keeps wearing the good stuff and who follows the trends.”


“I’m sure they’ve got their eye on you.”

“Wow, haha, so they can recruit me?”

“Something like that. Watch out for men in suits with shades.”

“Will do. See ya!”



I made a dance to do with you. I made a dance for you, with you, about you. I made a dance so I could hold you close under the pretense that on stage it’s somehow symbolic, not real. That the act of choreographing an action necessarily abstracts it. I made a dance for you so I could pretend that holding you in my arms isn’t everything I wanted. So I could pretend the dance was more important, like my purpose was to create a dance, not to take any path I could think of to get closer to you.

I know art is supposed to be a representation. It’s not supposed to be real. So even as I sway and circle with you, I smile and say “We’re just playing. Are you having a good time? We’re just dancing.” Meanwhile, my heart hides behind my ribcage and hammers away.

I made a dance for you and I dance it when I’m least expecting it. I danced it at the Asian grocer downtown last Tuesday. I danced it at the water park in June. I danced it in New York City when I left the subway station. I danced it trying to figure out how to get into a pay toilet in London.

Every time I push through a turnstile, I dance the first few steps of my dance for you.


“Happy Tuesday.”


“Happy Tuesday.”

“Is it a holiday?”

“Nope. Just a Tuesday.”

“Haha, do you always wish people Happy Tuesdays?”

“Just the ones I like.”

“How was your weekend?”

“Uneventful. Yours?”

“It was great, thanks! Could you hand me that stack?”

“Here you go.”



I made a dance because we’re always passing, always in motion. I’ve tried to stop and talk but you just keep going. You smile at me and walk right by.

Hey, would you stop a second?

Come here.

Would you do this dance with me?

This dance I made for you?

Come closer.

Let me kiss you.

Has anyone ever loved you how you deserve to be loved?

Slow down a second.

Tell me what you want so I can give it to you.


“Hey.” Hey beautiful.


“How izmit escort bayan are you?” Has anyone told you how lovely you look today?

“Pretty good. How are you doing?”

“Doing alright. Same old, same old.” If we slept in the same bed I’d tell you the second I woke up. I’d mumble-kiss it to your skin and wrap you up in my arms.

“Did you see a red folder come through here? Maybe in a stack with some of the big white binders?”

“Hm, I don’t think so.” Sit on my desk a second and let me search around. Give me a chance to kneel at your feet and look up at your face. Stroke your fingers through my hair.

“Okay well, if you see it—”

“Hold on, let me look in here real quick.” Don’t go. Stay here. Just slow down a second. Do you like to dance?

“It’s okay, I’ll come back.”


Maybe I’ll write you a poem. Or a short story. Something more direct, but just as abstract. Maybe I could write you an over-reaching, pop-philosophy self-help book, narrated in that god voice, like there’s nothing so imperfect as a human being behind the words. I need something to suggest that the answer is obvious without having to actually provide it.

That way I could tell you, without it being Me telling You, that there’s nothing like a stomach-turning attraction to change you from a taker to a giver. You might think that you are self-absorbed, because I think we all fear that we are, but believe me, it all changes when someone catches your eye. Inescapable desire sinks a hook in your gut and the world gets a lot simpler.

Let me tell you about pining. It’s not a quiet want. You’ll rebuild your thoughts to consider her imaginary opinions. You’ll want to defer to her judgement, as though she’s already an important person in your life. Pining is a long lean to the left. You reach without moving your feet.

You see, the solution is self-evident; it is self-actualizing. Consider the conversations with friends about crushes and hook ups and love interests. You just nod and feel nothing. You don’t need any of that. There are so many questions implicit in every relationship. Even the weird relationship you have with the guy at the cafe that always remembers your drink, but never remembers your name. That relationship is brimming with ambiguity. Pining draws your loose fibers up, like a magnet pulling on filings, and replaces the curly questions with straight lines of loyalty.

You drive home with the car windows down. The hot summer air feels a little cooler when it’s whipping your hair into your face. You watch the city’s night lights and realize you have everything you need. You’re full up on people and things and experiences. Time to give. Time to empty out. Time to take what you have and heave it up into the air, watch it splash on the concrete.

Time to make a beautiful girl cry out in a supply closet. Time to fuck again, just two hours later, because you can’t help it. She’s right there, smelling incredible, and you’re itching for it, kissing her ear, grinning and saying you’ve got something you forgot to give her this morning.

The path to her flows forward from your feet like a shadow. It illuminates only a few steps at a time. So what if she’s unattainable? And so what if the path only leads you around the perimeter of her moat and back to where you started? At least you know what to do. Even if you won’t do it.

Do you see how words are worse than a dance? At least dance doesn’t izmit eve gelen escort leave you hollow. At least dance is ambiguously positive, because aren’t bodies in motion always hopeful? Isn’t that what optimism looks like? Picking ourselves up from the floor and moving?


“Hey. What’s for lunch?”

“Oh, this? Just yogurt for now. I think they’re ordering in sandwiches for the 3:30.”

“Nice. What flavor?”

“I don’t know. Just normal sandwiches.”

“No, I mean your yogurt.”

“Oh, haha, it’s peach.”

“I love peach yogurt. I have a friend who puts torn up mint leaves in it.”

“Wow, that sounds crazy.”

“Yeah. You just have to try it. Tastes a lot better than it sounds.”

“Sounds like it would taste like grass clippings.”

“Yeah… I guess it depends on whether or not you like mint.”


Let’s dance. Let me whisper in your ear.

I know you’ve got a girlfriend but how air tight is that situation, because if you wanted something fun on the side—

Let’s slow dance in an empty parking lot. I’ll be as romantic as a movie designed to make you cry because I would do that for you. I want you to feel whatever you want to feel. So if you want to be wooed, I’ll woo you. I’ll hum along to the music and sway with my arms around your waist.

I promise not to fall in love with you. I’ve already fallen in love with the you that dances with me in my head. So, nothing to worry about there.

Let’s grind, make nasty circles against each other. The lights are out and we’re just another pair in a crowd that can’t hear itself over the music. I can’t see anything because my eyes are closed to the strobe. It’s just my hands on your hips and your ass in my lap. I’m breathing on your neck and pushing into you. I’m wanting you out loud, moving against you the way I’d fuck you. I’d tackle you to the ground if you weren’t pushing back into me too.

Let’s do it the way we know. Let’s keep it just like all our other interactions: a dance of words, perfunctory and polite.

I’ll take off your shorts now.

Cool, great.

Did you want it fast or slow today?

Let’s go fast for a change. Just watch out with your fingernails.

Do you have a meeting after this or I can keep eating you out after you come? Can I just bury my face, licking all over, tasting and fucking a little, moaning and holding your hips?

No my schedule’s wide-open, go ahead.

Thanks. Just give me a five minute warning when you want me to wrap things up.

Let’s do it the way I always imagined it. Let’s do the dance I made for you. In a turnstile. Can you picture it? It’s a waist-high metal post with four metal arms coming out the top in a rigid, rotating cross.

We enter on opposite sides. You take a step forward and press the metal arm in front of you into motion with your hips. The turnstile turns and the arm behind me swings into the back of my legs, so I have to take a step to match. You push forward again but this time I’m ready. You lean into it, trying to complete the turnstile’s rotation, and I lean back. I match your force and hold you in place.

I watch your face and you watch the floor. You push harder and I brace against it.


“Good morning.”

“Good morning!”

“You look lovely today.”

“Oh, haha thank you! I feel super cute. New earrings!”

“Ah yeah, very cute.”

“I izmit otele gelen escort thought, you know, they’re really better for Easter, with the pink and green ovals, but what the hey, they look good!”

“Yeah, they do. Particularly with the way your hair covers them. So you just see these glimpses of gold.”


“You always look good though. Is that practice or does it come naturally?”

“Haha! Oh, just practice. Just a few minutes every morning is all anybody needs.”

“And an eye for color. And some fashion sense.”

“Yeah. Well, you know, practice makes perfect!”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve been practicing this uncombed look for years and it’s not getting any better.”

“Oh sure it is! It looks much better than it did a few months ago.”


It’s not just about getting you on your back. But it’s not about falling in love either. I guess it’s not all give, no take. I want you to let me make your body feel good, but I also want something from you. I’m not sure exactly what that is, but it’s more than surrender. I expect your pressure when I push back on the bar.

I bet you think I lean back because I want to hold you in place, but really, I want to keep walking around and around. I’d step forward with you if I thought you’d stay in the turnstile and wander around in little circles with me. I just don’t trust that if I let you take a step forward, you wouldn’t walk right out of the thing. And keep going.

Stay here a second, just revolve. Let’s walk around and around. Look at me. Can I touch your hand?




“Having a good Friday?”

“So far! You?”

“It’s going alright. I just had a friend cancel on our weekend plans though.”

“Aw, sucks.”

“Yeah. We were going to pick blueberries. Perfect weather for berry picking too.”

“That sounds like fun. I’ve never been berry picking.”


“Yeah. Do you just pick them by hand?”

“Yeah. You fill up a bucket and pay by the pound. You wanna go?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you want to go with me? And pick blueberries?”

“Oh, uh.”

“Whenever, it doesn’t have to be this weekend. But that’s a life experience you should have.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll go next time my family is in town. Seems like a good family activity.”

“Yeah, alright, totally. Great for kids. As long as you wear clothes you can get muddy.”

“Haha, thanks for the tip!”

“Yep. See you.”


Hold on, hold on. I feel dizzy. Stop the wheel. I need to ask myself if I really thought this would go anywhere. Did I really think I’d do anything? The dance ends. It has to end. The dance ends, and then? What happens after that?

I just want that fuck-the-world buzz without the run-away-from-it-all implications.

I made you a dance after all. I didn’t write you a letter, or a story, or a self-help book. I didn’t spill my emotions in front of you for judgement. I made you a dance—not because I’m a coward—but because that’s all I needed to do.

Was it catharsis all along? I thought it was an ode to dedication, but was I just looking for a way to let you go? Maybe dance was a way to pour all those feelings into something tangible, because I knew I was never going to catch you around the waist and kiss you.

The dance ends and—

The dance ends.

It just ends.

That’s the great thing about dances. They’re not stories. They don’t have to have a happy ending or a sad one. Not even a purposefully opaque one. The end of dance doesn’t feel as final. It doesn’t feel like the last chapter of the dancers’ lives. The dance just ends, the performers walk forward, they bow, and the lights go out.

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir