by Sandy Lowe
“So,” I say, when we separate, “if I said ‘Desire me,’ you’d know I wasn’t talking about that Greer Garson movie, right?”
Yvette answers with a smug mug that gives her more face value than any of those ballsy big-screen broads. “Listen, Greer, I know I’m down and out, but are you down for going out with me?” She tops off the invitation with a kiss to the top of my hand. “See, now that’s how you live from hand to mouth,” she reveals, fingers fondling the skin where her lipstick made me a marked woman.
When taken together, our laughter sounds a lot like a humoresque.
Better that than a torch song.
Best to accept her invitation. “Yvette, I am absolutely down for going out with you. I’ve always wanted to pursue a relationship with a chum who makes the bum in My Man Godfrey look like a gazillionaire.”
Yvette regards me as though I’m a few frames shorts of a film reel. I much prefer her gaze when it’s Mildred Piercing.
“Sorry. Was that in poor taste?”
“Yes,” she answers, draping her arms around me like a stole. “Fortunately, I can’t say the same for your kisses.”
*
“The purpose of a man may be to love a woman, but the purpose of a woman is to love a mandarin orange.” So saying, I cast a couple of cans into Yvette’s cart. “Hey, can we watch The Women again tonight? I always get so much inspiration from that scene where Paulette Goddard says to Norma Shearer, ‘You should have licked that girl where she licked you.’”
“Who’s the needy one now?” Yvette challenges, but her face is already redder than the handle of her shopping cart. “Bette Davis vows never to be below the title; you promise always to go below the belt.”
“Yet I still get top billing in your life,” I counter, and follow her to the one at the front of the pantry.
“Underprivileged girl under privileged girl,” Yvette quips, removing a cup of whipped yogurt from her cart. “We’re equals, Greer, remember? I shouldn’t be beneath you.”
“Oh, make like Norma’s noggin in Marie Antoinette and knock it off, would you? Besides, that’s your position, Yvette. Mine is that being with you is a privilege.”
“Right,” she returns, and at first I think she’s correcting me. But one look at the abundance of pride in her eyes tells me she’s actually in total agreement. A ripple of desire, reminiscent of the thirties ’do dubbed finger waves, undulates under my skin. Who knew concurring could be so alluring?
But then, nobody ever could resist the allure of the girl next door, could they?
I extend my hand for her next item. But this time, Yvette’s not giving—she’s taking.
I treasure the warm look in her eyes as she replies, “I see your hand out and I accept.”
So here we are, on the cusp of the credits, a couple of film lovers who are starting where others would end and forsaking all others for a pocketful of miracles.
And maybe one day, if I’m not getting too far ahead of myself, a catered affair of the vow-exchanging variety.
Bette Davis promised us all this, and heaven too.
And you’d better believe aisle be Bette—well, ready—for anything.
Kiss Cam
Lisa Moreau
I’m not stupid. Suze isn’t walking into Staples Center with a huge smile on her face because of me. The smile is for the courtside seat tickets clutched in my sweaty palm. Suze loves the Sparks, LA’s women’s professional basketball team. Me, I couldn’t care less about sports or a stadium filled with 90 percent lesbians. I only have eyes for Suze. That should be a love song, if it isn’t already. So when the LGBT Center had a Sparks raffle, I dished out five hundred big ones. It was for a good cause, and I do mean more than trying to get my ex back. Did I forget to mention Suze is my ex? We, or rather she, broke up six months ago, but we stayed friends. At the time, she said she needed “space,” which doesn’t make a whole lotta sense considering we’ve seen each other every day and nothing’s changed except that we’re not having sex. So the way I figure it, all we need to do is kiss and make up, and we’ll be back to where we were six months ago. And that’s where my friend, Miko, who runs the Staples Center Kiss Cam, comes in. They point the camera at two unsuspecting spectators and flash the video on a humongous screen with everyone whooping and hollering for them to kiss. Some are embarrassed, while others really go for it, but essentially everyone kisses the person they’re paired with since the audience is so relentless. See, what Suze doesn’t know is, Miko will point the camera at us, which will result in a lip-lock that’ll set us both on fire. Yeah, I thought it was a genius idea, too.
“Wow, courtside seats. How much did you say you paid for the raffle ticket, babe?” We still call each other babe. See what I mean? We’re practically a couple, aside from the physical stuff. Suze sits in a folding chair with me beside her. Seems like they’d have something nicer than flimsy outdoor Ikea furniture on courtside. Guess I was picturing something like first class with waiters bringing us cool towels and chocolate sundaes. But I’m too excited to complain.
“Five hundred dollars.” I puff out my chest when Suze’s eyes get big. “It was for a good cause.” I furrow my brow, hoping she doesn’t ask what that is, ’cause for the life of me I can’t remember at the moment. But she doesn’t. She’s too busy gawking at her favorite player, Linda, or Leslie, or something, one of the tall gals over there bouncing the ball.
I rest my arm on the back of Suze’s chair, almost touching her muscular shoulders but not quite, and lean in. “Do you want something from the concession stand before the game starts?”
She turns and almost swipes my nose with hers we’re so close. “A Sprite would be nice.”
“You sure you don’t want something with caffeine?” I wince the moment it’s out of my mouth. Why would I want her to partake in a stimulant unless it’s to stay awake all night having torrid sex? But her mind doesn’t go there.
“I like Sprite. Thanks, babe.” She squeezes my knee and shoots me a wink. Man, I’m ready for that Kiss Cam, like right now.
Standing in the ultra-long line waiting to get the Sprite, I wonder why Suze broke up with me. It’s not like I hadn’t already thought about that every single day for the past six months, but I still don’t get it. Honestly, she did say more than needing “space.” There was something about passion, or lack thereof. Admittedly, the sex was…just okay. If I were an Olympic judge I’d have to give us a 5.0, which isn’t bad but wouldn’t win any medals. I read in Cosmo once that the most important organ in sexual arousal is the brain, and considering I’ve never had an erotic thought in my life, I’m probably the one that’s keeping us from winning the gold. If I couldn’t turn Suze on when we were together, what makes me think I can do it now?
I get back to our seats, feeling a little down, and hand Suze the Sprite. The game has already started and some chick is now sitting next to me―too close for my taste―so I scoot my folding chair closer to Suze, which doesn’t help much since we’re packed in like sardines. I give the girl a raised eyebrow look, hoping she gets my telepathic message to move over. She doesn’t. Instead, she’s trying to rip open a package with her teeth, gnawing and growling like a dog with a bone. It’s pretty funny to watch, ’cause she doesn’t look like the type who’d use her teeth for anything other than politely chewing with her mouth closed. She’s the complete opposite of Suze. On one side of me is an androgynous, sporty girl (that would be Suze), and on the other is someone who looks like she just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel.
I keep watching, since she’s way more interesting than the game, and gasp a little when she finally rips open the package and pulls out a gargantuan pickle. This thing is huge. You know, the kind that’s been sitting in a vessel on the counter of a restaurant for twenty years because no one in their right mind would ever try to eat anything that big. Immediately, I hold my nose because the stench is horrendous. Pickle girl is going to totally ruin it for me. Thanks to her, the place smells like a hamburger jo
int. Not exactly the romantic setting I’m going for.
So I’m expecting to see her take a teeny-weeny bite out of the green monster—barely making a dent in the thing—but instead, she holds it with both hands, shoves the tip into her mouth, and bites down hard, pickle juice oozing down her arm. After chomping and swallowing, she slips the pickle between her lips, lightly scraping it against her teeth before taking another big bite. As much as I want to tear my eyes away, I just can’t. It’s like watching a train wreck. You don’t wanna look, but you just have to. And then she does something really weird. She stops chewing, turns her head, and jabs the pickle in my face, like she’s asking if I want a bite. Before I can give her one of my you-must-be-insane looks, I get distracted by her eyes. They’re sorta light gray, but with a greenish gold tint. If the color was in a paint store, it’d probably have an exotic name like Secret Rendezvous or Mysterious Tweed or something. Suddenly, her eyes go soft, eyebrows slightly draw together, and she blinks several times with freakishly long eyelashes. This sorta worried look flashes across her face when I don’t respond, which makes me feel kinda bad, so I scrunch my nose and shake my head. She shrugs, turns around, and takes another chomp on the thing. This girl is so captivated by that pickle, I don’t even think she came here for the Sparks.
Finally, I peel my gaze away and get my head back in the game―the Kiss Cam game, not the basketball one. Excitement ripples down my spine when I look at the scoreboard. It’s almost second quarter, and that’s when they do it. I rub my hands together and pucker my lips. Things are looking up, especially since pickle girl decides she’s had enough and stuffs the half-eaten monster back into the bag, which helps to eliminate the nauseating scent. She slumps and pats her stomach, looking like she might barf. I watch her out of my peripheral vision in case I need to take cover from pickle vomit when suddenly she sits up, grabs a bag under her chair, and pulls out some wet wipes. I hadn’t noticed until now how lovely her hands are. It strikes me as odd that “Iovely” comes to mind since it’s not my typical repartee when describing someone, but that’s what they are, with smooth, pale skin and long, delicate fingers. If she’s a lesbian, I bet those long fingers come in handy. My mouth goes dry and my jaw drops a bit when I can’t help but imagine those fingers thrusting deep into wet folds, stroking in and out slowly. I cross my legs and squeeze my thighs together hard.
She takes one of the wet wipes, with those long fingers, and glides it across her mouth several times. Then she slightly parts full lips, which are moist and a little red from the towel contact. Instinctively, I lick my lips and wonder if she’s a sensual kisser. She certainly has the perfect mouth for it. In fact, she might have the sexiest mouth I’ve ever seen. I take a quick glance at Suze for comparison. Don’t get me wrong, I love kissing Suze, but her lips are a bit on the thin side. I look back at pickle girl’s mouth just as she’s slowly running her tongue over her top lip. I groan, maybe a little too loud, since she looks directly at me with a slight grin on her face. She reaches over, places one finger underneath my chin, and pushes upward, which causes my gaping mouth to close. I blink fast three times in a row and swallow hard.
My heart lurches when the second quarter buzzer sounds, the Kiss Cam just moments away. I jerk toward Suze when she stands up and stretches.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
She leans down and whispers, “I gotta pee.”
“No!” I realize how forceful that sounds, so I add, softly, “Wait a few minutes. It’ll be too crowded right now.”
When the song “Kiss Me” blares over the loud speakers, my stomach clinches with anticipation, excitement.
“Oh, I love when they do this.” Suze sits back down.
The camera pans to an elderly lesbian couple. Surprise lights up their faces right before they laugh and give each other a quick peck. Everyone says, “Aww.” The next victims are a straight couple. The guy takes his cap off and holds it up as he, supposedly, kisses his girlfriend. Spectators heckle the couple with boos from the hidden kiss. Tough crowd, but I don’t need to worry about that. Suze and I are about to put on a show.
My heart stops when I see myself on the gigantic TV screen. The crowd goes wild yelling, “Kiss her! Kiss her!” Just as I’m about to grab Suze, I do a double take. The picture is all wrong. I’m there, but in the place of Suze is pickle girl. I look at Suze, pickle girl, and then back at the screen. It takes a second to sink in.
Miko is a moron! She’s met Suze at least a dozen times. She looks nothing like pickle girl. Well, what am I supposed to do now? I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to mysterious tweed eyes. Pickle girl slightly shrugs and cocks her head as if to say, “You wanna?” The crowd is getting louder, meaner. This could get ugly. I raise an eyebrow and tilt my head as though to say, “I’m supposed to kiss that girl behind me, but I guess we better just get this over with before people start throwing hot dogs at us.”
My heart pounds out of my chest when I stare at pickle girl’s sexy mouth. The thought of kissing her makes my head hot, woozy. She slightly parts her moist, red lips, and I moan a little at the sight of the tip of her tongue. My gaze jumps to her half-closed eyes, which are teeming with passion, like she’s turned on before even touching me. As she leans closer, I feel her warm breath on my lips, one hand on my thigh and another on the back of my neck. When she’s two centimeters away, she waits…and waits…for three excruciating seconds before finally claiming my mouth. Oh wow. The music, chants, spectators, everything disappears except for her soft lips. Her fingernails dig into my thigh when our tongues touch. I find it odd that she doesn’t taste like pickles, but instead sweetness caresses my taste buds. The hand on the back of my neck pulls me closer, deepening our kiss. I want―no, I need―to feel her body against mine, so I wrap my arms around her waist and press my breasts against hers. God, she feels so soft, and she fits into my body perfectly, like a puzzle piece. Shivers cascade down my spine when she runs her hands through my hair as her lips move against mine. I’m keenly aware that the wetness between my legs is increasing and my insides are pounding to the beat of the muffled music. I can’t remember being so turned on by a kiss before.
Suddenly, a forceful tug pulls us apart. Instantly, I miss the feel of her mouth against mine. We’re both breathless, faces flushed, lips tingling, staring at each other. The music and spectator chants fade back into focus just as something yanks me around. Suze. She looks at me with a “what the fuck” expression. Instead of punching me, though, she interlaces our fingers and raises my hand to her lips. After kissing me softly she lays our clasped hands in her lap and pushes her chair closer to mine. I guess seeing me kiss another woman is all it took for Suze to want me again. Had I known that, I’d have smooched someone six months ago.
I have an insatiable desire to turn around and look at pickle girl. When Suze tears her eyes from mine, I take a peek, and what I see breaks my heart. Pickle girl’s beautiful mysterious tweed eyes are filled with sadness. I want to take my thumb and wipe the worried crease from her forehead. I want to stroke her cheek and ask what she’s thinking, feeling. She looks at our joined hands for several seconds before she stares straight ahead, pain etched across her face. My heart aches a little. Suze squeezes my hand and excitedly points at the TV screen. It takes a second to comprehend what I’m seeing. Miko must have realized her mistake, because Suze and I are on the Kiss Cam and everyone is yelling for us to make out. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. And it’s even better than I’d planned because Suze looks like she can’t wait for me to ravish her. So what am I waiting for? Isn’t Suze everything I’ve ever wanted? Why do I feel like my mind is pulling me one direction, but my heart another?
My body stiffens when I feel a soft tap on my shoulder. It takes me a moment to realize what that tap means, but when I do, excitement bubbles in my solar plexus. I break out in a wide smile, jerk my head around, and kiss pickle girl in a way that makes me giddy. We break apart ’cause it’s too hard to kiss when we�
��re both smiling so much. I love the sweet look she gives me and the way her eyes sparkle with delight. She grabs the big pickle and places the tip of it to my mouth. It slips between my lips, and when I bite down, sweetness touches my tongue. As I chew slowly, never taking my eyes off her, I know without a doubt this is the best pickle I’ve ever had.
The Girl Next Door
Beth Burnett
I really hated the girl next door. She was such a stereotypical California girl, tall, and slender, and blond, and so stupidly perfect. No matter what time I’d go outside to drink my coffee on the porch, it seemed I would always see her. She’d be bouncing through her yard pulling weeds in her little sundress with a pink bandana tied artfully around her long hair or getting ready to go for a run in a perfectly coordinated jogging outfit with matching shoes. The sight of her always made me reach for an extra doughnut.
The day she moved in, my roommate Sam came bursting through my bedroom door full of excitement. “Did you see the new girl next door? She’s hot.”
I took off my headphones and sat up. “Yeah? What’s she look like?”
“Blond, perfect. Like a swimsuit model.”
I shut her down, uninterested. So not my type.
I confirmed it the first time I saw her. I couldn’t believe my roommate was still interested in that cookie-cutter stereotype. I’d dated enough of them to know that they are all high-maintenance gold diggers who would stomp all over your heart as soon as you stopped trying to placate their every need. No thanks.
She was always waving at me and smiling. I’d give her a smirk and a half wave back, you know, the kind that says, “Don’t come over and talk to me.”
Sam was always talking about how nice she was. Apparently she loved puppies and hiking and Jane Austen. Of course she did. Sam had a history of dating wildly inappropriate, generally straight women who were looking to see how the other half lived. Sam never had trouble picking up women because she looked like James Dean would if he had been a butch lesbian instead of a dude. It was all well and good for her. When we went out to a club, the femmes would flock around her in a frenzy of barely controlled excitement.