No More Wasted Time: A Carlsbad Village Lesbian Romance

Her phone pinged.

Thank god!

She could use a distraction. She had already gotten the gist of what the dullard was saying and didn’t need to listen to him prattle on any longer.

Hey! I’m on a LAS to SAN flight tomorrow. Fly out again Friday morning. Want to meet up? (No Anna this time, though. Boo!)

Maya. Telling Krissy she’d be flying in to San Diego from Vegas. Krissy had learned a lot about airport codes since meeting Maya. Her favorite was the one for Long Beach—LGB. To her, it sounded like the only airport lesbians, gays and bisexuals should fly into.

With a Pavlovian response, her center warmed and she felt her clit vibrate a bit. She’d been doing this Maya flies in/They fuck/Maya flies out thing for a year now and normally, provided she wasn’t on her period or had plans with another, but equally exciting, sexual partner, Krissy would be eager to see her flight attendant fuck-buddy. In fact, normally, after receiving a text like this, Krissy would start determining which toys she needed to clean, which ones needed new batteries, what parts of her body needed to be shaved and whether or not she’d masturbate between now and Maya’s arrival, or wait for Maya to release all of her excitement for her.

Now, however, she wanted to scold parts of her body for reacting in even the slightest manner to Maya’s text. Sure, it was perfectly reasonable that her body would react—she was a highly sexually-charged woman with a strong libido—but it was making her feel incredibly guilty now.

She belonged to Becca. Her traitorous body was just going to have to get used to that.

She tapped out a response to Maya.

Hey. Change of status. I’m with someone now. It just happened but I’m amazingly happy. Hope we can still be friends.

Krissy rolled her eyes at that last sentence. She only added it because it seemed like it would soften the brush-off. Her and Maya could hardly be called friends. Their raison d’etre was to have casual and completely meaningless sex. Cocktails at a bar might be had beforehand, but that was the extent of their socializing outside the bedroom. As for when they were apart, they never texted or called one another; they didn’t even follow each other on social media.

Christ…

Krissy blinked in surprise as she realized something.

I don’t even know her last name!

In her phone, Maya was listed as Maya (Flight Attendant).

This was in addition to…

Carli (Lawyer in Temecula)

Sienna (Tattoo Artist)

Debra (Waitress)

Simone (Stockbroker in L.A.)

Julie (Teacher in O’side)

Riley (Teacher in Encinitas)

…and others. Numerous women Krissy had to identify by profession and/or location in order to prevent them from blending into one another in her mind and to remind herself of just who it was she was going to be having sex with.

Krissy sighed, feeling more upset with herself. Okay, fine, she had nothing to be ashamed of: she was a modern, twenty-first century woman who had spent the last decade enjoying the sexual bounty Life had to offer. She had always been careful, had been frequently tested for anything harmful, and had never made any promises to anyone. All of her sexual encounters had been consensual and with the understanding that there were zero expectations of commitment or loyalty.

But Krissy was upset with herself because if she had just admitted to Becca years ago how she felt about her, then a lot of those names would never have even been saved in her phone. What’s more, she could have been feeling this amazing feeling she’d had since Friday, when her and Becca finally hooked up, a long time ago.

No! Not “hooked up!”

She groaned in frustration with herself.

Hooking up was what she did with Julie (Teacher in O’side) or Debra (Waitress). If she ever forgot that, she considered…if she ever used the term hook-up to describe anything she and Becca did, then she didn’t deserve this happiness she was feeling now.

Krissy sent the text message to Maya and then went through her phone deleting all the names with parenthetical designations from the device. Before she was done, the phone pinged.

This time, because she had already deleted Maya’s name, the iPhone had no choice but to ID the message sender by phone number. A 718 area code, Krissy noticed. That was New York City. She knew that because a lot of her clients live in New York. Which means Maya either lives there also or had at the time she got that number. Krissy honestly had no clue which it was. After all, Maya was just Maya (Flight Attendant).