Oh my god, its HER. My breath catches so suddenly I have to put out a hand to the wall and steady myself. My right hand of course. My left hand is holding my Champagne glass and although I want to catch her attention, the sound of breaking glass is not how I prefer to do that.

My name is Serena. My parents named me that in the fond hope I would be serene. I like to think I am. I don't think that they expected I would turn out to be a lesbian and a butch to boot. That's not always an easy road to travel, particularly when you're black. I think I've handled it though. I'm fifty, single with a full life and no real desire to settle down. I work for myself, running my store "Asides" where I sell a variety of products from candles to books of lesbian poetry to my own metal sculptures. I make a good living for myself and enjoy how I make that living.

How I make that living is why I'm here tonight at the first concert of the city Symphony Orchestra and incidentally for the reception after the music is over. As a local artist I rated an invitation. Sure, I'm paying for the seat and for the privilege of hob-nobbing with the intelligentsia but I'd pay more. If nothing else, the attempts to suppress the looks of surprise when I arrive are worth the cost of admission. I thought about tails and a top hat but simply went with my hand tailored tuxedo.

Perhaps I'm giving the wrong impression. Yes I do love the startled looks I get. But many, most perhaps, of the people here are friendly and accepting. I think a number of them get a kick out me, all dressed up in what they consider male attire and flirting with all the ladies, young and old, plain and gorgeous, just as the men do. Unless I make a point of drawing attention to it, the coat hides the fact that I am wearing a brand new strapon. I don't expect to have the opportunity to use it but I enjoy knowing its there and I'm taking the time suggested by the manufacturer to get used to it.

I was circulating through the crowd, taking the opportunity before the music began to chat with different acquaintances and an occasional customer. Don't get me wrong, I quite enjoy classical music and tonight's program had several favorites but I need to make a living too and upper-class patrons of the arts have more disposable income than most people.

The bell had just rung telling us to find our seats when I saw her. At first I wasn't sure it was really her. After all, from behind, all tall, cool blondes tend to blend together. But then she turned around and my heart leaped as I recognized her.

It had been several months since the afternoon she and I had spent together in the loft where I live over my store. To be precise, we had spent that afternoon in the queen sized bed in my loft where I had happily ravaged her, with her enthusiastic support.

I studied her. She was standing sideways to me now. She was as lovely as the first time she walked into my store. A light blue strapless and sleeveless dress that showed off the white of her arms and shoulders. The dress clung to her, accentuating her body. A slit up the side showed off those firm slender legs. Matching high heeled sandals that were practically nothing at all framed her feet. She might be wearing fine white pantyhose but I was willing to bet they were thigh high stockings. A shift in weight and I smiled as I caught a glimpse of flowery tops and a single garter strap. Her blonde hair was swept up in the back of her head. If she was wearing make-up, beyond a touch of lipstick, it was invisible from where I was standing.

I thought about going up to her but hesitated. She was standing in a group, none of who I knew. One of those people standing there could be a husband, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a life partner. I simply didn't know. It was almost funny. Had I not known her at all, had she simply been a woman who caught my interest I would have walked right up and introduced myself. But I couldn't make myself approach her. Perhaps I could catch her eye later. And more than her eye if I could.

The crowd surged forward into the auditorium and I lost track of her. I found my seat, murmured pleasantries to the people around me and settled in listen to the first half of the concert. Or tried to anyway. I was distracted.

My beautiful sexy blonde was only part of the problem. Tonight I was wearing something new in place of my old reliable strapon. There was no harness. A single silicone piece, it was curved with a bulbous end that fit up inside me and held it there. Ridges in the molded curve coming out of my vagina were designed to stimulate my clitoris during sex.

Supposedly when NOT actually engaged in sex it rode comfortably and without triggering any arousal on its own. Well, that was probably true, but as I kept twisting and turning and searching the darkened auditorium for a light blue dress topped by blonde hair I felt it shifting in me. Of course I was aroused on my own as I remembered a tall, slender pale body under me, arms over her head and wrists tied to the headboard. I remembered long strong legs locked around me. And then I could have blushed and I thanked goodness that the theatre was dark, for my hand had slid between my legs and I was pressing the distinct bulge of the girl cock, rocking it inside me. Yes, those ridges worked just fine.

I snatched my hand back up, peeking out of the corners of my eyes to see if anyone had noticed. Thankfully it didn't appear anyone had. That would be great for business. "Say Mary, remember that black butch in the tuxedo at the Symphony? She was jerking on the artificial bulge in her pants right in front of everyone." I mean, I am comfortable with who I am, I like me and usually I think "To Hell with you" when people look down at me. Still, I had been a little over the top and I was glad it had gone undetected.

People were standing and applauding. Automatically I was on my feet with them. I had sat here all the way through the first half of the concert and not heard a note. As I made my way out to the lobby I vowed to pay more attention in the second half.

Once again I mingled through the crowd but this time I had a purpose. It was to no avail though, no matter where I looked, there was no trace of her. I returned to my seat just before the lights dimmed again, half convinced that I had imagined the entire thing.

This time I listened to and enjoyed the music. Most was familiar, with just enough new pieces mixed in to make me pay attention. There were several solo performances, including one very intricate and delightful flute piece. I sat back and drank it all in.

After the concert there was an opportunity for the "patrons" (which translates as "donated enough money") to meet the conductor and the principal performers. Well, its a tax write-off. And besides, I was really enjoying myself, particularly when I found myself chatting to the solo flutist.

She was a tiny woman, barely 5 feet tall at most. Her black hair was cut just below her ears and she had the loveliest deep brown eyes I had ever seen. I generally prefer my women taller and more rounded, but she was an exquisite little gem. She was shy and retiring but opened right up when it came to music, her knowledge of which was broad and deep. She was neither intimidated nor surprised by me, with her head tipped back to look up in my eyes as we talked. She touched my arm twice as she made a point, and when she told me she needed to leave she patted my side for a moment before wishing me a lovely night and disappearing.

I turned to get another glass of Champagne and there she was. My elegant blonde bombshell. She was working her way through the crowd, speaking to others and nodding and smiling. My fingers tightened on the stem of the glass as she stopped beside me. She shook hands with me, asked how I was doing and told me it was so nice to see me again. She asked about the store and listened to what I had to say. As with our previous meetings, it seemed she really was listening to what I said. After a bit she nodded, smiled warmly, and moved on.

I drained my glass and moodily set it back on the tray. Well it was nice to get acknowledged anyway. Maybe it was time to go. I turned and froze again.

She was standing by the door, looking right at me. I couldn't read the expression on her face. But then her hand touched her thigh and her fingers curled around the hem of the long slit in her skirt. For a moment she drew it back, showing me that long, gracefully formed leg and the creamy white thigh spilling from the top of her stocking. Then she turned and walked out.