Note to Self

by

Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa, Consensual, Lesbian, BiSexual, Fiction, First, Slow, .

Desc: Erotic Sex Story: Anna is young and attractive but sometimes intimidating. She is comfortable in her role of wife and mother, which she balances against her career as a policewoman. She's also comfortable in her heterosexuality, but her emotional world is upended at a kindergarten barbecue where she encounters Susan, who unearths feelings she never suspected. Anna turns to her journal and tries to pour her confusion onto the page where she hopes to better understand what is happening to her.

Private journal of Anna Volakas

Monday 22nd September, 2014

I feel strange writing this down. No, not strange ... guilty. I don't know why I feel that way, because it doesn't make sense; but I do know what's causing it and maybe if I put it on paper then it won't be in my head any more. Then maybe I can sleep again at night. Let the damn paper feel guilty.

But here's the thing: I'm not completely sure I want it out of my head. How's that for messed up? Pretty frickin' perfect, I should think; perfectly messed up is exactly what it is. The truth? I haven't felt this excited ... this alive ... since my honeymoon. I think that's why I feel guilty; not because what I'm feeling is wrong – I don't think it is – but because these feelings should be reserved for Nick, my husband.


Shit. I just re-read what I've written so far and I sound like a lying, cheating bitch. Even to myself. But I'm not ... at least, I've taken a long, hard look inside and I don't believe I am.

What if someone reads this? What if Nick reads this? Holy crap, Nick, are you reading this, baby? I can picture it so clearly; I left this thing lying open, or you went looking in my drawer for my keys, or any one of a million other things that could put this in your hands. Maybe I got killed at work and you're sifting through my stuff, trying to make sense of the insensible, and this is what you find! Now I feel like an utter turd; part of me wants to tear out this page and burn the fucking thing.

But I have to go on. I have to. Nick, baby, if you are reading this then please keep an open mind. Know that I love you. Always have, always will. Nothing has changed there. But there is something new; something inside me that I have to deal with and it doesn't affect the way I love you. I'm not trying to make something happen with Susan, but if it did – and I know you probably won't believe this – then it might actually be good for me. For us. I feel that very strongly.


Damn, clock's ticking Anna. Forty minutes writing this and so far all you have is a page full of bullshit and innuendo. Maybe it's time to take a concrete pill – as they say at the station – and harden the fuck up! Okay, here goes: I think I'm a lesbian. A rug-munching, fuzz-bumping, clam-digging, scissor sister! A fucking diesel-dyke copper; what a cliché.

I thought that would make me feel better, but it didn't. It makes me feel worse, not least of all because it's not true. I just made myself cry. Good job, Anna.

I'm straight; I like guys.

I like the way they look and I like the way they feel.

I love my husband.

I don't go for chicks.

I don't check out their tits or their legs.

I don't undress them in my mind.

I don't find them interesting ... except for Susan.

Susan!

Susan is... ?

... ?

Interesting.

For the life of me I don't know what's interesting about a middle-class white woman in suburban America.


It's not guilt. I just worked that out. I think it's shame; and that burns so much hotter than guilt. If it was just the incident at the kindergarten barbecue, then maybe it would be guilt. Maybe I could deal with that more easily. Heck, maybe I would have forgotten about it by now. Forgotten about her by now.

It was the dream; that's what feels shameful ... even though it shouldn't. Nothing that feels that good should feel shameful. If only 'good' was all it felt; but it felt right, too.

Shit, I've been at this for over an hour now and I've gotten exactly nowhere. Are you still reading, Nick? Are you bored yet? Confused? Disgusted? How could you be; I haven't actually said anything; not anything of substance. Is there even anything substantive to tell? There must be; I can still feel it inside me. I started this wretched journal to get it out where I could deal with, so let's have at it.

'The Incident', capital-I, inverted commas, the works. Geez, chill-pill Anna; it sounds like one of those apocalypse TV dramas like Revolution; where they refer to some shadowy event in the past that wiped out civilization. It was nothing so macabre. I feel like saying something trite like "but it rocked my world", but it sounds so ... well, trite! Even reading it back, it sounds ridiculous, but it's how I feel. Is that weird? That complex emotions can be so aptly described by a stupid, clichéd phrase? Is anyone still reading? Is Anna ever going to grow a set and actually write down what happened rather than every single fucking girly emotion that courses through her oestrogen-soaked walking corpse?


It was the kindergarten barbecue. It's Jimmy's first year at kinder; geez, it seems like he was a baby just last week. The barbecue was put on by the parents' committee as a getting-to-know-you sort of thing. Most of the Moms turned up and about a third of the Dads; that's modern parenting for you. Nick was there. I'm proud of him for that. He was probably just networking and drumming up local contracting business; I know how he loves local jobs. He gets to sleep in (until 6:30am! But that's contracting and he walked into it eyes open) and sometimes he comes home for lunch. I do shifts, so sometimes I'm home when he does; and if I've just come off a late-shift and Jimmy is with his Nona then I might still be in bed and ... well ... I guess I love it too when he has local jobs.

A few of the Moms introduced themselves. I remembered all of their names, but that's the police training, not because I clicked with any of them. Most of the ones there without husbands were stay-at-home Moms whose lives revolve around their kids. I'm not judging them as more or less worthy than me, we just don't have a lot in common.

Often at that type of thing, you don't get to socialize because you're busy supervising kids; but that's one attraction of a kinder function: the kids all know each other, they're locked in, and the play equipment is all age appropriate. I followed Jimmy around for a little while, but he didn't seem to need me so I drifted away. Like every barbecue in North America since Columbus first lit a fire under a buffalo, the guys gravitated towards the grill and the women moved far enough away so they wouldn't hear the foul language and prepared way more salad than would actually be eaten.

So of course I grabbed a brew and stepped up to the grill.

Some of the others looked rattled but Nick didn't bat an eyelid; he knows I work with guys all day and he knows the way cops talk. Heck, we've had enough of them around to our house over the years. I was wearing what Nick calls my 'off-duty uniform'; navy-blue t-shirt, jeans and sunglasses. Exactly the same as the rest of them, in other words ... except my jeans were a bit tighter. The t-shirt too, if we're being honest. God made me 5'3" with C-cups, and if you can't hide 'em then you might as well flaunt 'em. All the guys had sunglasses too so I couldn't see their eyes, but sometimes you don't need to see to know where they're looking. And I don't mind that; it can be creepy when a guy feels you up with his eyes, but it's kind of sweet when they're just looking and think you can't tell. Nick doesn't mind, thank God; he's proud of my body, small but toned.

I could tell I was cramping the conversation, but then Nick told them I was a cop and one idiot asked I had my off-duty piece. In a kindergarten, for fuck's sake!

"What do you think, smart guy?" I laughed to keep it friendly – even though I thought he was an idiot – and held out my arms, turning right and left; my tight t-shirt and jeans made it obvious I wasn't carrying. "Where do you think I've got it stashed?"

Unconsciously, his eyes dropped to my waist – I had invited it after all – and even with the sunglasses on everybody saw him do it.

"Geez, it's a Beretta, not a fucking Derringer!" I said with mock surprise. "It's not going to fit up there! Mom warned me to carry protection when I started seeing boys; maybe I misunderstood what she meant."

The guys all cracked up, and I was happy to see the idiot a bit red-faced. Pretty soon they were back to normal and I was one of the guys; just like on the job.


I just re-read all of that. Funny how it doesn't mention Susan. I'm such a coward. I've run out of time and my shift starts in a couple of hours, so I'll have to finish this tomorrow.


Private journal of Anna Volakas

Tuesday 23rd September, 2014

New development. I just got an IM.

@Susan.Richards.MD: Hi Anna, sorry again about Sunday. Drinks Fri night? Sus x

Shit, what does that all mean? 'Sorry'? Is she into that kind of thing and just made a mistake? Or is she hetero and thinks I took it the wrong way? Either way, she knows I'm straight. Drinks? Sure, straight girls do that. Even if they do get off on the wrong foot. It's not like we parted angry, but we didn't exactly become BFFs either. Obviously she got my details from the kinder contact list, so she remembered my name. That's interesting. Unless she picked the only Greek surname off the list and rolled the dice; the black hair and olive skin is a bit of giveaway. So what does all that add up to? Jack shit, that's what.

But 'x'? Not an initial, so a kiss? People sign-off like that ... I think. Cops don't. Nobody I know does. Maybe teenagers. But doctors? What does that mean? Want to get some drinks and finish up with some hot tongue action? Shit, I just read that back ... I didn't mean ... I just meant kissing. For fuck's sake, who blushes when they're on their own?

I can't think about it now; I still need to write out what happened.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
Fa/Fa / Consensual / Lesbian / BiSexual / Fiction / First / Slow /