In at the Deep End. Kate Davies

      ‘No. I’ll text you if I’m not coming home.’

      ‘But what about the Your cunt tastes delicious paintings?’

      ‘See you later.’

      I finished the call and stopped in the middle of the pavement to reply to Jane before I could change my mind. Not much, I texted. What are you doing?

      My phone buzzed in my hand a few seconds later.

       You? ;)

      I had a pretty thorough bath when I got home. I moisturised more than usual. As I was getting dressed, I searched lesbian on Pornhub to see what I might be getting myself into, but the women didn’t seem into it; they were rubbing each other’s nipples pointlessly and staring off camera as though seeking some anonymous third person’s approval.

      My hands felt shaky as I did my make-up. I poured myself a large glass of wine to steady myself. I couldn’t back out now. I had to go through with it.

      I rang Jane’s doorbell, feeling sick. I couldn’t work out how to stand naturally, or how to smile. What the fuck was I doing here?

      But then the door opened, and the situation was out of my hands. Jane didn’t even say hello. She grabbed my hand, pulled me towards her and kissed me. She kicked the door shut behind us and kept kissing me as we stumbled to her bedroom. She turned away from me for a second to light a candle, and then she joined me on her bed and started kissing me again.

      This was really happening. I was kissing a woman. We were almost certainly going to fuck. And I really, really wanted us to fuck. So much that I forgot to feel nervous, or self-conscious, or anything other than completely and utterly turned on.

      I reached up and stroked Jane’s face, so smooth compared to a man’s. She mirrored me, touching my cheek. I have discovered sexual equality, I thought. I have discovered feminist sex.

      ‘I’m going to take your top off now, if that’s OK,’ she said.

      ‘That’s OK,’ I said, holding up my arms. She was asking for my consent and I was giving it. This was what adults did in bed.

      Jane pulled my T-shirt over my head as she clearly had with tens – hundreds? – of other women. She didn’t paw me or grope me; she knew exactly what she wanted her hands to do. She was precise, which doesn’t sound hot but it honestly was. She knew exactly where to touch me, and what it would do. And when she fucked me, oh my GOD I finally understood what all the fuss was about. I went down on her too, which was easier than I expected, probably because I’m a clitoris owner myself. I didn’t fuck her, though. I couldn’t quite get the nerve up.

      I learned a lot that night. That hands are a lot more versatile, and reliable, than penises. That women know how to use their tongues. That touching another woman’s breasts can transport you to a place of unexpected ecstasy. And that women are amazing at sex.

      You know when you wake up after something awful has happened to you, and everything seems fine and normal for a moment before reality smacks you in the stomach? The morning after I had sex with Jane was exactly the opposite of that. I lay on my back, smiling stupidly at the memory of the best sex I’d ever had in my life. The best sex anyone had ever had, possibly – sex so technically excellent that I thought anyone would have enjoyed it, regardless of their sexuality. It hadn’t been perfect, obviously – she’d leaned on my hair as she fucked me, and she’d interpreted my yelp of pain as pleasure; I’d been pretty tentative about going down on her, and my tongue had got a bit tired about halfway through, and it had taken her a while to come. But she had come. And I’d felt sexy. I’d licked the snail, and I’d loved it. I’d felt like an equal partner in the whole thing. I felt, more than anything, a huge sense of relief.

      Jane’s side of the bed was empty. Through the curtainless window I could see a man in the warehouse opposite brushing his teeth. Which meant that he could see me; I was lying on top of the duvet, completely naked, my legs glowing pastily in the sunlight. I scanned the room for my underpants and found them folded on a chair with the rest of my clothes. As I picked them up, I felt hot with horror for a moment – the crotch was as stiff as a board. I had obviously been quite turned on.

      And then I smiled again. I had been totally turned on. Possibly for the first time in my life.

      I got dressed and walked out into the main warehouse to find Jane. She was standing where the DJ had been at her party, barefoot, her blunt bob swinging as she painted a canvas red. I stood and watched her for a moment, trying to decide on my opening gambit. Frankly, I just wanted to thank her for the amazing sex, but I didn’t think that would be very cool.

      She turned and noticed me watching her. ‘All right?’ she said. ‘How you feeling this morning?’

      ‘Great, thank you.’ Smiling stupidly. Standing there awkwardly.

      ‘Coffee’s in that pot on the hob if you want it.’

      I nodded and poured myself a cup, grateful to have something to do.

      ‘You were great last night,’ she said, eyes still on her painting. ‘I’d never have known it was your first time with a woman. Guess I’ll be getting another toaster!’

      She turned to look at me and laughed as if we were sharing a joke, so I laughed along, but I can’t have done it very convincingly, because then she said, ‘You’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, have you?’

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, girl. Google it.’

      As we said goodbye, I asked her, ‘Do you want to do this again sometime?’

      ‘No offence,’ she said, rubbing my arm, ‘but once is usually enough for me. Have fun exploring the ladies, though.’

      I wasn’t offended. I practically bounced out of the warehouse, laughing my way through the streets of Hackney Wick, people staring as I ran past. The reds and blues and yellows and pinks of the street art felt like they’d been painted just for me, a riot of rainbow against the grey sky. I hadn’t felt so at home in my stupid body since I’d stopped dancing. I’d never felt so alive. I wasn’t weird or bad at sex. I wasn’t an outsider.

      Definitely a lesbian, I texted Alice.

       A full one?

       Enough of one.

       You did the deed?

       Fucking loved it.

       !!!!!!!

      Gay clubs were my clubs now. Carhartt trousers, rainbows, team sports, But I’m a Cheerleader, RuPaul’s Drag Race, Pride parades, Moonlight, the Pet Shop Boys, vegetarian food, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, Orange Is the New Black, Old Compton Street, San Francisco, the colour pink, k.d. lang, Ellen, Dusty Springfield, Brighton, musical theatre, Tegan and Sara, lip-synching – some of the best things in the world belonged to me. Lucky, lucky, lucky me.

       8. WELCOME TO THE FAMILY

      ‘But are you sure you’re a lesbian?’

      Alice and I were shopping for vintage clothes in Stoke Newington. She was looking for a fake-fur coat. I was hoping to find some tweed trousers that didn’t smell of funerals. I wanted to wear more tweed, now that I was gay.

      ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’d understand if you’d been there during the sex.’

      ‘I’m very glad I wasn’t.’

      ‘So am I.’

      ‘Maybe Jane was just really good at sex, though,’ said Alice. ‘That doesn’t mean you should rule men out altogether.’

      ‘I