by Ana Good
Storm Waters sprawled atop a stack of fluorescent hippie pillows on the floor of the group therapy room. Sullen, she studied the steel-toe tips of her khaki commando boots. She was happily stuffed with pancakes and maple syrup, but pissed that she had to attend a group. The schedule sheet she’d been given at breakfast stated that every day would begin and end with a group.
Yucko.
Storm hated groups. Of all kinds. She hated teams, too, unless she was the captain. She loved being a war correspondent because all the candy-assed freaks who enjoyed playing boss were way too scared to go into battle.
Alone on the battlefield. God, how she loved that.
“Do you have trust issues?” asked Babe, who was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the group, looking painfully empathic.
Storm shrugged as she brushed the ebony bangs back from her brilliant blue eyes. “No problem. I’ve been clear on that issue since grade school. People ought not be trusted. To think otherwise is insane.”
“I don’t think that,” countered Betty as she smoothed her frizzed hair. “In fact, I think only collective action will free us.”
Dylan leaned over to Wee Gee and whispered, “I think someone ought to tell her she needs to iron that hair.”
Babe spoke up: “Dylan, would you like to say something to Betty? To the group?”
Dylan stretched across two pillows, her knees poking playfully through her ripped black jeans. “Yes, I would.” She turned to face her nemesis. “1972 called and wants that hair back.”
The group broke into howling laughter. It took Babe several minutes to calm them. She eyed Dylan sternly. “You have to speak to each other with respect. It’s a rule. Always treat each other with respect.”
Dylan shrugged. “I’ll try.”
“Now try talking to Betty again. Try an apology.”
Dylan smirked.
“Dylan …?”
“Okay! Okay!”
Dylan turned to face Betty, who was drawn up into one very ugly hulk. “I’m sorry.”
Betty deflated. “Apology accepted, sister.”
Babe nodded. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Actually, thought Dylan, it had been damned hard. Like swallowing a lump of horseshit, but she needed this place to sign off on her treatment papers, either that or face prison for the felony assault charges on that art review bitch.
“We’re all sisters,” said Betty. “And to show my point, I wish to apologize to Dylan. I have said some very unpleasant things about her Big Pink Pussy and I want her to know that while I may disagree with her politically, I still think of her as my sister.”
“Thanks,” mumbled Dylan. “Ditto.” Like swallowing horse shit again.
Storm leaned back and listened as the group went on to discuss trust. Maybe she ought to trust people, but the trust thing had never quite worked for her. Her father had abandoned her at birth. At the age of five, her mother had said she was taking her to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal then dumped her, still hungry, at the social services department in Oakland, California. When, at the age of thirteen, she’d come out as a lezzie to her Republican foster family in the Valley, they’d returned her to social services, complaining she was a freak.
You could trust people, sure, but brother oh brother, get ready for some serious heartbreak.
Noticing how quiet Storm had become, Poppy scooted close to her. “Seen you on the telly.” She popped her gum. “Caught my eye.”
“Excuse me?”
“The telly. Television, as you Yanks say. Never knew you were a lesbo.”
“Well, I am.”
“Single?”
“Very, it seems.”
“You up for some fun?”
Storm’s eyebrows shot up. “Like?”
“Later. After group. Kitchen pantry.”
Babe cleared her throat. “Poppy, did you have something to share with the group about trust?”
“Yeah. I trusted my old mum and she sent me here.”
“You don’t know why?”
“I got wasted and torched my fuck-buddy’s house.”
“You don’t see that as a problem.”
“She cheated on me.”
“So?”
“With a bloke.”
“So?”
“I trusted her.”
Silence.
“Anyone care to say anything to Poppy about that?” Babe turned to the snowboarding twins, who’d been quiet the entire group.
Dirk cleared her throat. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Never trust a chick. Especially a naked one.”
Babe sighed. “Does anyone in this group other than Betty trust anyone?”
Not a soul raised her hand.
13. Packed Pants
After group came an hour of “private time.” The women scattered to their respective rooms. Dr. Candice Antwerp, who’d remained mute throughout group, approached the twins. She’d been admiring their physiques all morning. Even Brad Pitt didn’t have an ass like those twins did, and that was after he’d invested a hundred thousand in what could only be termed strategically placed butt pads.
Candice sidled up to Dirk, who was setting a sock cap on her head, getting ready to go outside and catch some air in a snowboarding practice session with her sister. The twins had stepped into a pair of matching red snow pants with black racing stripes down each leg.
“Can I touch it?” asked Candice as she glanced admirably at Dirk’s ass.
Dirk twisted her head around. “I guess. Sure. If you want.” Dirk had never had a girl ask before. She felt flattered. True, she and her sister had taken designer steroids for the last two years, but a lot of what they had packed into their pants was the real thing. They exercised five hours a day. A lot of Dirk’s ass was hard won. Snowboarders needed strong butt muscles. It took a robust butt to finesse that half-pipe.
“Silicone?” asked Dr. Antwerp as she fingered first Dirk’s posterior, then her sister’s.
“Huh?”
“Implants? Have you girls had any implants?”
Dirk reddened. “Not there, no ma’am.”
Candice straightened. “Where?”
“Dirk,” her sister cautioned. “We can’t talk about that. Our agent said we can’t talk about that, not after that thing in Aspen with that Australian chick.”
Dirk shook her head. “Uh, she’s right, ma’am. We gotta practice now. Catch ya later.”
Candice was left at the farmhouse door, intrigued about where the twins might have had fleshy endowments added. If she were their surgeon, she could think of a few places …
Bunny Van Randolph appeared at Candice’s elbow. “I know.”
“Pardon?”
“Where Dirk has, er, added a little something special for us ladies.” Bunny rolled her eyes. “She nailed me last night.”
“Where?”
“In my bed. On the floor. In the shower.”
“No,” said Candice, obviously irritated. “I mean, where has Dirk added endowments?”
“No way,” mewed Bunny. “A lady never speaks of her sexual adventures. You’ll just have to discover what’s so special about Dirk all on your own.”
After the twins had disappeared over the hillside with their snowboards, Nan Goldberg decided to take a walk. Alone. The snow outside looked deep. Luckily the old gals had a pile of wooden snowshoes oiled and ready to go sitting at the back door of the farmhouse. Knowing she ought to ask someone to be her buddy — the rules they had been given that morning demanded they buddy up if they went outside — Nan decided she’d rather go solo.
All the women of Sugarbush seemed fine to her. No more crazy than your average roomful of overachieving career-drunk lesbos. But she really wanted to be alone. Not so much for her soul as for her lungs. She was dying for a cigarette.
Babe appeared at Nan’s elbow by the back door. She touched her arm in an empathic manner. “Need alone time?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I understand, dear. Don’t go too far, though,
okay? Things live in those woods. And take a buddy with you, just to be safe.”
Nan seriously doubted that anything scarier than the SEC review board or Betty Frump on a bad hair day lurked in those shadowy woods. And she definitely was not in any mood to buddy-up. She strapped on the snowshoes and thumped across the wooden kitchen floor feeling like Bozo the Clown on crack. She arrived at the back door and jumped out into the sugary snow, which was almost a foot deep.
Her lungs sucked in the freezing air. A relief. Not sure where to go, she spotted a ramshackle gray barn across the field and decided to hike for it. Once inside the barn, she reasoned, she could sit and enjoy a smoke.
Also, if her cell worked she’d give Birge a call. They weren’t supposed to have outside contact for a week. But Nan missed her partner; more so, in fact, than she missed cigarettes. Birge was her anchor. And at the moment Nan was feeling very much adrift.
Keeping her eye on the barn in the distance, Nan propelled herself forward on the giant webbed shoes. Her ski poles dug into the sugary snow helping her to keep balanced while falling forward toward her destination.
Out of breath, she traipsed into the barn and plopped down on a high pile of hay. It was warmer in the barn than outside. She kept her snowshoes on, uncertain how to release them. She sat with her legs far apart, admiring her huge snow-clad feet.
Walking in snowshoes had turned out to be fun. Maybe she’d do it every day just for the hell of it. She’d worked so hard her entire life she’d forgotten about fun. Bond brokers weren’t fun; lesbian bond brokers in particular were a snore-fest.
Nan pulled off her fuzzy angora mittens with her teeth and dug her cell phone out of the back pocket of her L. L. Bean snow pants. She hit the speed dial for Birge and was happy as a clam when the woman answered.
Birge yawned. “Hi, honey. Funny you should call. I was dreaming we were retired, living in Florida, one of those retirement villages like the ones my parents are holed up in.”
“That wasn’t a dream,” said Nan as she stuck a cigarette in her mouth and inhaled deeply. “That was a nightmare.”
Birge laughed. “The odd part was that Lauren Bacall was there and she was lounging on a chaise poolside, coming on to me.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if Lauren Bacall comes to town.”
Nan laughed. She wanted to hear more from Birge. Reassurances. Words of love. But something had just popped up in the hay. Something large and brown with hunks of hair hanging off its humpy backside. The thing snorted. It smiled, showing big cheesy teeth that boasted of an apparent lack of a dental plan.
“Nice moose,” purred Nan. “Good boy.”
The moose, however, seemed miffed that Nan had fallen into his bed. Winkle was up on all legs charging Nan in a matter of seconds.
“Crap!” said Nan as she pocketed her cell, and shuffled on snowshoes like a drunken goose toward the farmhouse.
14. Out of the Closet — Into the Pantry
Storm eyed the paint-splattered pine door that led to a recessed nook under the kitchen stairs. She wasn’t sure this door led to the pantry, but it was the only door she could find other than the back door that led into the yard.
And the door under the stairs looked like it had been left open a crack. Suggestive, to say the least.
Poppy — what the hell kind of name was that for a lesbian? — had asked Storm to meet her in the kitchen pantry. Storm had assumed Poppy wanted a friendly fuck; at least she hoped so. Several days without prescription opioids had left the war correspondent wired, eager to burn energy in any legal way. Poppy was young, but certainly over twenty-one. At the moment that was sufficient fuck-buddy criteria for Storm.
Sex always made Storm edgy. It made her juices flow the same weird way that popping across a battlefield got her energized. Storm felt having sex with a woman was more dangerous than crawling across a battlefield. War had rules of engagement. A semblance of order. Nothing could, in Storm’s estimation, be less predictable, and therefore more dangerous, than two women intertwined in utter nakedness.
Her heart pounding with anticipation, Storm creaked open the pantry door. She could see the shadowy suggestion of vegetable bins along the far wall: apples, potatoes, and an assortment of odd root vegetables jutted from the bins. Aprons hung on brass hooks along the bead-board interior.
Oh wait. She was deep into the dark pantry now. She couldn’t see anything, but she did feel something.
Lips, soft as heated velvet, slid along the back of her neck.
Shivers danced up Storm’s spine.
“Blimey, I thought you’d never get here.”
Storm took the lead, slipping her tongue into Poppy’s soft, warm mouth. Feeling bold, she slid her hand up under the pop star’s lacy white teddy. Her clit throbbed as she felt Poppy’s nipples harden under her thumbs. Storm preferred women with small breasts. Poppy’s breasts were teacup sized, very responsive. Perfect. Unable to control herself, Storm began flicking her tongue across the pebble-hard nipples before teasing one taut bud between her teeth.
Eager for more, Poppy unbuckled Storm’s fatigues. She slid her hand sideways through the sharp metal teeth of the zipper and cupped the war correspondent’s mound. “Got something for me, baby?” Poppy purred in her delicious English accent.
“Not yet, you little tart,” rasped Storm in her deepest voice as she pulled Poppy’s hand out of her pants and rezipped. “Work for it.”
Poppy fell to her knees.
Things were reaching a frenzy when a slice of light fell across the two women. Storm had her shirt off, but was still wearing her unbuckled fatigues and her combat boots. Poppy was on her back, up against a crate of McIntosh apples, naked from the waist up, her nipples as purple as mauve roses.
Storm turned and squinted into the light.
Something hulked there. Large. Wavering. With hair like tumbleweed.
Betty Frump, who’d entered the pantry looking for a safe place to light up her portable mini bong, dropped her flashlight on Storm’s head and screamed.
Storm scrambled to pull up her fatigues. She grabbed the vegetable bin to get her balance but the thing came loose from the wall, raining potatoes on the mostly naked and writhing Poppy.
Hearing the clatter, Babe ran downstairs and flung open the pantry door. Storm waved Babe away with one hand as she scrambled to pull on her scoop-necked T-shirt.
Poppy pulled a pair of large sweet potatoes over her breasts.
Babe turned to face the horror-stricken Frump, who’d had enough presence of mind to squirrel away her mini bong in a fanny pack hidden under the outer layer of her caftan when she heard Babe trounce down the stairs.
“And what were you doing?” Babe asked Frump. “Watching?”
* * *
Afternoon group began with silence.
Wee Gee studied the glum faces. “I took a nap,” she whispered to Poppy. “I miss something?”
Babe began the group. “Can anyone tell me why we’re not supposed to have sex with each other?”
Storm’s cheeks reddened. She hated being called on the carpet. But at least Babe wasn’t pointing a finger directly at her. Besides, Bunny and Dirk had broken that rule first.
Wee Gee spoke up. “Who had sex? Someone have sex while old Wee Gee was sleeping?” Her gaze spun around the circle looking for a guilty face. Or two.
Dirk shrugged. “Not me.”
“Me neither,” said Thumper. “Me and Dirk were outside, practicing our wheelies.”
Nan shook her head. “Don’t look at me. That moose tried, but I gave her a slip. Besides, I’m happily married. Monogamous. Old. Satisfied.”
“Not me, girls,” said Bunny, who’d brought her manicure kit to group and was busy buffing her cuticles. “I mean, Dirk and I had a tumble last night, but that was before I knew there was a rule. I’ve been very good since.” She smiled at Dirk, who averted her gaze.
No one gave Betty an accusatory look.
“Oh for chrissake
!” cried Storm. “It was me! Okay?”
Poppy rolled her eyes as she twirled at a clutch of rainbow beads that hung on her chest like a breastplate. “Me too, I guess.”
Babe nodded. “It’s good you two are confessing.”
Storm was on her feet. “It’s not a confession. You asked, I’m telling. It was me. In the pantry. With Poppy. I barely got to second base. No one got screwed.”
Betty held up a hand.
“What? What is it?” Storm grumped as she plopped down on some pillows and grabbed a foam bat she desperately wanted to use to club Frump.
“Women don’t screw each other.”
Poppy: “Oh, love, I think you’ve got that wrong. I mean, let’s just say I’ve been around the mulberry bush a time or two and I was in that pantry and I’m pretty sure Storm was about to screw me. Right, Storm?”
Storm rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand, flipping back her dark bangs. “Like I said, no one got screwed. The Lesbian Thought Police interrupted.”
Everyone stared at Frump.
Frump looked alarmed. “What? I wasn’t watching. Really, I wasn’t. I heard a noise and I was worried someone might need help.”
“Who’d you think might be in that pantry?” sneered Storm. “The Taliban?”
Poppy snickered.
“Okay! Enough ladies,” said Babe. “I need an answer to my question. Why the no-sex rule?”
Poppy chewed on a fingernail.
Wee Gee held up her hand. “Because some of us have sex addictions. We shouldn’t have sex while we’re here because we’re very vulnerable.”
“And?” asked Babe.
Wee Gee heaved a sigh. “Sex distracts from the work at hand. We need to stay present. Sex creates a false intimacy. It makes us feel we know each other when in fact we do not. Sex is a drug.”
Babe nodded. “Precisely. Now, does everyone think they can keep their panties on?”
Everyone murmured yes.
Everyone except Dr. Candice Antwerp, who was busy studying Dirk, still wondering about those hidden enhancements.
15. Pumping Iron
By the end of the first day, Babe was exhausted. She lay next to Lily in their massive cherry sleigh bed and moaned.