Between Kay and You: A Bisexual Girl's Cumming-of-Age Confession

By Valentine Glass

Fresh from a breakup with her first serious girlfriend, Kaylie embarks upon a series of erotic misadventures to figure out who she is and what she wants (between her legs).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valentine Glass
• Release date: Jan 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310984372

Valentine Glass

Valentine Glass is a feminist smut peddler living on the East Coast on the United States. Yes, her name is actually Valentine because she was born in the middle of February and her parents clearly never loved her. When not contributing to the delinquency of adults, she sorts books in basements and takes long strolls where she gets very lost. She can be reached on Twitter @glassvalentine.

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Copyright © 2015 Valentine Glass All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Valentine Glass

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

Molly

In psychology, there is this idea of a crisis. A crisis isn’t a bad thing, necessarily. More like, you will keep confronting the same sort of situation until you are prepared to surmount it. If you aren’t ready, you spend your whole life perseverating, getting it wrong time and again. In truth, you more than likely find a way to fuck it up in more complex patterns with each attempt. It isn't just a matter of screwing it up but doing so with panache.

I like to think I am a woman who learns her lesson. The trick is that you can only ever understand your life backward, but you have to live it forward. So, you owe me your forgiveness in advance. This is messy and, though I had a good deal of fun learning, I did not pick it up as quickly as I might have with a little encouragement. If I had your hand in mine, we could have skipped a lot that made it dirtier and dirtier.

I will say that it began with Molly, though this is to make for a more straightforward story. What caused my sluttish behavior had its roots far deeper than she ever reached—though I am sure she would tell that story differently. She represents a clear boundary and ought to be good for something, all things considered.

She and I were best friends since seventh grade. I can’t say now what so instantly drew me to her—the apple-green of her eyes, the dusting of freckles across her cheeks, the warm squeak of her voice, or that her first words to me were I can make a flower with my tongue. I am not so cocky as to think I then had gaydar. I was three years and a half dozen pairs of hungry boy hands wandering under my bra and fumbling in my panties from admitting to myself I was bisexual, with an overdue keenness for women.

I know my father blamed himself since he is the one who discovered me pawing through his pornography in the basement when I was little, sullying them both with the memory of my eagerness and the byproducts of it. Even then, I marveled at the strangeness of the women in the magazines, their hair feathered in a style I struggled to believe was ever in fashion. More than that, the thought rattled uncomfortably in my young brain that I would one day become one of them. My body then was sexless. Though I had seen the curves of adults, I couldn’t fathom the chrysalis that would turn my featureless body into something with heft and gravity, curves, and the inclination to use them. I grasped that the venous, serpentine protrusions these women blithely stuffed in their twats were the adult analogies of the tiny mushrooms I spied when my mother changed my brother’s diaper. It was beyond me why men would stuff them in women’s butts and mouth. I just hoped that the men thoroughly washed their penises in between.

In the messy years that I stumbled through my sexual discovery, Molly barely dated. She would occasionally kiss a boy in the hallway between classes, go see a movie with a guy she knew—usually her neighbor Dan—but it never went further. She spent most of her time palling around with her brother, her neighbor Dan, or playing lacrosse. I didn’t realize then that lacrosse was code for I desperately crave a girl between my legs, but I have since become fluent in the tongue. I don’t know when she realized she was not entirely straight. I imagine she knew it much sooner than I did. She was infuriating enough to have realized I was bisexual and not brought it up during the sleepovers when we busied ourselves with bad movies, salty snacks, and nail polish that she scratched off by dawn. When I think of all the time we wasted, the long showers I enjoyed thinking about her changing into pajamas in front of me, I could slap her.

Molly was not the first girl I dated. It would make for a better, cleaner story that I had been otherwise pure and frustrated before meeting her. Instead, I was a mainstay at concerts, where it was easy enough to deduce who there might defy the hetero-norm. My standard line was, Hey, I’m Kaylie. Do you want to go somewhere quieter? Any woman who left the front of the stage to visit my company's supposed quiet was more than likely going to enjoy the inexperienced delight of my tongue in her mouth. (Once, a girl turned me down, only to reappear half an hour later, pouting that someone had elbowed her in the mouth. Without thinking, I asked if she wanted me to kiss it and make it better. This was how I got fingered leaning against a pole in a crowded club while Tori Amos seemed to sing just for me about how the ability to make her cum didn’t make you Jesus.)

Relationships born in the smoke and chaos of the clubs rarely lasted a month. My family was blessedly supportive of my orientation—save that they wouldn’t allow me to even have the door closed when I had friends over—but the same could not be said of the girls I dated. You haven’t lived until you have heard a pastor denounce you as the Whore of Babylon for giving his daughter a peck on the cheek when we had every reason to expect the pews were empty. It never bothered me too much since I had a secret they didn’t know, one I never shared with anyone despite it being one of the first questions tossed my way since I was fifteen.

Until I was eighteen, I was