Epilogue: Even Lesbians Get The Blues

After another long night, Lois Lane lay naked and alone on her bed with an ice-pack across her rug-burned knees. Everyone thought it was great to drink champagne and eat out a model's pussy in the back of a limousine, but nobody had warned her about the carpeting. Blearily, the reporter stared at the ceiling.

It had been three months since her night out. Three months of whirlwind dating, hook-ups, partying with cuntlicking fiends, experimentation with sex toys and dildos. Lois Lane had thrown herself into the lesbian scene, determined to catch up on everything she had missed out on over the dreary years since she had hit puberty...it had been an adventure of exploration. Lois Lane had marched in her first pride parade. Gotten her first lap dance. Made out with two strippers at once. Brought a lonely old lesbian cancer victim on hospice to her first, and possibly her last orgasm. In any given week, Lois Lane had slept with at least five different women, and it had all been a whirlwind of sex, earnest conversation, wine, dancing, and...

...and now here she was, in the wee hours of the morning, with a pussy that burned with what the reporter hoped wasn't the beginning of a urinary tract infection, picking pubic hair out of her teeth as she felt her knees go numb, unable to sleep and utterly, totally, completely alone.

Lois Lane let out a sigh that she felt with her entire body.

"I guess being a lesbian isn't a cure for loneliness," she said out loud. The reporter reflected on all the fun she'd had...the make-outs, the pussy she'd eaten, the tongues and toes in her twat. That memorable three-way where she had her first double-fisting. Yet it had all been so...focused on the physical. Sure, she had played tonsil hockey with all sorts of women, she'd been embraced by the sisterhood of women, she'd been out there on the lesbian meat market and finger-fucked bright young things that had barely come out of the closet in club bathrooms and licked her fingers afterwards...but where was the love? Where was the relationship?

The reporter wasn't sure what she was doing wrong. It was just that things went so swiftly, and then afterward there was never...there was no connection. No woman went away from Lois Lane unsatisfied, but they weren't exactly coming back for a second date, either. It was always Lois out there on for the next fresh bit of trim, the next pair of tits to squeeze, the next ass to worship. As if searching for that perfect someone who might not exist.

"Somewhere out there, beneath the pale moonlight, someone's thinking of me..." She said.

Her phone chirped. Lois reached over and grabbed it, swiped the screen. A text from Jimmy Olsen.

SUPERMAN EXPOSED TO RED KRYPTONITE

TURNED INTO A WOMANMAYBE PERMANENT

SUPER WARDROBE MALFUNCTION LOL

The violet eyes widened at the image of Superman...no, Superwoman...in her now ill-fitting suit, the S-shield distorted by the shape of the breasts underneath, the pants no longer wanting to stay up on the trimmer waist and thighs and broader hips...and a stupid, idiotic grin came to Lois Lane's face.

"Perfect," she whispered, and levered herself off the bed as she composed a tweet. She ignored the aching in her knees, the burning need to pee. The love of her life was out there...and Lois Lane was determined to eat that super-pussy or die trying.