Lesbian Quotes

“She scissored the curls away, and - toms, grow easily sentimental over their haircuts, but I remember this sensation very vividly - it was not like she was cutting hair, it was as if I had a pair of wings beneath my shoulder-blades, that the flesh had all grown over, and she was slicing free...”
― Sarah Waters, Tipping the Velvet

“With every step I took away from her, the movement at my heart and between my legs grew more defined: I felt like a ventriloquist, locking his protesting dolls in to a trunk.”
― Sarah Waters, Tipping the Velvet

“Heather leaned toward me and placed a soothing hand on my knee. “It’ll be fine, sweetie. You’ll see.”
“I’ve never done anything like this. What if I can’t go through with it? I’ll feel like such a dolt.”
“I won’t let that happen. Once I get you warmed up, you’ll forget all these silly insecurities. And I’d bet my favorite dildo that the instant you see Blake in the buff, you’ll be damn glad you followed through on this little plan.”
― Anne Rainey, Burn

“Seen on her own, the woman was not so remarkable. Tall, angular, aquiline features, with the close-cropped hair which was fashionably called an Eton crop, he seemed to remember, in his mother's day, and about her person the stamp of that particular generation. She would be in her middle sixties, he supposed, the masculine shirt with collar and tie, sports jacket, grey tweed skirt coming to mid-calf. Grey stockings and laced black shoes. He had seen the type on golf courses and at dog shows - invariably showing not sporting breeds but pugs - and if you came across them at a party in somebody's house they were quicker on the draw with a cigarette lighter than he was himself, a mere male, with pocket matches. The general belief that they kept house with a more feminine, fluffy companion was not always true. Frequently they boasted, and adored, a golfing husband. ("Don't Look Now")”
― Daphne du Maurier, Echoes from the Macabre: Selected Stories

“See, the institutions and specialist, experts, you see. Yes, yes,
experts, indeed. See, they would have us believe that there is an order
to art. An explanation. Humans are odd creatures in that way. Always
searching for a formula. Yes, a formula to create an expected norm for
unexplainable greatness. A cook book you might say. Yes, a recipe
book for life, love, and art. However, my dear, let me tell you. Yes,
there is no such thing. Every individual is unique in their own design,
as intended by God himself. We classify, yes, always must we classify,
for if not, then we would be lost, yes lost now wouldn't we?
Classification, order, expectations, but alas, we forget. For what is art,
if not the out word expression of an artist. It is the soul of the artisan
and if his expectations are met, than who are we to judge whether his
work be art or not?”
― Cristina Marrero, The Unsung Love Story

“You asked of me once, how high, high can beor if there was an exhibit..
I smiled and then whispered..
My thighs are the limit…”
― Shanica Stewart, The Nikki DaVinci Code

“In the dresser there are two sets of rosary beads, a Brigid's cross, and an iron pendant on a chain. And then there is her, more worthy of worship, with a knee on either side of my hips”
― Chloe Michelle Howarth, Sunburn

“Amber Rorman had told me too that our third grade teacher, Ms. Lizetti, was really a lesbian, which I thought was a disease until I asked Amber and Amber told me to ask her mother who told me to ask my mother, who said, “Lesbians are women who like to have sex with other women,” which I didn’t think was all that weird.”
― Shannon Celebi, 1:32 P.M.

“Look, Clara,” I say enthusiastically and raise my hand to show my lover the beautiful butterfly couple, but then I realize that she’s already noticed them.
Sitting up, she nods to me with a smile. Her gaze follows them, just like mine, until they’ve finally disappeared out of sight, without rushing and without a destination.
Now Clara turns to me, with a smile that lights up her deep, dark eyes.
The most beautiful sight in the world, I think dreamily, gently plucking a thistle from her disheveled hair.
“That’s certainly a good omen,” she says, lost in thought.
“For what?” I ask, smiling.
She winks at me. “For the future. For our life. For whatever you want.”
― Jutta Swietlinski, The Awakening of the Butterfly

“Everybody is frustrated when they are fifteen, I know, but knowing this doesn't ease my frustration. It feels as though I am an island, apart from everybody else. Perhaps we are all islands, apart from each other. Perhaps everyone else feels foreign in their hometown too. Yes, perhaps we are all just islands, as wild and merciless as each other, separated by our countless defects.”
― Chloe Michelle Howarth, Sunburn

“One strap of her tank top had slid a little down her shoulder, and Delilah fought the urge to put it back in place-or slide it down even farther.”
― Ashley Herring Blake, Delilah Green Doesn't Care

“Être lesbienne raconte, bien sûr, mes préférences sexuelles, mais aussi la manière dont j'interagis avec les autres, dont j'évolue, dont j'observe le monde. Mon rapport au mensonge, à la norme, à la liberté.”
― Élodie Font, À nos désirs - Dans l'intimité des lesbiennes

“And where the words of woneb are crying to be heard, we must each of us recognize our responsibility to seek those words out, to read them and share them and examine them in their pertinence to our lives. That we not hide behind the mockeries of separations that have been imposed upon us and which so often we accept as our own: for instance "I can't possibly teach Black women's writing- their experience is so different from mine," yet how many years have you spent teaching Plato and Shakespeare and Proust? Or another: "She's a white woman and what could she possibly have to say to me?" Or, "she's a lesbian, what would my husband say, or my chairman?" Or again, "This woman writes of her sons and I have no children." And all the other endless ways in which we rob ourselves of ourselves and each other.”
― Audre Lorde, The Cancer Journals

“And where the words of women are crying to be heard, we must each of us recognize our responsibility to seek those words out, to read them and share them and examine them in their pertinence to our lives. That we not hide behind the mockeries of separations that have been imposed upon us and which so often we accept as our own: for instance "I can't possibly teach Black women's writing- their experience is so different from mine," yet how many years have you spent teaching Plato and Shakespeare and Proust? Or another: "She's a white woman and what could she possibly have to say to me?" Or, "she's a lesbian, what would my husband say, or my chairman?" Or again, "This woman writes of her sons and I have no children." And all the other endless ways in which we rob ourselves of ourselves and each other.”
― Audre Lorde, The Cancer Journals

“Maybe it’s the lingering pulse of the distant music or my own thundering heartbeat, but it’s like my sense of reasoning was peeled off along with my clothes. All I know from the raw hunger in my chest and wet desire sticky between my legs, is that I need her. It feels as if I don’t have those sinful lips pressed against me soon, there’ll be hell to pay.
“Take my mind off it then,” I say as I twist my fingers in her hair and tilt my body up towards the burning trails her fingers are tracing into my skin.
I can feel her smile against my neck. “With pleasure.”
― Jacki Sensal, The Sapphic Succubus: A Spicy Lesbian Fantasy

“Real, but sometimes beautiful," I said, aware that I was liking Annie's hand touching mine, but not thinking beyond that. "And that's like my world." Annie pointed up to the stars again. "Inaccessible." "Not," I said to her softly, "to unicorns. Nothing's inaccessible to unicorns. Not even--not even white birds." Annie smiled, as if more to herself than to me, and looked toward Manhattan again, the wind from the ferry's motion blowing her hair around her face. "And here we are," she said. "Liza and Annie, suspended in between." We stood there in the bow for the whole rest of the trip, watching the stars and the shore lights, and it was only when the ferry began to dock in Manhattan that we moved apart and dropped each other's hands. 7 Two days later, on Wednesday, Annie managed to get out of her school long enough at lunchtime to smuggle me into the cafeteria--a huge but shabby room as crowded as Penn Station or Grand Central at Christmas. While we were sitting there trying to hear what we were saying to each other, a tall gangling kid unfolded himself from his chair, took at least a foot of heavy chain out of his pocket, and started whirling it around his head, yelling something nobody paid any attention to. In fact, no one paid any attention to the boy himself either, except for a few people who moved out of range of the swinging chain. I couldn't believe it--I couldn't believe anyone would do that in the first place, and I also couldn't believe that if someone did, everyone would just ignore him. I guess I must have been staring, because Annie stopped in the middle of what she was saying and said, "You're wondering why that guy is swinging that chain, right?" "Right," I said, trying to be as casual about it as she was. "Nobody”
― Nancy Garden, Annie on My Mind

“I don't care who you love. If I have taught you anything, it is that life is fleeting and one of the only true joys is the love and family we find in a soulmate. How could you believe that something as insignificant as gender could invalidate that?”
― J.J. Arias, The Single Matchmaker

“And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently flow upon my cheek.”
― Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

“You’ve added another favor on your tab,” Czeha says, “and I’m not one to go into the negatives—I owe you.”
“Oh no,” I say as I lift my hands and wave them modestly, “not at all. I really am happy to help.”
“Stopping a mage from wrecking the tavern, cleaning up after a fight, and heck—you didn’t even get to drink that whiskey of yours, did you?”
“I suspect it might be on the floor by now.” I shrug playfully. “A shame, after such a great show pouring it. Although,” I hurry to add, “I’ll still pay for what I ordered, of course!”
“You’re kidding.” Czeha laughs. It’s a fun sound that has an exciting bite to it, almost as if it’s bordering on a bark. But it’s full of warmth in a way that sends a tendril of heat through me. “The tavern’s in your debt. And even if that wasn’t the case, I’m not gonna charge you for something you didn’t get to drink. Here.”
― Jacki Sensal, Gnoll Kidding: A Cozy Lesbian Monster Romance

“And I’m wondering: did it
hurt you the times I couldn’t let you touch me? I hope it didn’t.
You never showed it if it did. I think you knew it wasn’t you
I was keeping myself safe from.”
― Leslie Feinberg, Stone Butch Blues

“I pull my fingers through her in another loop, slightly closer to where I know she wants it most.
Sabri’s breath comes in rough pants near my forehead. Her grip on my shoulders is so tight that it hurts. I’m sure I’ll have bruises there tomorrow—and knowing they’ll be in the shape of her hands sends a bolt of something right to my core.
“Anya, please…”
“Still,” I say, teasing another light circle and she moans, desperation clinging to her voice. “Since it ended up with you writhing on my fingers so prettily, calling my name like this... I can't say I regret a thing.”
― Jacki Sensal, Stolen Kisses: A Steamy Enemies-to-Lovers Lesbian Fantasy

“Princess meets Princess. Happily Ever After Spins in my head.”
― Hayley Kiyoko

“I like America very much,' she said. I replied that I liked France very much. And, as our future collaboration proved, we meant it.”
― Sylvia Beach, Shakespeare and Company

“Before there were lesbians, there were butches. The masculine woman prowls the film set as an emblem of social upheaval and as a marker of sexual disorder. She wears the wrong clothes, expresses aberrant desires, and if often associated with clear markers of a distinctly phallic power.

She may carry a gun, smoke a cigar, wear leather, ride a motorbike; she may swagger, strut, boast, flirt with younger and more obviously feminine women; she often goes by a male moniker: Frankie, George, Willy, Micky, Eli, Nicky. She is tough and tragic, she was a tomboy, and she expresses a variety of masculinities.”
― Jack Halberstam, Female Masculinity

“I wept a tear here, Susie - on purpose for you - because this "sweet silver moon" smiles in on me and Vinnie, and then it goes so far before it gets to you...”
― Emily Dickinson, Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson's Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson

“Will you let me come dear Susie - looking just as I do, my dress soiled and worn, my grand old apron, and my hair - Oh Susie, time would fail me to enumerate my appearance, yet I love you just as dearly as if I was e'er so fine, so you wont care, will you?”
― Emily Dickinson, Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson's Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson

“I write from the Land of Violets, and from the Land of Spring...”
― Emily Dickinson, Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson's Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson

“I want to die as I lived, between your thighs.”
― Natalie Clifford Barney, Women Lovers, or The Third Woman

“Over thirty years ago, in a dark room on the Lower East Side of New York, a passing woman named Esther whispered to me, "Darling, raise your hips," and as I did, she slipped a pillow under me so that her lips and tongue could give me and her the pleasure we both sought. In that moment, this book was born.”
― Joan Nestle, The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader

“I must wait
a few Days
before seeing
you – You are
too momentous.

But remember
it is idolatry,
not indifference.”
― Emily Dickinson, Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson's Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson