I fucked a girl and stole her skirt

I fucked a girl and stole her skirt.

Now I wish I can say that this happened at the party, but it didn’t. Nor did it happen after the party. It’s the skirt that links the events.

A few years ago in New York City I befriended this beautiful girl Françoise. Despite her French first name and French last name, she wasn’t French. She was from a hick town in West Virginia. She was mixed. White mother, black father. Her skin tone was about the same shade as Jade Goody. She had green eyes and long kinky Afro hair. At the time we reconnected she was toning up her body. She was about 5’6” and had fantastically toned arms. She had apparently started a swimming regime and lost all her baby fat from college.

I said “reconnected” above because a few years before we both attended the same college. I started off at college as an English major. She majored in fashion & media. I didn’t talk her much in college but I knew these things about her.

1. She loved wearing overalls without a shirt or bra underneath. (I think you British have another word for overalls. I don’t know what it is, but this is what I mean. http://www.rmconnection.com/oshkoshb.htm
2. She was a lesbian. She wasn’t butch, but a definite tom boy.
3. During the second semester she was crossing the road and got hit by a truck (lorry) and was dragged for a city block
4. She received a very large settlement because of the accident. I’m not sure how much but it was in excess of $100K (according to our mutual friends)
5. The joke on campus was, “Not even a Mac truck could keep the dyke down.”


Now fast forward a few years later. We met up at an informal college reunion. It turned out we both lived in NYC. Françoise was an up-and-coming fashionista. No more overalls for her. She was glamorous and sexy. She had a fierce, no-bullshit-type attitude. She dumped her girlfriend of 5 years. She was dating men. And lots of men at that. She was Samantha from Sex in the City but with the youth and good looks.

Françoise worked as an assistant to a well-known gay fashion designer who was incidentally friends with Dave Gahan from Depeche Mode.

She had burned through her 100K. Had a bit of plastic surgery (which was covered by the insurance company). She looked sensational. I, unfortunately, was still fat. I think it would be fair to say that I was frumpy as well. Françoise had chosen me as her pet project.

I know, it almost sounds like one of those cheesy look-at-me-now films. You know the kind where there’s a frumpy girl who goes through a transformation and then suddenly the captain of the football team falls head over heals for her?

Ok, well, at the time I didn’t have such a big transformation, but Françoise took me bra shopping. I had been wearing the wrong-sized bra for years! Apparently the bras I had been wearing made me look ‘droopy.’ I remember after going to this posh shop for a bra fitting she said to me, “Oh my God, look at that, you actually have a waist.”

Basically, Françoise taught me how to look glamorous and how to attract the men. She taught me the secrets of how to get a guy to buy you a drink. And how to get the bartender to buy you a drink.

I am a natural klutz. One of the most important lessons she taught me regarding Cosmopolitans: “Face to the drink, before drink to the face.”

We went to parties, gallery openings, premieres. Her fashion connections had really opened the door to a whole new range of experiences. So I guess that’s not bad for a girl from West Virginia.

Of course I idolized her. I really wanted her life. Whenever we went out all the guys went for her, not me. I was her fat frumpy, wannabe-glamorous friend. The wingman. Wingwoman? I got her left-overs. The guys she didn’t like, for whatever reason, were pawned off to me. There were numerous times when she would pull at a bar. She’d wink at me, wave by and be out the door with some dude she met 10 minutes ago. That felt horribly demoralizing. I was left there to finish my cocktail and on one occasion to pay the bill.

Actually, now that I’m writing this all out I’m just realizing how much of an uneven friendship it was. I should have written this out years ago.

The thing is,I knew Françoise was a bitch. I knew it from the way she treated men; the way she treated her clients. BUT and this is a big but, I knew that underneath her bitchiness there was a heart of gold. Much, much later I found out that underneath her bitchiness there was not a heart of gold. There was just more bitchiness. That, however, is another story.

So one night we went out on the town. We ended up in this dive bar on the Lower East Side. This bar, however, made a mean Cosmo. We had been getting our drinks for free. I spent almost no money that night. Strangely, on this night Françoise was unable to pull. Sure, there were a ton of guys around. She wasn’t interested in any of them. One guy we met made the mistake of saying, Hah, where are you from West Virginia?”

It was a total joke and there was no way that the dude could have known. It was so obvious that he was using hyperbole by juxtaposing her glamour with the stereotypically uncultured state of West Virginia. She took offence and threw her Cosmo in his face. Yes, she was a total bitch. But there’s something exciting and raw about bitches. I do wonder however if she had paid for that drink if should have done the same thing? Probably.

We hit the dance floor. It was during the time that “Rockfella Skank” came out. “Check it out now, funk soul brother…” I remember that song playing throughout that dive bar. We held hands and danced. It felt great. It didn’t feel romantic. I don’t want to give you that idea. Dancing with her made me feel more connected to her.

We later went back to my place. It was 3:00 AM. Never mind that I had to work the next day. I let her sleep on my waterbed. Most of my friends have never slept on one. So when they come over I’d sleep on the futon and they’d sleep on the water bed.

I started falling asleep when all of a sudden Françoise was calling my name. She was strewn out on the waterbed. She said she was lonely and wanted me to join her. Ok, I admit to being naïve. I wasn’t sure if it were an invitation to sex, or if she was just drunk and wanted a buddy.

As I laid next to her on the waterbed she wrapped her arms around me and started kissing me. I kissed her back. I wasn’t even phased. It wasn’t like, “Oh my God I’m kissing Françoise!” It just seemed like a natural progression of the evening. I removed her shirt, and her bra.

I kissed her nipples. They were smaller than mine, but still a nice C cup. Kiss, suck. Lick. I reached down the front of her panties and started fingering her. The thing that was strange is that normally I am such a passive person in bed. But suddenly I was so active. I was aggressive. It was my goal to make her cum.

She wasn’t shaved, but I enjoyed her bush. I fingered her with my forefinger and middle finger. I enjoyed watching her sigh and twist. I was getting off on the fact that *I* was doing that to her. It felt so powerful. Is that how most guys feel when they make a woman cum?

I stopped fingering her. I pulled down her panties to her ankles; never taking them off completely. They were charcoal coal gray lace. I buried my nose and face into her pussy. I licked her clit. Then I sucked on it for a bit. I went back to licking. She insisted that I stick a finger in her. First one finger, then another. Finally a third. I was fucking her with three of my finger and eating her out and it felt like the best thing in the world. She, alike me was a screamer. I was somewhat concerned what the neighbours might think; you know the sounds of two women in bed? But what the hell. The only sad part was that she didn’t go down on me. We had been in bed for 3 and a half hours then it was time to go to work. She couldn't find her skirt so she grabbed one of mine. It was a skirt that my mother made for me. Anyhow, we shared a cab ride uptown and never spoke of the incident again.

A couple weeks later we had a threesome with a guy that we picked up at the same dive bar. We went back to her place in Brooklyn. The threesome ended up being a two-some. Just her and the guy. Once again I was the wingman. I was jealous. I left in a huff but not before raiding her closet stealing one of her best designer skirts.

We didn’t talk much after that.

It thrills me to no end when I wear that skirt. In fact that was the exact skirt I wore to the party. Now that I’ve lost a lot of weight I love showing off my new body. Wearing that skirt gives me confidence. I love the way I look in that skirt. I love knowing that I fucked someone over, literally and figuratively to get it.

The party on Saturday night was good. And I scored; with a guy. I’ll tell you about that later. Right now I'm dealing with a crisis. I'm seemingly unable to cope at the moment.