A Lesbian in the Afternoon

(this is a lesbian story for Argon, because he requested that I put a lesbian story on my blog. This story was not written by me though. It is available through a generous donation from the author, DAL)

What she said had plagued me for the rest of the day. Something about flowers. And I thought she was a lesbian. She’d lied to me. I cannot believe that she lied to me.
I go back to my job of selling furniture at wholesale prices. I mark a pink flower-patterned couch with a price sticker.
There I had been, thinking I’d finally had a friend that was a lesbian. But I was lied to. I guess it’s what I deserve. A couch the color of melon. That would go nice in my apartment, if I had one. I’m made to feel I deserve a lot of punishment and personal anguish and an empty future. Emptier even than wholesale furniture. That’s when I get scared and lock up, and develop night vision, and shake within myself to the point of splitting open. When this happens it ends with me suffering from a pulled muscle.
Homosexuals come in all day to carouse but no lesbians, until about four-thirty. She has short blue hair and dead dark eyes. She wears pants and a button-up shirt untucked. A green t-shirt underneath. I can still tell she has a womanly figure beneath the disguise.
I sit up on the mattress I’d been lying on, pretending to be far away, wishing I’d had a better disguise. Mine is that of a lifeless salesman.
I say hello to the lesbian but I guess she doesn’t hear me. She says she’s looking for a lime-green chair, preferably with matching ottoman.
Our only green chair is forest with wide fuchsia stripes. Vertical.
She nods then removes her button-up shirt, and I’m delighted because she does it seductively for some reason, looking at me for the first time. Her narrow fingertips, painted a shiny green apple, deftly glide down her front almost as easily as pulling zipper.
The look in her eyes changes, like I’m not even there, and she turns and walks away, meaning business, removing the shirt with her back to me and tying it around her waist. She walks fast to the Lay-Z-Boy section, me scampering behind on tip-toes. I’m very surprised to see that the green t-shirt she wears is actually kind of tight and does not hide the fact that this lesbian has heavy, round breasts.
Can I help you? I ask again.
No, I’m leaving.
I follow her to the door and gently grab her elbow before she exits.
What about before? I ask. With the buttons?
That didn’t’ mean anything. At all.
The lesbian leaves. I hesitate in the doorway then chase her to her car, saying, Wait, I’m not a boy. I’m not a boy, Miss Lesbian, I’m a girl dressed as a boy.
The lesbian looks at me this time, rather than through me.
Inside her car, some white Volkswagen from the early 90s, we smoke cigarettes and sit with our legs open.
We drive around in silence in lunch time traffic for about thirty minutes. She only says something when she points to Hollywood High School: I went there.
I want her to pull over and molest me again and again.
We stop to have lunch at a hamburger place. I’m intrigued by the way she dips her dill pickles into her strawberry shake and the way she inserts french fries into her mouth. I want her to insert my phantom penis into her mouth. I want to have a penis to fill her with. Change me, dear God. You can. I know that.

At her apartment we take long bong hits. She has a German all-glass bong and tells me what it’s called but I forget. It allows us the most efficient high possible.
Well, I’ve had a great time. I hope we can be friends. I hope you never lie to me, I hope.
The lesbian looks up at me with blurry eyes.
I get close to saying other heart-felt things but instead we allow each other to ravish each other.
Then I have to leave to get back to the store in time to close up the store in time and to make sure. Check, to make sure. I need to close the store. I need to be certain of things.