:-)

Oh boy!

You see before you the writings of the happiest woman in town. The most satisfied, most content, most fulfilled woman in town, if not the entire country, if not the entire world, if not the entire universe, if not the entire history of recorded time and space.

str8guy? Who gives a monkey's fuck on Mars about him? Pah!

Oh boy!

Oh girl, rather.

Miliza, in fact. Beautiful Miliza. Sexy Miliza, seductress Miliza.

Miliza made love to me last night. She seduced me, entranced me, took me to her bed and made love to me. All night.

I'm floating. I'm spinning. I'm singing. I'm laughing. Laughing, God, I'm laughing. I think I'm in love.

I think I'm in love.

:-)

Miliza. Miliza. Miliza.

I suppose I'd better start at the beginning, though I'm too excited to think straight. All I can think about is what happened to me last night. That body, that face, that mind, those hands, her tongue, her breath, her breasts, her skin, heartbeat, warmth, beauty. Her...

Okay, talk sense Molly. I went to the Tamara de Lempicka exhibition yesterday at the Royal Academy. I've been looking forward to it, as much to get away from str8guy as anything, but I'm intrigued by her paintings. People either love them or hate them. There's a whiff of art world hypocricy about her work, as there is with other popular artists like Jack Vettriano. The hoi polloi like it, so it must be rubbish. You can imagine Brian Sewell getting his chops around those garish images and polishing his disdain, elaborately constructing off-the-cuff bon mots with which to put them down. Tossers. It's hardly fine art, but it's bloody good art. Some of it anyway. Actually, some of it's superb.

But you don't want to hear about this. You want to hear about Miliza. And I want to tell you.

Oh Miliza. Be still my heart.

:-)

My phone was switched off and in my bag. It was going to be a stgr8guy free day. I needed it. Just needed to clear my head of his insidious ways. It was a lovely day as I walked up Piccadilly towards the Royal Academy. It's not a part of London I like - it seems false, somehow. The fake grandeur of the Ritz, the posh shops and rich bitches teetering about with designer bags. Yeuch.

The RA's organisation was predictably crap and it took me some time to figure out where they were actually housing their star exhibition. The first room, very small, more of a vestibule than anything, was packed and it was impossible to see anything much. I was getting hot and impatient. Because I couldn't see the paintings properly I started people watching. As usual, it was a beautiful crowd: art galleries attract the attractive, no question.

There was a woman, not much more than a young girl, really. Maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, but fresh-faced. And beautiful. God, she was beautiful. The more I looked the more ravishing she seemed. She had medium-short hair, pulled back in a pony-tail, and her skin was clear and soft, apparently perfect. Not a blemish, not a spot. She had a long, thin nose, Eastern European in appearance, which I couldn't take my eyes off. It was so strong, so dominant, so beautifully sculpted and so individual it lent her face a quite unique beauty. Her eyes were large, round and dark - as seductive a combination as its possible to find - and her mouth was wide and full, tight-lipped in concentration as she surveyed the paintings. She wore jeans and a skinny tee-shirt which emphasised the litheness of her body. Her breasts, in particular, were shown to stunning advantage - small, high and pert, with a hint of nipple bulge.

Not for the first time, I felt a stirring of desire. Not for the first time, a lesbian fantasy began to play in my mind. I thought back to a few weeks ago, at the Lichtenstein, at the girl there, and how she attracted me. That was the first time I'd ever wondered whether I could actually make love to another woman. Until then I knew it was just a fantasy - fun to masturbate to, but not something I would ever do, or even want to. That day something changed, and I found myself seriously contemplating it. Nothing happened, and it went back to being a simple fantasy.

But now I was looking at another beautiful woman. My body was screaming at me. I want her. I want her. I was frightened by the strength of my emotions and walked on into the next room, leaving the woman behind me.

The main room of the exhibition was amazing. One after the other there was a procession of stunning paintings. First was The Portrait of the Duchess de la Salle, with its weird, expressionist background and the unforgettable image of a woman dressed in typical 1920s outfit, staring out confrontationally. I stood in front of her for some time and found myself oddly attracted to her.

The Dream featured a similar woman, but she was softer, more seductive. She was reclining, naked, covering her breasts and staring straight at you with big, dark eyes and a ravishing, red mouth which screamed to be kissed. She was powerfully sensual, and I found myself smiling at her. Next to me, I noticed, was the girl, and she too was staring at it in rapt attention. As we both moved to the next painting our eyes met and we each gave that polite smile you often get in galleries. A sort of "yes I love it, but don't ask me any questions about it, I'm not an expert," sort of look.

We progressed to another portrait, of Romana de la Salle, dressed in pink, with her breast and nipple bulging temptingly. She was turned away from us and seemed to be staring into space. Her hand, though, rested on her thigh and gave the impression of beckoning to the watcher, drawing you in. It was a strange combination - the woman seemed remote, and yet it was very intimate.

As I moved to the next painting, I was hotly aware that the girl was still by my side. It's common that people move around galleries at much the same speed, but usually there's an ebb and flow - one speeds up and moves a couple of paintings ahead, then slows down again. This girl was with me, every step of the way. She made no contact but, unless it was my imagination playing hopeful tricks, she seemed to be standing ever closer to me.

The Musician was similar in composition to the previous painting, with a woman staring to her right. Behind, there was a strange, expressionist background, all angular and jutting, which emphasised the soft roundness of the woman's body. Her breasts, almost conical, were bewitching, but again there was a distance between the viewer and the woman, her expression dreamy and forbidding. This woman was unattainable, I felt.

But was the girl standing next to me attainable? And did I want her to be? My heart was racing. I didn't know what was happening. Was I being seduced? She was still standing next to me, watching whatever I watched, and when I moved, she moved with me. Again, our eyes met as we shifted to the next painting, and this time she smiled, a wide, carefree smile. I had no idea what it meant.

I knew we would come to some nudes soon and, with my silent companion at my side, I felt oddly shy about it. Like the previous painting, Nude With Buildings counterpointed aggressively sharp buildings in the background with a beautiful, soft, round, plump woman. Again, she wasn't looking directly at us, but all she had to do was lift her eyes and she would be watching us, watching her. Her bared breasts, looked both innocent and alluring, and the red of her lips and nail varnish suggested a sexual depth which at first was concealed by her innocent expression.

My companion was standing so close to me it seemed pointless to keep up the pretence of separateness. "Beautiful," I said. The girl looked into my eyes, smiling more broadly than ever, and nodded. She moved to the next painting, pausing for a second and looking in my direction, waiting for me to follow. I followed.

Although similar in composition to the others, The Portrait of Ira P was a million miles away from them in style. This was full-blooded erotica. I stared in wonder at the sexual being in front of me, a confident, contained woman in a stunning silk dress, its folds lovingly recreated to emphasise the womanly beauty of her body. She was carrying a bunch of lilies and draped around her was a red scarf, emphasising her sexuality. Her eyes were strong, but it was her mouth, so wide and full-lipped, which was most arresting. Lips to be kissed by.

"They get better and better," I said.

"More beautiful," the girl replied. She had a strong European accent, pronouncing her vowels with great care. A seductive voice. I was confused, excited and afraid. I felt her hand on my back, very gently, just for a second, as she guided me to the next painting. Silently, I took her lead.

The Portrait of Mrs Allan Bott was a painting I shall love until the day I die. The woman was staring away in typical fashion, but she was wearing a diaphanous gown, her nipples showing clearly. The painting of the fabric was technically superb, its intricate flower pattern elegantly created. Her gown clung to her body and our eyes were drawn to her breasts, then her smooth, flat stomach, and then down her long, elegant legs. She was ravishing. Her features were recreated more finely than any previous painting, with a sharp nose and pouting mouth - impossibly red, outrageously seductive. This woman could seduce anyone in the world, male or female.

"Couldn't you fall in love with her?" the girl said.

She stood directly in front of me, almost challengingly. I looked over her shoulder at the beauty of Mrs Bott and was struck by how similar she and the girl were - the same long nose and sharp features, the same knowingness in the eyes and mouth. "I think I could," I replied. My hands were shaking.

"I'm Miliza," she said.

"Molly," I replied. All pretence of being apart had gone, and we continued round the exhibition, gradually talking more expansively. The quality of the paintings tailed off as we reached de Lempicka's later years, when she appeared to do painting-by-numbers pastiches of her own style, just one raddled commission after another. It was rather sad, seeing such an individual talent going to waste. The final room was depressing. Her style had evolved into a dead-end, her women impossible proportioned, their physiques rendered ugly by the clumsy stylisations.

Miliza was smitten by them though. "She paints women so differently," she said. "She paints them as sexual objects, but not sex objects." It took me a moment to understand her point, and I was deeply impressed that she could make it in a foreign language.

"But so many of her bodies are so muscular. They're like East German shot-putters."

"Many yes, but not all." She grabbed my hand and imperiously swung me back the way we'd come, back to The Convalescent. "Tell me that body is not perfect. Tell me she's not beautiful." We stood beneath it, looking up at the image of a woman in bed, seemingly pulling down the strap of her nightgown, her right breast exposed. She was staring - perhaps innocently, perhaps archly - into the distance, and her mouth was set seriously, but still you had a strong urge to kiss it. It was undoubtedly sensual, and as I looked on this image of feminine beauty I was conscious of the beauty at my side. She was still holding my hand. Her touch was electrifying, and my heart was pounding in my chest. My stomach was fluttering with nervous excitement.

"She's beautiful, yes," I agreed.

"Looks a bit like you, no?"

I was taken aback. There actually was a mild similarity, but to be compared to such beauty was unexpected. I blushed and Miliza laughed.

Most of us have fantasies. They're fun, they brighten our lives. When fantasies come to life they change, the world changes, your mind changes. I was breathless, my ears ringing in fear. I'd imagined chatting up a woman in an art gallery so many times, but now, it seemed, it was truly happening. Miliza's grip on my hand was tightening, her finger pressing gently on my knuckle.

"Would you not want to kiss her?"

"Yes," I whispered. Yes, I wanted to kiss her. Kiss who?

"I thought so." Her voice was throaty, rich, coated - it seemed to me - in triumph. Her grip on my hand tightened further, and then she was holding me by the waist, her fingers fluttering against the fabric of my skirt.

"And this one." She swung me back through the throng of viewers, and we ellicited curious stares, these women entwined in each other's arms. We stopped before Mrs Allan Bott once more. "This. Would you not want to sit beside her, your body against hers?" How could she have known that I was so entranced by this painting, and that it reminded me so strongly of her? "Wouldn't it be wonderful? Arms touching. Legs touching, stomachs touching."

Miliza spoke loudly. She was easily overheard, and as she did she edged closer and closer to me, folding me to her. And yet I wasn't embarrassed. Rather, I was proud, proud to be in the arms of such a beautiful woman. My fantasy had taken control. I had no idea where it was leading. I was just happy to be led. "Wouldn't you want to be with this woman?" she said.

"Yes," I replied. "I do."

She turned and looked at me. Her eyes, so dark, fiercely proud, gleamed in excitement. "You do?"

"Yes."

She made no reply, but her hand moved downwards, resting on my hip, and I had the strongest feeling that a pass had been made and accepted. Which was the maker and which the receiver, I still haven't decided.

"Would you like a coffee?" she asked.

"Yes, but not here. It's too hot today - it'll be unbearable downstairs in the cafe. It gets so stuffy in there. There's an 'Eat' just down the road."

She laughed. "I'm in your hands." We shared a glance. Already, I think, both of us knew what was coming. If only we had the courage to allow it.

'Eat' was hectic when we arrived. I cautioned against the baguettes. "The crusts are so hard they cut your mouth to ribbons. But the sandwiches are gorgeous." We made our choice and took a seat at the bar next to the counter.

Miliza told me about herself. She was from Serbia-Montenegro, and was in Britain for two months on a university exchange. She was studying art, but in her spare time she was a singer and she had her heart set on turning professional. She sang traditional Balkan music, she told me.

"I'd love to hear you."

"Maybe later," she smiled.

We were characters in a dance, elaborately weaving towards a glorious destination, each sure enough of the other's intentions to relax and allow events to unfold. I was unnaturally calm, given that I was about to submit to my first lesbian encounter, and yet it seemed, in its way, unremarkable - as if the whole day had been nothing more than a necessary prelude. The whole day? I pondered that, too, whether today was about to change my life, but that was too big a question to wrestle with. Not at the moment. Not with Miliza by my side, her knee resting against mine, signal of her intentions.

"I'm staying at the Tavistock Hotel," she said.

"Are you?"

"Yes, on Tavistock Square."

"Is it nice?"

"It's full of staff who don't speak English. I study hard before I came here, so I could speak well with people, and now I can't find anyone in England who speaks English."

I laughed. "Welcome to London. Cosmopolitan centre of Europe."

"It's great. I love it."

"It's a city of adventure." I rested my hand on the bar beside hers, not daring to touch, willing her to make the move. Even though I was sure of the way things were going, I was still too nervous.

"A country of adventure. My first time out of Serbia-Montenegro."

"When do you go back?"

"Two month. Two month to learn everything I can. I want to know everything."

We continued to talk, and it was as though neither of us was listening. We were just waiting for the moment.

"My room is very nice."

"Is it?"

"In the hotel."

"Yes."

"Not a nice view. Just London streets. Boring. But the room is nice." Her hand was on mine. I didn't know how long it had been there. I looked up and she was staring hard, a smile covering her nervousness, her eyes willing me. My stomach was turning and my head was light and helpless. I had difficulty focusing. The most exciting thing in the world was about to happen to me. I knew it now, for certain.

I didn't know what to say. I knew what I wanted to say, but not how to say it. "Mmm," I mumbled.

"Would you like to see it?"

The impasse was broken. The compact was made.

"Yes, I'd love to."