Blue Woman Stories Volume 2

Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 – Discovering Donnie

In celebration of the release of the second collection of my lesbian erotica, I’m posting a snippet and a nugget of background about each of the five stories in the volume.

The penultimate story, Discovering Donnie is the most offbeat story in the collection. Jodie, a legal secretary, questioning the point of her work after a promotion, goes into a bar she doesn’t normally frequent. There she meets Donnie–sturdy, muscular, and oh-so-appealing. They fall for each other, but Donnie takes it slowly, too slowly for the impatient Jodie.

The reader knows, of course, that Donnie is butch, genderqueer–there are many labels you can apply if you like labels–but does Jodie know? She’s a straight woman (those labels again), what will happen when she finally gets Donnie in her bed?

I’m not a person who likes labels. Those awkward getting-to-know-you moments in workplace team bonding exercise, where everyone gets up and says something like, “I’m Susan, I’m 35, I’m married to Fred and I have two adorable children” and then plonks down again in their seat, relieved to have got it out of the way. Hate them. What Susan is doing here is defining herself by her age, marital status and parenthood. It doesn’t tell you anything about Susan herself, or why Fred (hopefully) loves her. Susan’s applied labels to her life, labels that come with preconceptions.

Donnie and Jodie’s story isn’t about labels. Donnie never announces his gender or sexuality; Jodie never asks. They get to know each other, realize they like each other–more than like–and are attracted to each other. It goes from there.


Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 is out now from Ladylit, and on Amazon.

Or check out Blue Woman Stories Volume 1: collected lesbian erotica of Cheyenne Blue on Ladylit or Amazon.

She drained her wine and slid off the stool. Donnie threw a couple of notes on the counter, and gestured for the door. She noted he was shorter than she, but stocky and well put together, with a flat stomach underneath the plain white tee, and faded denims that clung lovingly to his muscular thighs. She thought briefly that she should let a friend know where she was going. She shouldn’t be going out at all on a weeknight when she had to be up early for work. But instead she said, “I’m Jodie.”

“Donnie,” he said, and opened the door for her, a gesture as old fashioned as it was endearing.

He took her to a backstreet Mexican café, a homey place that she’d sometimes passed but never been inside. Over enchiladas and green chili, she told him about her work and the promotion with longer hours.

Donnie scratched his chin. “What would happen if you simply refused?”

“I think I’d find myself out of a job.”

“Is the job worth it?”

“No,” she said, simply, and her breath caught as he covered her hand with his own, rough finger pads passing over the back in a swift caress.

“Then ‘no’ it should be.” He glanced at his watch–a simple chunky thing with a battered face. “I’m going to have to drop you home now, Jodie. I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

She knew she should be relieved he wasn’t expecting anything from her but a small–okay, a large–part of her was sorry. She’d been expecting the pass, the kisses, the fumbles, the whispered entreaty to let him come up “for coffee”.

“I have to work too,” she said.

He dropped her back at her apartment, reaching past her to release the door of the pick-up.

“I like you, Jodie,” he said. “Would you come out for dinner again sometime?”

“That would be nice,” she said, and then he kissed her.

It was a swift, short passing of his lips rather than a kiss that would lead to more, but her stomach somersaulted at the touch of his firm mouth, and she wanted to pull him to her and feel his agile tongue, find out how his skin felt underneath her hand.


She nodded.

“Come to the bar again after work.”

The next day at work, she barely registered her new boss. Her head was full of Donnie. How he’d looked, how he’d tasted in that short, sweet sip. The fresh, clean smell of him. The litigation partner looked at her appraisingly, but she was oblivious. She was counting down the hours and minutes to five thirty.

Just after six, she walked into the bar again. She’d considered going home to change into jeans, but had reasoned that Donnie had seen her in work clothes yesterday, and besides, going home would take the best part of an hour. She couldn’t wait that long to see him.

He was seated at the bar, a Hefeweizen and two white wines lined up in front of him. Jodie’s eyes lingered on him, tracing his body with her eyes, seeing how his strong hands caressed the frosted glass of his pint. How would they feel tracing her body?

She slid onto the stool next to him. Immediately his hand cupped the back of her head, pulling her to him for a kiss.

Jodie’s nights fell into a pattern. They met at the bar for happy hour. Two wines, Buffalo wings for appetizers, and then they ate at small back street cafés. Mexican, Thai, Japanese, a family diner and back to the little Mexican café that Jodie now thought of as “their place”. And every night, a kiss and he would leave her on her doorstep. No more, no less.

Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 – Glory B.


In celebration of the release of the second collection of my lesbian erotica, I’m posting a snippet and a nugget of background about each of the five stories in the volume.

The middle story, Glory B. spans a lifetime in 1,700 words. An imaginary friend is a comfort for many children, but what if she is real? What if she is, quite simply, the love of your life? The protagonist knows she’s being fanciful, but she can’t stop looking for Glory B. in the corners of her life, and in the women she forms relationships with.

This story sprang into my head when I was having breakfast in a diner in Baltimore and the waitress’ name tag read Glory B. I was just back from Ireland, where Catholicism permeates daily life to the point where you absorb the terminology and flavor of it through everyday interactions. The Glory Be is a short prayer that brackets the longer prayers of the rosary. I’m not religious, but the play on words and the timbre of the prayer seemed to sum up the story I wanted to tell: “Glory be … As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end …”

Glory B. is possibly my favorite story in this collection. It appeals to my romantic, optimistic side. Love will arrive. And love does. It appeals to my loyal side as well – the narrator stays true to the Glory B. in her head, even as she lives a successful life. I also loved the challenge of trying to compress a life into few words and trying to make it meaningful and not a dry list of facts. I hope I succeeded in this, but you can be the judge by reading Glory B for yourself.

Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 is out now from Ladylit, and on Amazon.

Or check out Blue Woman Stories Volume 1: collected lesbian erotica of Cheyenne Blue on Ladylit or Amazon.

When I was young I had an imaginary friend and her name was Glory B.

“Gloria?” said my mother, indulgently. “That’s a pretty name.”

“No. Her name is Glory Brown, but she calls herself Glory B. She’s prettier than I am, and her hair is in cornrows, but they’re too tight and her head aches. She lives where it’s hot, and sometimes she can’t sleep at night because she hurts, and because of the yelling, and that’s when she comes to see me. She has a gap in her front teeth, where they pulled a tooth out when it ached, and her skin is black. She’s blacker than the space under my bed, and she tastes of guava juice.”

“Oh,” said my mother, faintly. “Oh.”


Glory B. was there during my teen years, and she told me it didn’t matter that I could run faster than the boys, that it was a good thing to do, that she wished she could.

“I think I’m different,” I whispered to her at night, into the pillow.

“I know,” came back the answer, weaving through the fantasies in my head. “So am I.”

“I can’t get a prom date,” I told her, when I was seventeen. “The boys think I’m strange, and I don’t like them. And no girl will go with me.”

“Sssssh,” she whispered soothingly. “It will be all right in the end.”

If I opened my eyes, I could sometimes see her outline on my bed. Lying on her stomach, her round rump enticing, and her hair still in the cornrows. She would always fade, but like Alice’s Cheshire cat, her grin would be the last to leave.

When my mother pressured her oldest friend so that her son took me to the Prom, Glory B. told me to relax and enjoy the night. “I’ll be here when you come home,” she said. “You can tell me all about it.”

So she was the one who heard how Danny covered my mouth with his meaty paw, and forced my compliance with his solid thighs. Glory B. soothed my tears and gently wiped me down.

“It hurts,” I whimpered.

“I know,” she soothed, and then she kissed me.

Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 – Wide White Sky


In celebration of the release of the second collection of my lesbian erotica, I’m posting a snippet and a nugget of background about each of the five stories in the volume.

The second story, Wide White Sky has been described as bittersweet, but I like to think it is a story of hope and of change. A woman traveling alone, taking some time for herself, stops in a small Utah town. The young bartender, Calamity, invites her to come with her the next day, on a seed collecting trip for the BLM. The outcome isn’t in doubt for either of them, and Calamity brings confidence and hope and self-discovery to the older woman.

Wide White Sky is one of the first pieces of lesbian fiction I ever wrote – back in 2001 to be exact. As with most of my stories, I was physically present in the setting I wrote about at the time, and the rugged and remote Utah landscape is as much a part of this story as the characters. I was camping in the San Rafael Swell, that wide expanse crossed only by 1-70 and a network of 4×4 tracks, populated by wild horses, mountain lions, and rattlesnakes, and I scrawled an opening scene and notes on a bit of paper that I promptly lost. I think it might have ended up in the campfire. Luckily, enough of the story stayed with me that I was able to recreate it when we got to St George.

Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 is out now from Ladylit, and on Amazon.

Or check out Blue Woman Stories Volume 1: collected lesbian erotica of Cheyenne Blue on Ladylit or Amazon.

Her horse was ground tied. It stood with its head low, eyes closed, flap-lipped whiskery muzzle twitching in equine dreams. A pack was thrown carelessly onto the sagebrush, a Navajo blanket spilling out, a water bottle, and the military-surplus rucksack she used for collecting.

Calamity sat with her back resting against a pinyon pine. The ground around her was covered with cones, nuts, and husks, gnawed by squirrels and small things that creep. I sat and watched her for a moment from the back of my horse—an elderly and arthritic animal, the only one that the ranch would consider lending to an untried, middle-aged city woman to roam the high desert alone. I dismounted stiffly, my inner thighs aching in protest, and let the reins fall. The stock horse understood and drooped its head to dream with its companion.

She was watching me, her dark unfathomable eyes intent on my face, cataloging my awkward gait. “I knew you’d come,” she said.

In truth, I had wondered at my foolishness. A woman my age was supposed to be established in her career, successful in her marriage, with grown children maybe. She was not supposed to leave them all behind to pursue some nebulous dream of the West. Utah was a long way from New Jersey. A fractured mirror universe of possibilities and paths to be trodden.

The small Utah town had one motel and one bar. Calamity worked the bar; stalking the sagging timber floor with intent, flirting with the few customers, seducing them into leaving larger tips. She was a child of mixed race, whose heritage had given her not the smooth olive skin and curling hair that is so beautiful, but a patchwork of skin tones, a tapestry of birthmarks and pigmentation. Calamity. A name her mother had given her in anger and despair. The hurtful name she had made her own.

Of course, I was lonely, with the sad aura of a woman alone, whose dreams of escape were crumbling into reality. I did not know what I was doing here; I would not find myself in Utah, whose white respectability was safer and more straight-laced than my three thousand square subdivision in suburbia. So I sat at the bar, nursing my gin and tonic, and watched her. And then she touched me and flirted with me as indiscriminately as she did with the jowl-faced ranchers mumbling into their 3.2 beer. And the evening promised heady excitement, far from home.

“I harvest pinyon nuts,” she said. “I beat the sage for the Bureau of Land Management. Cut firewood. Come with me tomorrow.”

Her eyes spoke of more than gathering seeds. I agreed. So here I was, sitting awkwardly on the ground, my hair streaked with dust; leather and horse sweat ingrained in my jeans.

Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 – Perspex Window


In celebration of the release of the second collection of my lesbian erotica, I’m posting a snippet and a nugget of background about each of the five stories in the volume.

The first story, Perspex Window, is set on an Irish ferry as it plows its way on the overnight journey to France. Kate, who can’t quit her nicotine habit, is out on deck in the middle of the night, when her solitary ciggie is interrupted by Orla and Annie, who are taking advantage of the quiet night for some loving, having forgotten to book a cabin. An unexpected bond develops between the young lovers and their middle-aged voyeur.

I lived in Ireland for several years, and each year we’d take the ferry to France — for a holiday in Europe, or simply a shopping trip for the cheap wine and huge selection of cheese. Sometimes we’d sleep on deck and watch the moonglade on the sea, freeze our arses off in the wind, and watch the few who would brave the cold for fresh air and a view. One time, when I couldn’t sleep, I conceived the idea for Perspex Window as I sat and shivered and watched the sea and sipped my wine.

Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 is out now from Ladylit, and on Amazon.

Or check out Blue Woman Stories Volume 1: collected lesbian erotica of Cheyenne Blue on Ladylit or Amazon.

A door crashes open behind her. Laughter, slurred and female, reaches her across the non-slip blue matting.

“For feck’s sake, Annie, can’t you walk in a straight line?” The voice is young and Dublin, and has an indulgent lilt to its censorial question.

“I can so. It’s this bleedin’ boat that can’t sail straight.”

Kate watches the women making their stumbling way to the railing. One bird-thin and fragile, the other stout with draught-horse buttocks; one with cropped hair, the other with a mess of tangled curls. They hold each other’s arms as they weave their way across the deck.

“Not here,” the thin one with cropped hair, Annie, mutters. “Anyone can see us.”

“There’s no one around.”

Annie is led back to a dubious shelter, to a nook behind one of the entrance doors, sheltered from the wind by a sheet of rust and Perspex.

Kate waits, watching idly, as she finishes her cigarette and takes a sip of Chardonnay. She can see them clearly, but obviously they haven’t noticed her.

“Here,” curly-head says decisively.

She turns crop-head and wraps her arms around her. Her mouth comes down, and Kate stifles a gasp. The kiss is long. Kate huddles deeper into her jacket and sips. Women. Kissing.

She’s not naive; she knows it happens, and happens here in Ireland, in spite of the church’s stranglehold. And she has sometimes wondered, in a sort of vague afterthought way when the TV showed a lesbian kiss, what it would be like. But never has she seen it unfold in front of her. The cigarette burns down to the butt as the women kiss, and Kate watches. It’s a long kiss, a deep, drugging kiss, and the two figures merge in the moon-wrapped night, blend into the deep blue of the deck matting, fade into the shadows of the lifeboats. And still they kiss. Kate can hear the short pants of breath merging with the lap of the water against the sides, and the creak of the boat as she rolls. She waits, not wanting to interrupt them now, although will they even notice?

They break apart. “I love it when you kiss me like that,” the one called Annie says.

“You’ll like what I’m about to do better.”

“Orla, no, not here-”

“Here, yes here.” Orla is insistent. “There’s no one around. All the families have gone to bed. The football has finished. And if you’d booked a cabin we’d be in it now, loving our brains out in peace and privacy instead of out here on deck.”

“It’s cold,” Annie whines, but Kate can see her hands burrowing around Orla’s waist, pushing up the bulky sweater to reveal a line of white flesh. Is it really that ethereal white, or is it the moonlight?

“You were hot inside,” points out Orla.

She’s the one choreographing this. Kate can see her pressing Annie into the Perspex, her hands moving purposefully over the waif-like body.

Kate knows she should move. Her cigarette is finished, and she should return to the privacy of her own cabin, go to bed and sleep. But instead, she takes a sip of wine, and continues to watch. Orla and Annie.

Blue Woman Stories Volume 2


Release days are my favorite days of the year. Cheaper than Christmas, more exciting than tennis finals, less fattening than birthdays.

Hot on the heels of the first collection of my lesbian erotica, Blue Woman Stories Volume 1, I am now extremely excited to present…. yes, you’ve guessed it: Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 published by Ladylit.

Love triumphs as opposites attract in the Colorado Rockies, an unwitting voyeur has an eye-opening encounter on an Irish ferry, and love takes a lifetime to arrive in the poignant Glory B.

Cheyenne Blue’s lesbian erotica has been a staple of many anthologies since 2000. This second volume of her collected work contains five more of her finely woven lesbian tales.

Check out Blue Woman Stories Volume 2 on Amazon, over at Ladylit, or add it to your Goodreads page.

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