Thelma and Louise
Story Codes: MF, Consensual,  Exhibitionism,

Thelma and Louise
by Liz Doherty

I Really Want to Watch Thelma and Louise Tonight (Women Seeking Men)

Those women are HOT and MAD and they know what to do about it. I just moved in, don’t have a TV
yet, much less a microwave for the popcorn.  If you own this movie and would like to watch it at your
place with a slender, attractive, smart SWF tonight, hit me back.

After two months of checking out the place, and fucking a couple dozen strangers and sorta kinda
falling for one, I’d decided to give San Francisco a more permanent try.  My hand shook as I signed a
one-year lease on a great, airy Mission apartment I found on a rainy April afternoon.  Outside the big
corner windows, fire trucks were blocking off the side street outside, where an apartment fire was
keeping the neighborhood entertained, but the smell of wet, burned wood didn’t deter me.  The guy I
was into at the moment was a fire chaser, and it seemed apt that this fire was happening right under
my new windows.  Hot, wet firemen were entertaining the mangy crowd in front of the divey looking bar
across the street.  At least I knew where to get a probably flat beer when I needed one.  I knew my old
life wasn’t working for me, and I thought I’d give this a shot.  I moved in an hour later.  

My gear consisted of two wet suitcases, an air mattress and some scratchy sheets bought at a cheap
mission junk store, my computer, my books and journals, and my cell phone and charger.  It was
Tuesday, and I figured I’d hit some garage sales on the weekend for some more basics, but until I
found a lamp, I was stuck with the lighting available to me.  For three nights, I figured out that by
leaving the bathroom and kitchen lights on and the beige drapes open at night, I could keep the living
room in a kind of orangey glow in the evening.   The street light outside one living room window cast
enough light that if I positioned my air mattress just so I could read at night, but the street noise kept
me pretty restless.  

After a couple of nights of struggling to focus on murky type, what I really wanted was to watch TV.  
You know, a big screen, a comfy couch, a coffee table to put my feet up on, maybe a joint, a beer,
with someone with a kitchen and dishes and popcorn and a remote.  I really would have been happy
to hang out alone at home if I’d had that gear, but Thursday night didn’t seem like the best time to go
TV and furniture shopping in the city, especially without a car.  

I figured if I could find a guy who owned Thelma and Louise, he’d be pretty evolved, and maybe we’d
click enough for a nice tumble, too.  Susan Sarandon is smart as shit, and Geena Davis – well, Geena
Davis is about as hot as it gets.  I’ve seen the movie dozens of times, and it never fails to leave me
feeling strong and sure about the superiority of women.  I posted this at about 7 pm, and by 7:15, the
responses were pouring in to my in-box.  

I got the usual array of cock shots, lame ‘call me babes’ and cut and paste responses (hey!, I live in
Haight and Ashbury! I am 26 years old, I like sports, dancing, and watching underground movies, I am
a Robotic engineer,,, electronic musician, passionate  with sci fi, I love arts, and computers, please
contact me if you want to hang out, please send me  pics and IM screen name so we can chat better
see where it leads at!!!).  A bunch of guys offered to rush out and rent the movie for me, but I was
holding out for someone who owned it.

Then I heard from Scott.  He had taken the time to change the subject line of the email to “I’ve Never
Seen a Post Like That” and seemed genuinely puzzled by what I was getting at.  He said he had his
own place, a big TV, and ‘on demand’ cable (I didn’t know what that was, not really being a TV
person) so we could watch whatever we liked.  I figured he was hoping I’d be down for porn, which I’m
really not in to, but he offered to pay for my cab to his place in Hayes Valley, a neighborhood I’d
never heard of.  What the hell.  He sent his pic, said he’d been to college, he could put a sentence
together and had a nice smile in the picture he sent, from the top of a snowy mountain in what looked
like New England.

What he didn’t say is that he was short.  Like, really short.  Like about 5’2”.  Yikes.  I’m not sure what it
is that makes this or any woman like a man taller than she is.  Maybe some kind of primal baby-
making urge that tells us to mate with an evolutionarily strong specimen so our progeny will make the
cut.  Maybe these tiny guys just make us feel big and gawky.  Whatever it is, I was kind of freaked
out.  I got to his place around 9, and he came down to the street and paid the cabbie before I could
say, “Whoa, sorry, no midgets tonight.”  But I figured I wouldn’t care how small he was if we were just
going to watch Susan and Geena, what the heck.  Besides, the cab was gone.

Given my relative enormity, I could have felt like a bull in the proverbial china shop in his place.  But I
had plenty of room in the very spacious apartment, with the promised massive flat screen TV, and
enormous L-shaped plush couch that ten people could have comfortably made out on, a huge, heavy
oak coffee table, a chair and a half arrangement that could have held three of this guy, an oversized
print hanging over the giant entertainment center…  you get the idea.  High ceilings, picture windows,
oversize fridge, everything in the place was huge except Scott himself.  I usually shake hands with a
man, to show him I’m not a kissy kind of girly-girl, but I didn’t want to take this guy’s hand yet, knowing
it would be the size of an eleven-year-old’s.  I did notice his feet, which were tiny, not a promising sign.

He offered a beer, and I accepted.  It was a regular sized beer, thank goodness, because I’m not
really much of a drinker.  He drank water – that always makes me uncomfortable, but I’d watched him
open my bottle, so I figured he wasn’t slipping me a mickey, whatever that is.  

He didn’t have Thelma and Louise and couldn’t get it on his fancy-ass cable TV.  What’s with that?  
Why do people answer posts if they don’t have the goods?  Do they think everything is a metaphor
for something else?   Is direct communication that unusual?  Where are the guys who listen to what I
say?  Fuck.  I was hot for Geena.  

We sat chastely on his huge couch and watched some movie - I forget what it was, but it wasn’t T&L,
nothing else is.  Whatever it was, it was somewhat funny, because I do remember laughing.  At the
end he kinda reached for me, rather tentatively, with those teeny tiny hands.  I lunged at him, figuring
I might as well find out what a little guy was packing.  I was hoping to be surprised.

“I wasn’t sure if this was that kind of post,” he said, obviously surprised by my willingness.  

“This is very much that kind of post,” I countered, pushing him back on the couch and straddling him.  
I had to kind of scrunch my neck down a bit to find his mouth and keep our crotches connected, but I
was surprised and pleased to be able to feel his hardness there – it seemed big enough under his
jeans anyway.  I considered briefly whether he’d stuffed his pants with something, but found his mouth
pretty tasty, so was busying myself there.  His tiny hands were exploring, and he efficiently opened my
bra with one hand, a skill I’ve always admired.  I can’t do it myself, and should really get someone to
teach me.  I do know how to pull my bra off through my sleeve, which was very impressive in high
school but maybe not such a big deal now.

I was well into my third beer when he led me to his bedroom, with a massive king sized bed.  I kid you
not, there was a small step stool next to it so he could climb on.  I hope I didn’t laugh out loud as he
climbed up on to his bed.  It reminded me of some fairy tale, I don’t remember which one, something
about elves and a beautiful woman.

I think we groped around some more on the bed before our clothes came off.  Jesus, this guy was
really hung.  Not exactly Foster’s can big, but big enough, maybe 9 inches, thick and hard as a rock.  
Before I knew it I was on my hands and knees and he was pounding me deep and hard.  He was a big
man in my mind and in my body, until he told me to look into the mirrors on his closet doors.  There I
saw a silhouette of a long, lean woman on her knees, back arched, elbows down, being fucked by a
tiny little man.  Granted one with a big penis, but the tableau looked preposterous to me.  Another
fairly tale reference came to mind:  Rumplestitlskin.

He did get me off, and I him.  As long as I kept my eyes closed and away from that gargantuan mirror,
I was able to surrender to the sensations and get there.  Lying there after we were both spent, he
pressed his little palm against mine, and I bent the last joint of my fingers over his shorter ones, again
fighting the giggles.  

He offered to pay for my cab home, but I just asked for directions to the nearest big street and
staggered over to Gough.  I figured he’d been generous enough, what with picking up the first cab,
and sharing his beers and all.  Like I said, I’m a shake hands and pay my own way kind of woman,
most of the time anyway.  

What I learned from Scott:  I’m looking for a guy who’s taller than me as well as nicely hung, Geena
and Susan got real lucky with Brad and Mike, and fairy tales don’t always end with a happily ever

Copyright©2009 Liz Doherty

Liz Doherty is a writer and editor living in San Francisco, and a regular user of the Craigslist
personals.  She continues her on-line, sex-first search for her smoking hot Mr. Right with honesty and
humor, and still hopes he’s lurking there amid the acronyms, euphemisms and raunch.  She can be
reached through her website: