Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By JetBoy

As the site’s sole male delegate, I’d like to share a bit of background about my long-standing relationship with lesbian erotica.

When I was a young’un in the Deep South, folks didn’t talk much about gays or lesbians… mostly because nearly all of them were firmly in the closet. Oh, we used “queer” frequently as a casual insult, but in our backyards it was more akin to calling someone “dork,” or “weirdo.” I was vaguely familiar with the concept of men and women who were attracted to those of their own gender, but that’s as far as it went.

In those days, we had to score our porn at convenience stores, the ones with clerks who were willing to overlook our tender ages and hook us up with the hard stuff. There glossy beaver mags jostled for shelf space with dirty paperback novels like titles like Jeannie Goes Wild, His Hot Little Sister, or even Mom Does the Dog.

Naturally, the magazines attracted my attention first, and it was there that your humble scribe received his first dose of Pornography, Sapphic Style.

This particular skin mag was called Club, one of those lower-rent versions of Penthouse that arose in the wake of Playboy‘s refusal to show pubic hair. The issue in question featured a lesbian spread in the center section, and it hit me like a flying two-by-four. Two naked women, making passionate love — and one of them bore a very distinct resemblance to a cutie from my high school drama department who, at that time, was acting in a production of The Music Man (one that also included yours truly in a supporting role). She played the uptight, virginal Marian the Librarian, and seeing her virtual doppelganger doing the dirty with an equally sexy female gave your Boy Reporter an erection that was both immediate and unassailable. That day, an obsession with lesbian sexuality was born.

Those shiny pages were the center of masturbation fantasies for weeks. Even after my father found and confiscated the precious Club (a frequent hazard in those adolescent days), I managed to pick the lock of his private closet and reclaim the center portion of the magazine — carefully bending the staples out, then back in again to conceal my handiwork. Those pages would eventually be taken from me too, but the hunger refused to die.

Since the vast majority of erotica was heterosexually inclined in those more innocent days, a devotee of sapphic delights had to make do with whatever meager crumbs of lesbianology he could scare up. I quickly graduated to the sleazy paperbacks, scouring them for scenes of women loving women. Hot as the pictorials were, the erotic power of a sexy story was something else again, relying on the reader’s dirty imagination to bring said story to life. Needless to say, this boy’s imagination was up to the task and then some.

I still have fond memories of a nasty yet surprisingly well-written novel entitled Lola On the Loose, in which two high school girls practice kissing with one another and get delightfully carried away in the process. But what really knocked my head for a loop was a story I found in a book of sex tales about truckers’ wives, who have to make do while their men are on the road. In the opening segment, a love-starved woman gets seduced into bed by her own teenage daughter.

Decades later, I still recall that throb of arousal that surged through me as I stood at the revolving convenience store book rack reading those words, trying not to attract the attention of the sour old geezer who manned the counter. My need to own this book was so intense that I shoved it down the front of my pants while he was selling candy to some kids, then made a hasty escape.

Sadly, the name of the story in question has been lost to the mists of time, but entire lines from its pages still shine brightly in my mind — I actually pilfered a few for use in some of my earlier tales. The very concept of female family members as lovers was, hands down, the most arousing thing I’d ever encountered… and I had to have more.

But lesbian incest porn was rare stuff in those days — and finding it required lots of digging through books and magazines, as well as a generous helping of sheer luck.

Today, we live in a golden age for connoisseurs of quality smut. We have erotic story blogs, photo libraries, film clip archives… a veritable landslide of titillation to fill our dirty imaginations. There are several sites that compile hundreds of those old trashy paperbacks I once treasured, complete right down to the original cover art.

The pull of these Repositories of Raunch is damn near irresistible. If the internet is an ocean, such sites are like a riptide dragging souls into a smutty grave. (Davy Boner’s Locker?) Unlike in the actual sea, we are smiling as we go down for the third time.

Now I’m creating erotica of my own, penning the kind of stories that the younger edition of me would have crawled through swarms of fire ants to lay hands on. I’ve made gay and bisexual female friends all over the world, and have collaborated on stories with some of them. I’ve given advice and assistance to writers who were just getting started (admittedly, not always at the author’s request), and seen some of them go on to do amazing things.

But today I’m feeling a special surge of joy. Nearly a decade after taking my first clumsy stab at cobbling together a sex story, I’m a partner in this beautiful new blog — working side by side with Cheryl Taggert and Naughty Mommy, two writers I admire enormously. In the grand scheme of things, it ain’t the Nobel Peace Prize… but it’s enough to leave this middle-aged reprobate feeling happy with his lot.