Butch Cassidy And The Vegemite Kid free porn video

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 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 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 teased

I 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 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.

Her oral skills had me in touch with my fundamentalist roots, testifying my faith to anyone within earshot, “Oh my God, oh my fucking God. I am going to cum.”

"Then do it already. The rest of us need sleep, bitches," a deep voice boomed nearby. It was either the voice of God or a rude neighbour. I was too far gone to be sure, but to be safe I held rosary beads tightly in my trembling hand. When I did cum, feeling Thunderstruck, shudderingly intensely, my raindrops kept falling on her head. Such a religious experience, clearly a Catholic education wasn’t wasted on me.

But I had to return something, was it a favor when licking an Aussie pussy? Or when going down under do I need to insert a random 'U' into words like 'color' and 'honor' and favor?

Rolling on top of her, our sweaty bodies sliding effortlessly together as if we bathed in Wesson Oil. The thought of cooking oil made me crave both Annie and greasy French fries, fortunately in that order. With tummy now growling I returned to business, I kissed her moist, sweet lips with a tenderness normally reserved for high school cheerleaders at cheer camp.

Locking her legs around me, clits in direct contact, we began the risqué undulations of porn stars. Finding our rhythm and writhing together as if choreographed by Buddy Ebsen, my teeth found her exposed neck, biting gently before my lips covered the red skin, suckling like I was siphoning venom from a rattlesnake bite, inspired by her barely audible whimpers.

Our mutual release happened suddenly, quickly like a ninja's surprise assault. All the while my eyes never left hers. I was overwhelmed with our chemistry. The sex was the best I've ever had, as was the pillow talk that always followed like an encore. Sexy but intensely intimate. And the erotic eye contact was the lifeline that linked our souls.

My reverie was broken jarringly as our passion seemed to have been misconstrued by others on our floor. Japanese tourists could be heard stampeding wildly down the corridor screaming 'Gojira.'

Annie giggled at them and stroked my cheek with her fingertips, then spoke softly, intimately. "You said you have vacation days left. Why don't you visit me in Sydney? I have a few weeks before I go to South Africa. We would have so much fun together."

Her enthusiastic, hopeful smile sealed the deal. And that's how I ended up in Australia for my summer vacation, though there it was actually winter. Don't get me started on climates, it's more arse-about-face than the time differential.

Once landing in her Great Southern Land, Annie asked if I wanted to drive from the airport. Readily accepting I was immediately taken aback by the steering wheel being located on the passenger's side. My first indication things might not flow as easily down under as I hoped. Immediately after pulling into traffic I was confronted by a line of maniacs driving straight at us.

"Get in the right lane, pea brain," Annie screamed excitedly, squirming and evoking a goodly number of deities. Her eyes were bulging as if she had just seen a gh...gh... gh... ghost. Pea brain?

"I am in the right lane," I explained, holding my hands high in the air to teach my lover the difference between right and left. But she was too busy grabbing the unattended steering wheel to comprehend, steering us into the wrong or left lane. Even the other drivers seemed annoyed. Screaming at us loudly with middle fingers extended. At least sign language would be no barrier.

"Blimey," I said after she guided us to the side of the road. She calmed my nerves by patting my shoulder and explained the proper lane usage. It would seem as though in the century automobiles have been around, some countries had neglected to adopt the lane protocol.

Annie also corrected, "We convicts don't say 'blimey' here. This is Sydney, not bloody London." Which made me wonder why everyone couldn’t just speak proper English like us Americans.

I think Annie’s parents liked me. Her dad did at least take the time to point out which spiders in the house and backyard were poisonous and which weren’t. In particular, he pointed out the burrows of the Sydney funnel-web, the most venomous arachnid on Earth. Despite my repeated questioning about which one was Charlotte, he would shake his head and sadly say, "Hush. Hush."

We both loved wildlife and hit it off famously except when he told me a Koala bear wasn't a bear at all. That's like saying Porky Pig was actually a pterodactyl. He did mention the cuddly koala sleeps 18-hours a day but I was unimpressed. That's merely a post-dinner nap for me.

He added, “Australia even has a poisonous octopus, called the blue-ringed octopus. It's the size of a golf ball but packs enough venom to kill thirty people in minutes."

“Fuck, not unlike Golden Corral,” I said, which may not have been the best word choice when you are trying to impress your significant other’s parents.

Without thinking I added, "I've encountered some dangerous puss before but nothing like that."

He slapped my back, laughing, saying, "Annie needs a girl who takes the piss."

I had no idea Annie came from such kinky stock but I found that somewhat unsettling. After all, pee play with their daughter didn’t seem the obvious way to ingratiate me with the ‘in-laws.’ But I needed a dry run, so I asked Annie when we retired to our bedroom, “Hey your dad suggested taking the piss as our next venture, and, being a considerate lover, I am prepared to test the waters so to speak. Here or in the bathroom?"

"What?" Annie replied her pretty face a mass of confusion.

"Let's try it first in the shower. I don't want to stain your parent’s carpet."

“Try what in the shower?"

"Pissing, you know water sports. Isn't that what you need?"

“Is that how you Yanks show affection, when you're too cheap to buy a ring?"

In a desperate attempt to explain, I said, "Your dad mentioned only moments ago that I should always take the piss with you. So, I was offering you that opportunity, a trial. Now do you want it on you or do you want to drink straight from the tap?"

After threatening to bounce a can of Foster's off my noggin she explained in her country, "taking a piss" meant being jocular. Public restrooms must be a laugh-a-minute down under. Even Adam Sadler  might get a laugh...MIGHT.

There were other culture shocks. Like my perusal, in her parent’s kitchen, of an original Vegemite jar. I noticed it was made from yeast extract which explained the burning and irritation I felt in my vagina after eating a minuscule sample of the bitter, salty goo. Not to mention the embarrassing itching. 

I had scratched so much that my favourite yoga pants now had a hole in the crotch. Though that had proved convenient while sitting with Annie in the back row of a movie theatre. I was praying they sold Vagisil in the former penal colony but felt I would eventually end up seeking an outback shaman or perhaps an Outback Steakhouse.

Annie’s mum noticed me looking at the jar. And so, she too gave me a vegemite sandwich. After a polite taste, I excused myself and took Annie to our room. There I immediately pushed her back on the bed, licking her pussy in order to get that vegemite taste out of my mouth.

She was so fond of how I eagerly sampled her flowing honey that, vegemite no longer in her mind, she began referring to me as Pooh although I'm much more Eeyore-ish in nature. I even worked "Oh bother," into the conversation when I came up for air.

To my delight, Annie giggled between whimpers. It just seemed that my elusive soulmate had finally been unearthed and I was taking up residence between her parted, quivering legs. But back in the US, I began to worry about something bigger than our cultural divide and proper spelling. Was I more serious about the relationship than she?

After we moved in together in Sidney, the issue of having a cat, the usual way lesbians cement their relationship status, was raised. Was she assuming that our feline bundle of joy would not just be another mouth to feed?

The kitten idea came straight out of the left-field, catching me completely off guard. It was not simply a pet, it was symbolic of much more. At least in my hazel eyes, it showed a willingness to commit, a serious bond. After all, this kitten would require two mums. Did I actually say 'mums', I pondered?

I had wanted, no prayed for this serious commitment. But now, when push-came-to-shove I was scared. No, I was petrified. What if I read this wrong? Maybe she just loved cats, what if we broke up and I broke two hearts? Welcome to my world. Groundhog Day again loomed. But the subject was seemingly dropped and I really didn't know how to feel about that. I can be so flippant that she might not even be aware of my true feelings To her I might seem not much deeper than a hot-to-trot floozie thinking about the next fuck.

Which of course was partly true, I desired her physically in a way I had never desired another woman. But I wondered if I could even describe my feelings about bringing a cat into our world without a stupid pussy joke. Once again, was my mother being proven right?

That afternoon, after we had made love, I looked into Annie’s pale blue eyes and her face, glistening with my juices, lit up. That familiar, sincere, effervescent smile brightened our bedroom, just like the day it had captured my previously barren heart. It was the way I could read her inner beauty, not her physical beauty, that had drawn me to her like a joey to its mum …

"Stop it, stop it, stop it," I chastised myself. No more allusions, no more witty similes. What we have is real, unique, so why compare ourselves to kangaroos. I had been down that path with women before, the illusion of humour eventually recycled into irrelevance.

Those lovers felt I could neither be serious nor be taken seriously but I was caught in a trap of my own creation. They never knew my honestly too serious nature because I would not let them in. The wall I built around my heart was constructed to withstand any chance of heartbreak. Even though I wanted it to crumble on occasion, I could never allow it. I remained a coward who could never face rejection on any level. Gravity will invariably make the other stiletto crash at my feet.

But, not with her, not anymore, I promised myself. She deserved better, I deserved better, we deserved better. And, unthinkingly, whispered words slipped out of my mouth, “I don’t have the words.”

“Then don’t try to use them,” she murmured back, lovingly running her hand through my hair. Nestled together as a storm of turmoil blew across my face. For what was Hannah without a clever turn of phrase?

I remembered back to that day we looked at art by Edward Hopper. Holding her hand, I felt like the realism of the painting was reflected in our then embryonic relationship. And I wanted to utter those three words to her, but even I knew better. Love couldn't be rushed. It should be savoured and nurtured. I would know when the time was right, hopefully. I knew then that I had to come to her, emotionally naked, be myself and hopefully be loved for who I was not the illusions I created.

The joyful insights I got from America’s greatest realist painter that day, were my route map. 'Be me' the directions screamed. For it is better to have the real you loved and lost than to have someone as precious as Annie fall out of love with an illusion. And now that I knew that I should do what I have always wanted to do. Love my woman.

Rolling Annie onto her back, I began licking in abstract patterns across her hard nipples and down her taut tummy. Slowly. Teasingly. Building her anticipation. Her scent, a delight to my senses, intensifying as she squirmed, increasingly aroused.

Thinking about that incident was a reminder that she was precious, had taken everything I had thrown at her in her stride, and she still had chosen to be here with me.

Her fingers in my hair guided; wanting, needing, demanding contact on her squirming sex. I looked up into her blue eyes and hovered hawk-like waiting. Softly I blew on her clit. Her eyes rolled back. She whimpered. The unbearable lightness of foreplay. Until she moaned, desperation etched on her face, “Please!”

My hands opening her firm legs, wider. I dived, my prey, her clit, captured between my lips; lightly but also firm enough so there was no escape. Head shaking slowly from side-to-side, nails raking up her damp inner thighs, her nectar coated my lips. I wanted to be, for her, sensual, wanton even, but, most of all, as loving as possible.

My flat tongue pried her swollen lips apart, her juices flowing, gushing between her quivering butt cheeks giving me the perfect excuse to sweep my tongue down, mopping up her overflow. Yes, I admit the tip did linger at her winking pucker, giving me the musky taste, I adored.

With my hair tickling her thighs I felt lightheaded, floating, yet energised as my pace kicked up a notch or even two. The truism of it being better to give than receive never more apparent to me. Suckling on her clit, my feelings were not to be denied, happily feasting on the one who had totally stolen my heart, even if I only understood half the things she said.

As long as I comprehended her bedroom talk, I instinctive knew we could be safe. I was satisfied and it appeared she soon would be as well and, allowing myself one last analogy, I wanted her singing like a diva at the Sydney Opera House.

Rolling on top of her, I kissed her moist, sweet lips with raw passion, our breasts mashed together. Locking her legs around me, clits in direct contact, we began the risqué dance of lovers. Finding the perfect rhythm, rocking and rolling, my teeth nibbled tiny, gentle love bites on her neck, suckling, inspired by her barely audible whimpers. The tender touch of our needy clits drove our mutual release. It rose. Crested. And lingered. And all the while my eyes never left hers.

“You a happy little Vegemite?” I finally, sweetly, asked.

Annie giggled, adorably, knowing I had asked the question in that most Australian of ways. She kissed me softly on the lips, tasting herself. She then smirked and whispered, “Very happy. Maybe I do taste way better than Vegemite. Hey …”

The unease was so not her and, somehow, I understood that revealing the intensity of my feelings meant I need not panic that something bad was running through her mind.

“Hey what, lover?”

“Would you like us to get a ginger cat?”

There will always be a time for joking and the smart arse in me wanted to remind Annie that, of course, our friend Catherine didn’t have ginger hair. But for too long humour had been my shield, a shield that let nothing through, including Cupid’s arrow. Her language, maybe because it was delivered in an Australian accent, had taken me a while to see as a language of love and an antidote to my insecurity. But now that I knew, I would never forget.

“Can we call our kitten Vegemite?” I asked. Wringing my hands and hyperventilating, I waited for her response. She read me. She got me.

She brushed my hair tenderly behind my ear and softly said, "We can do this together. I know we have it in us to do whatever it takes to make us work. And as you know everything does go better with Vegemite." She smiled the most loving smile I had ever seen, and I knew, knew that I was safe.

I had found my Audrey.

And we had, I realised, like Butch and Sundance, the potential to be the stuff of folklore. The second stiletto wouldn’t drop if we let our love loose, guns a-blazing.

“Please, can we go to the pet store now?" I asked, the tears in my eyes not those of a clown anymore.

CuriousAnnie and PalindromeRedux wish to point out this is a work of fiction. This means that the above didn’t really (or virtually) happen and no friends were therefore libelled in the writing of this. Our therapists are of course putting their children through school off the back of our payments.