At heart lesbians, in love lesbians, in the closet lesbians

I started seriously studying art when I was 13. We did still lifes We did copies of classics. We did landscapes. When I went to college I studied Fine Arts, my goal was to be a painter. I loved true to life renditions, I wasn't into abstract art. My mother got preoccupied when a friend of hers told her that the students did anatomical studies, with live male models. Naked. She shouldn't have worried. I preferred live lady models, naked. Every nuance of her, her breasts falling on her chest, the shape of her buttocks, the symbolism of there yet not there bush covering her delicate lips. I fell in love over and over, with each model.

It presented itself. My roommate of two years asked me to draw her in repose, naked. She lay on her bed, which had been selectively unmade, he long legs, her torso, her breasts, but no bush, her delicate lips fully exposed. After the drawing in repose, she sat up, sat against the wall, and opened her legs, her feet apart, resting her arms on her knees, staring at me. Draw me, I want you to focus on my pussy, make my pussy come alive. There was a third one, on two knees, bent over, her face and hair looking back at me, her derriere, her bunny hole, and her pussy spread open from rubbing herself into arousal.

When we were done, I was not myself. She looked at them, and asked me if I thought I had done a good job. Then she gave them to me, keep these so you can remember me, and how you never kissed me. And with that she fell back on her bed, her legs open, her head on the pillow 'now come kiss my pussy'.

My mother was worried that I hadn't found a nice young man to make my own. I was 26, I had never kissed a dick, no dick had come close to my hole, no bearded face had kissed me. I dressed for girls, went out with girls, loved with girls, ate pussy and had my pussy eaten, I developed a very strong desire for the naked breast. I wore my breasts for another girl's gaze. I opened my legs for another girl's gaze. I lay back for another girl's gaze. I was 26, at times quite butch, at times a princess. I was 26 and I had fallen back in love with my roommate.

We had to take a stand. Come out. In our homes were a hundred excuses. Our career, how difficult it is to meet men. We had to come out. To tell them. We decided to tell them we were getting married, and we wanted a full wedding, with bridesmaids and throwing the bouquets. We would show the bloody sheets.

We planned it all, we bought matching engagement rings, within our price range, and we bought matching outfits. We first went to her house. It was an unmitigated disaster. "I knew you were a witch" her mother told me. "You're a pervert". And to her daughter, "if you go through this you are disowned, you're loosing millions".

At my house. Silence. Dead silence. Not a word. Nothing. When a word was spoken it was "disappointment". There would be no wedding, no reception, no wedding gowns, no bridesmaids, no bloody sheets.

Within two years we had each married men and immediately started families. We had to see who gave birth first. Our husbands knew we were college friends and tolerated our friendship, which at times was obsessive. Apart didn't work for us. We preferred to sit together on the couch cradling our baby bellies. If we happen to have looked at each other and our heads fell forwards and a long kiss happened, well that's pregnant women for you.

I've have never whispered love and affections to my husband. You can find us at the playground, or the children's museum, or just having afternoon tea. Our bellies are full again, and sometimes I hold her and cradle her baby, or sometimes she holds me and cradles my baby. If you want a loving picture of us, just look at the hundreds of pictures on our phones. We have dozens kissing. Maybe one day one of our husbands will hack our phone. But till then, we dress for the outside world in the closet, and we undress for each other.

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