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Butch Cassidy and the Vegemite Kid

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 Do you know Audrey?To ask, “Audrey who?” is to lose. No breakfast at Tiffany’s for you. You’ll be relegated to IHOP.My grandad loved Audrey. Because of him, I am, maybe uniquely, a millennial bought up in her image. I even named my cat Holly Golightly. For once he surprised me, for some reason that role underwhelmed him.Holly was free-form, fluid and difficult to categorize. Inspirational to me, and Audrey as Holly, elegant and sophisticated in her iconic little black dress, helped me discover my clit.And when it came time to discover other girl’s clits, I turned to Audrey, remembering she had said she loved people who made her laugh.Fortunately, I was born with the wit and confidence of a comic; my reward, laughter and smiles, a lifetime drug of choice. But the confidence of a comic, well this comic, while magical is an illusion. For I have an Achilles heel; the tears of a clown.Often, my mother was unhelpful, pointing out, “Hannah Cassidy, you come across as superficial. No one is going to take you seriously.”The worst thing about my mum is that she was right. My love life, an emotional roller coaster, was the theme park equivalent of Groundhog Day. I could charm my way into many a girl’s panties, but never find the key to her heart. No locksmith was I, seemingly only dating female Houdini’s who skilfully escaped.Then I met her. She was so not a Stephanie from Ohio, my type apparently as their initials are scratched on my bedpost. Those Stephanies think of other parts of Ohio as well-traveled, something that still causes Aussie Annie to chuckle.Annie, looking as if she had elegantly stepped out of a Degas painting, literally walked around a corner, in Manhattan’s Museum of Modern Art, right into both me and my life. And if you imagine two five foot six women with c-cup boobs, well then you just know where contact was made. Our bosoms collided like four sumo wrestlers, the softness cushioning the impact of their battle for the last fried gyoza.“Tits up?” I asked.Annie giggled adorably, and replied, “I like how we keep abreast of the arts.”Humor, humour even. I melted like a Salvador Dali clock. I couldn’t help myself, noticing her nipples now poking against her bra and little black dress. Annie returned serve with interest, her gaze taking in my HauteButch outfit, before lingering on my now sympathetically pouting nipples. Looks that led to whimpers, harmonized like the Beach Boys. Unusual noises which drew attention from clearly prudish security goons. But we chimed, pretending we were admiring Warhol’s Campbell’s soup can exhibition. Unbelievably they believed soup cans were more impressive than our racks.Women bumping boobs is a natural icebreaker, so we stuck up a conversation. Fate had smiled kindly on me. Like many Americans, I love an Aussie accent, so it seemed only hospitable to bring out my inner Paul Hogan. Unfortunately, my brain only had eyes for her pokies, and mysteriously my Paul Hogan morphed into Hulk Hogan. I even called Annie, “My Little Hulkster.” Worst term of endearment ever!She was on vacation too, though she called her vacation a holiday. That was the first sign that English wasn’t our common language. While I was hundreds of miles from Sidney, she was thousands of miles from Sydney. I still get eye rolls from her when I can’t do the distance in kilometres. Hey, I’m from Ohio, the only metric we need to know is the two-litre Coke bottle.We weren’t far into our ‘getting to know you’ conversation when I asked, “So what do you do for fun other than waltzing, Matilda?”She smirked, smirked again clearly pondering, then flashed a well-polished coquettish Audrey-like smile, and replied, “Well, I like to fuck.””DING! DING! DING! We have a winner!” I confided to a Jackson Pollack abstract, “Let’s get out of here, my hotel is nearby.” My intentions, like hers, were far from abstract. Grabbing her hand, we strolled happily together, my arm candy so sweet that I feared I might require bursa escort insulin. She was gorgeous, flirtatious and seemed just as into me. Being a life-long pessimist, however, I was expecting the other stiletto to eventually drop.Stepping into my hotel room, I feared our body heat would set off the sprinklers. Glancing at my HauteButch pants, she confusingly asked, “You packing?”“Packing heat? No, I’m an American but unarmed, believe it or not.”To my embarrassment, I then presumed she was referring to my well-worn Samsonite lying open on my unkempt bed.“Um, no,” I added, glancing at my suitcase, “I am staying another couple of nights.”She giggled, fortunately imagining I was joking rather than confused. In my view, my fashion lodestar, Audrey, always elegant, would accessorise her little black dress with a clutch bag.Not Annie, who had reason to trade off handbag elegance for size. She was a girl scout, always prepared. Which meant the minx extracted a large strappy from her handbag.”How did you manage that past TSA?” I asked.“What’s that?” she replied. That was our first language difference. Even though we both allegedly speak English, our day-to-day life became like translating sanskrit.”“I will explain later,” I quickly replied, having a more immediate focus on playing with, not talking about, the strappy.Quickly naked, her firm buxom body causing my pussy to perspire, she had me put the strappy on. After some sensual kissing and nipple play, she dropped to all fours, and I knelt behind and took her down under in one well-lubricated motion.“Yes, root me,” she moaned as her velvet walls grasped at the strappy as it slipped deeply into her wet welcoming pussy. I have never really got used to ‘rooting’, way preferring that old-fashioned US way of describing sexual congress, namely fucking.We had natural compatibility and I found myself slapping her hip like a jockey urging on a filly at the Kentucky Derby or Melbourne Cup depending on which of us was telling that story. Though her version always conveniently omitted the riding crop.I have still stimulating memories of our sweaty bodies slapping together, having wrapped her long blond hair in my fingers and using them as reins. In the heat of the home stretch, the thick black toy slipped in and out of her squishy pussy. She rose on her haunches like a bucking bronco, and my breasts were bouncing wildly; dangerously close to pummelling my face like a scene from Rocky.With my hips thrusting and grinding like an Elvis impersonator on amphetamines, Annie rose even higher, yelping, “Neigh!”In these days of active consent, I took the time to translate. Having confirmed it as an Australian horse impersonation rather than a “nay,” I continued and, in a photo finish, we quickly hit our first orgasms together.We seemed so deliciously compatible. That die was further cast on our first date, the evening after our afternoon’s pick-up sex. I took her to a famous New York restaurant, Femment, and Butcher, run by a lovely chef and her wife. And when, after inspecting the menu, Annie asked what I wanted to eat, I couldn’t, and didn’t, resist the temptation to answer, in the fakest Australian accent ever, “Oh I would like a plate of puss.”She fanned herself with the large menu and in an exaggerated Southern drawl said, “I do believe that’s pronounced ‘platypus’ m’lady.” It was like sitting across from Scarlet O’Hara’s Antipodean twin sister.Then Annie just looked at me, her jaw locked rigid, daring herself not to laugh. But she couldn’t help herself and burst into giggles, instantaneously delighting me by confirming she was a ready audience for my constant joking. Nothing went over her head other than my legs.What delighted me more was Annie revealing she wrote for a prominent travel magazine. Even more so when she asked, with a giggle, “You do know I am not like a wombat?”I clearly must have looked confused and, after letting me wallow in bursa escort bayan it for a while, she said, “You know wombats, they eat roots and leaves.””Then I suppose we can forego the delicious root and leaf salad,” I teasedI smirked at our jokes and then genuinely smiled at the implications. Her job meant she could be in the US and was up for more than a one-night stand.Out of curiosity, I did check back issues at my library. I learned two things from my research; Annie is a fantastic writer. And equally adept at playing the sexy librarian in our cyber roleplay Wednesdays, which kept us in touch with our clits when we were in different hemispheres. She was even quite stern when asserting I had overdue books. Spankings as late fees were novel but not unwelcome.I was especially captivated by her piece on Ireland. Not only the lush descriptive prose but also the breathtaking photos. One, in particular, stood out. A lovely ginger lass leaning seductively against a pub, flashing a “come hither” smile at the camera. Was she looking at Annie when it was captured? How could I be jealous of a photo, when she has promised to come back and lie in my arms? MY arms!But all I could think of was, free to travel to the most desirable spots on Earth, buying drinks for big-breasted, tan, leggy, promiscuous wenches on her bottomless expense account then afterwards surrendering her athletic nude body on secluded beaches …Alone, in Ohio, I just had to order myself to, “Stop it, Hannah!” Such thoughts were self-harm, the tears of a clown. There was no evidence that I misunderstood her intentions, other than those horrific thoughts conceived in my fatalistic brain.But while I may not have misunderstood her intentions, we did have our confusion when we got together. One time I was sure my ears hadn’t deceived me and that Annie had clearly enunciated, “I miss a cock or two.”“Dammit, I’m mad,” I remember replying, stamping my right Doc Marten.“Yo, banana boy!” Annie had replied with that grin on her achingly pretty face. Yes, that one, the grin she calls fair dinkum, though God knows what the fuck that really means.“What,” I screamed, executing a military tattoo of petulance and repeatedly stamping both of my boots, “Why the fuck would you say that?”“What? For God’s sake, Hannah, don’t be a Galah. You open with a Palindrome; you like Palindromes. Me cleverly responding with another Palindrome hardly merits you getting your knickers in a twist.”“Given what you want, this is no time to be speaking in Australian riddles. let alone Palin-fucking-dromes,” I screeched, as loud as a Moluccan Cockatoo. Which, as I subsequently reflected, should have been my hint that I was on a flight of fancy.But I was too steamed up to take a hint. All I could focus on was Annie; fuck we seemed to be getting closer and yet she still wanted to indulge in an extracurricular flight of fancy. I knew she had told me on the day we met that she could be a curious Annie. But after months together I hadn’t worked out what exactly she remained curious about. She certainly had a taste for pussy, was perpetually as horny as a hoot owl and liked a wide variety of kinks. Which made us two peas in a pod, both always amorous,  even more than our friend, Vanessa. Well in second thoughts that might not be true.Therefore, it didn’t feel beyond the realms of possibility that I had just actually heard what Annie remained curious about. But it transpired that I had not been a very cunning linguist. For, as Annie explained, once she had stopped laughing uncontrollably, she thought she had, in reference to her homeland, clearly said, “I miss the cockatoos.”“Oh,” I replied feeling as sick as a parrot, “Cockatoos? You don’t really want a cock or two?”“You and Australian wildlife,” Annie said, giggling again, “That is almost as funny as your views about the platypus.”And remembering our first date was all it took for me to get over myself and escort bursa cheer up. But I should have remembered that with humor, Annie had become, over time, sneakier than a dingo.The moment I thought we were past the cockatoo jibes, Annie struck, looking at me in total seriousness and saying, “Though Hannah, in all seriousness, if you were offering me a threesome with Paul Newman and Robert Redford, then I will be reconsidering my position.”“Oh, is my lover revealing a senior citizen fetish with a necrophilia chaser?” I asked, striking back.“Now, Hannah,” Annie said smirking, “Nothing wrong with the living dead.””Is that a line from Romero and Juliet?” I replied, trying to work in more movie references than she did.She paused and smirked, “On second thought, I will not be reconsidering my position. I will stick with being on all fours and have Paul and Robert take turns rooting me hard from behind.”But though I laughed, deep down a tear of the clown flowed. All this talk about Paul and Robert was exactly what had always troubled me about bisexual girls, so fucking indecisive. I guess it was my insecurity, but all I could think of was that it gave them twice the number of people to run away with.That was the first time I discovered that Annie had a Plan B for any misunderstanding. She just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich.”Tastes like shit,” I exclaimed, after the first taste. And well after every subsequent taste too.”It shouldn’t,” Annie replied, “I gave myself an enema as a precaution.””Not you, goofball! I meant this godawful Vegemite. I need filling American food like biscuits and gravy with sweet tea.”Which brings me sadly to “biscuits.” How can any country mess that up? In my revered homeland biscuits are warm and flaky, made with buttermilk. There Annie explained, they are flat, usually sweet more cookie-like. The things I ended up suffering for love!But whatever else I suffered for love, sex was not amongst them, fucking with Annie was magnificent. I recall fondly traveling with her for her article on romantic resorts in Arkansas. After settling into our room, writing became the last thing on her mind as our sexual hijinks commenced.“Pierced ears rock,” I said, as she stepped up to me and lovingly licked my lobes.“What has fucking Uluru got to do with it,” she whispered, now focused on nibbling my neck, and trailing her agile tongue across my fully-displayed chest.Wanting to savour this I implored, “Please slow down. We have all night. You don’t have to go a hundred miles an hour.”She looked at me with bewilderment, “I’m puzzled.”Trying to placate her, I stroked her warm, soft cheek while keeping eye contact and whispered, “Please don’t take it personally. I only meant we don’t need to rush our lovemaking.””Oh, I get that,” she replied, her eyes wide open and expressive, “I’m just confused as to what a hundred miles an hour is in kilometres”Slightly miffed at this unexpected speed bump in our lovemaking, I sharply replied, “How the fuck do I know? I wasn’t expecting a pop quiz, hotshot, just to get into your panties.”“Hannah Cassidy, that doesn’t add up. When the car crossed the main divide, you subtracted my panties from me …”“How are you going to fit multiplication in, smart ass,” I interrupted.“I’m Australian, that is smart arse to you.”At that, we both struggled to keep a straight face. And to her credit, she always took my remarks in her stride and buried her gorgeous face in my chest. It seemed that the only thing harder than understanding her sometimes were my nipples, which were now almost as firm as the bars that pierced them. When she went all goanna like and flicked my nipple, I whimpered, just like Vanessa did last Halloween when she chose trick rather than treat.I knew she came from a land down under, and my down under bits throbbed as she then suckled my clit, a woman happily at work, even humming that tune onto my achingly sensitive clit. And frankly, I was too lost in the intensity of my approaching orgasm to debate any of Ocker Annie’s musical choices. But, next time, maybe I could request the Bee Gees. Perhaps, How Deep is Your Love might be the right accompaniment as an Australian curled tongue penetrated my tight pussy.

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