by Sandy Lowe
I tried to concentrate on Dunham’s “Dead Terrorist” routine, but memories of Kirsti intruded. When the show was finally over, I picked up that album and tapped a picture. “Where’s Kirsti now? Do you ever hear from her?”
“Not since she ditched me just before heading to Boston.”
“She was an idiot.”
“No. She wasn’t. Kirsti realized I could never commit to her, and she had enough self-respect to walk away.” London drained her beer bottle, set it down with an emphatic thunk. Then she stared into my eyes, daring me to ask the obvious.
“What does that mean?”
“Kirsti knew I was hung up on someone else—and always had been. In the beginning, I guess she hoped that would change—maybe I did, too. Ultimately, we both concluded it wouldn’t.”
My heart was pounding, my stomach clenching. I looked away, afraid we were on the cusp of a revelation that would alter our friendship forever.
London touched my hand, then whispered, “Just because it’s good, Ali, doesn’t mean it’s bad. You don’t always have to choose a loser.”
There it was again: London’s uncanny ability to divine my every thought. Which pissed me off. “If you’re so smart, tell me what I’m thinking right now.”
It turned out that wasn’t even a challenge. London leaned in, her lips met mine, and suddenly I was swamped by a tidal wave of chemistry. I wrenched free, breathless and panicky. When I snatched up my bag, fumbled for my keys, London waited patiently. Then, inexplicably, every fear evaporated, and I couldn’t have said what I was running from. Because London was smart and funny and sexy. But most important, she was a true friend. She’d never hurt or humiliate me. And all at once I saw that I’d loved her forever. Goddamn! London was right again!
“I’m so dumb,” I moaned.
“Not,” she said, slipping my keys from my hand, dropping them in my purse. “You’re the best thing ever—just a tad distractible in the presence of shiny objects.”
“Maybe you could sharpen my focus.” I raised her hand to my breast.
She levered me off the futon and led me to her bedroom, which was scarcely more than an alcove, almost filled by an expansive bed. Like everything that London touched, the space was orderly and inviting. In place of a headboard, a vintage poster of Janis Joplin smiled down upon us. London nodded at the photo. “I think she’d approve.” And then she kissed me again. I’d thought Nicola Sevier knew her way around my libido, but London put the woman to shame.
I broke away to unfasten her shirt, then gazed in wonder at her matchless body. The gently defined musculature. The sweet, subtle curve of breast. Tufts of pale hair nestled in her armpits—a surprising discovery, and unexpectedly dear. Perhaps an homage to the wyldwomyn? And, oh! That softly rounded stomach sloping downward to an enticing unknown. Impetuous as always, I unzipped London’s Levi’s, stripped off my shirt, kicked out of my slacks.
We came together like lovers long separated, with a hunger that rocked us both. As I licked and lapped and sucked and thrust, London was reduced to words of one syllable:“Yes! Ali! That! You!”
And when she returned the favor, I could only cry, “More! Please! Now!”
We exhausted ourselves, then exhausted ourselves again. London’s final assault on my virtue triggered sensations unlike any I’d experienced. I was upside down, inside out, electric, melting, out-of-body, nothing but body, the very definition of ecstatic. When I finally regained my powers of speech, I said, “What in hell was that?”
She kissed my throat, tweaked a yearning nipple, blew in one ear before answering. “It’s called the butterfly rotation. Not to be confused with the singularity spiral. And we have yet to explore the tristeria phenomenon.”
“You’re making that up, right?”
London propped herself on one elbow and grinned down at me, her blue eyes sparkling. “I’mvery well read—and it’s amazing how much you can learn during downtime at the library.”
Which didn’t really answer my question. But I was certain that further research would clarify the matter. Pulling her closer, I said, “I’d love to be your study buddy, Ms. Woodruff.”
London rolled atop me. Slipping one thigh between my legs, she slid it rhythmically against my important parts. “The position is yours. Permanently.”
Black Out
Ronica Black
The raw, earthy scent draws me out to my patio despite it being after eleven and nearly pitch black. The power is out due to the storm, and I’d rather watch the water dance on the lake than watch a flame dance on a candle. I sit in a lounger, cross my bare feet, and stare into the glassy lake water, mussed by the smattering of the falling sky. Distant candlelight on other patios looks like hazy moons in the monsoon mist, and tethered boats make odd sounds as they sway against the docks. My neighbors are no doubt turning in for the night, or, like me, they are sitting and staring, enjoying a summer storm.
I sip the wine in my glass and cringe but drink it anyway. Writers are supposed to have vices, and I have yet to find one that fits. Still, I try to enjoy the occasional buzz it gives me. Tonight, however, I’m buzz free and razor sharp, senses on key, libido on fire. My large house is empty save my dog, who associates rain with a bath and avoids both at all costs. She’s looking at me through the window, a worried look on her face. I read somewhere that dogs live in the present. That they don’t feel fear and don’t worry. Bullshit.
She barks, ears back in alert. She stands and so do I, depositing my wineglass on the table. Thunder breaks and she goes crazy, running through the house. I step through the back door and nearly shiver at the cold remaining from the air conditioner. My skin is damp from the mist, and I catch the faint scent of Coppertone from my earlier excursion on the golf course. I need a long, cool shower and an hour or two at my laptop, but I’m procrastinating, one of three things I’m really good at.
Mama Jo is still barking as I move through the dim house. I find her at the front door, little butt wiggling. I shush her and look out the window. A woman is there, one I soon recognize as my neighbor, Cindy or Sidney, or something along those lines, blond hair wet and sticking to her tanned skin. I back away from the window and whisper at Mama Jo to be quiet. Cindy or Sidney? Cindy or Sidney? Fuck, I can’t remember. I’m terrible with names, great with faces. Just never good with both.
I think about pretending to be asleep or not at home. But she looks desperate and alone in the dark, and I can’t help but wonder what she wants. I’m nervous, not just because I’m unsure of her name, but because she’s gorgeous and I’ve been trying like hell to watch her from afar while remaining aloof. Ridiculous, I know, but she’s married with kids, and me, I’ve been known to be a right shit and not care about such things. Married straight women seem to be my specialty. And frankly, that is another one of the three things I’m very, very good at.
I unbolt the door, shooing Mama Jo back, and pull the door open. My neighbor wipes the water from her forehead and smiles, and things inside me begin to shoot off like fireworks.
“Hi, sorry to bother you. Sidney, from next door.” She motions toward her home, pushes back wet hair, and smooths down the front of her khaki shorts. Her T-shirt is white and soaked, and damn it if I can’t see her black lacy bra. Her nipples are thick and hard, showing her chill. I blink, try to fixate on the dark chocolate of her eyes, and try to control my insides. She continues, her nerves showing with her words. “I uh, well, I can’t seem to find a flashlight that works, and all my candles are up on this shelf in the closet and I can’t reach them even if I could see them.”
I hear her, it makes sense and computes, but I don’t move. Or speak. Mama Jo barks as if to wake me, and I jerk and force an embarrassed smile. I pull the door open farther and unlock the security door. “Of course, come on in. I’m sure I have one or two around here somewhere.”
She thanks me, laughs a little, and steps inside. She moves past me and I inhale her. She smells like a scented bath and her skin glistens as if it’s
been soaked in oil. I lock the door behind us and head for the living room, but she hesitates.
“Um, I can’t really see. I’m afraid I’m completely blind in the dark.”
I stop, turn, and before I know it, I’m taking her hand, which is warm and soft. It makes my skin flush with heat, and I swear I can hear her breath catch at the contact. I try to ignore it and busy myself making small talk as I lead her through my home. We come to the kitchen, where I have a single candle lit. I release her to dig through a cabinet where I find more candles and matches. I light another one on the counter, and the room comes alive with a soft glow. She smiles as if relieved, moves her gaze from mine, and sits at a bar stool.
“No fan of the dark?” I light another candle and place it on the coffee table in the adjoining living room. The house is now dancing and breathing with soft light. Mama Jo jumps on the couch and relaxes like my guest, puffing out a breath of air as she settles down.
“No, not at all.” She seems embarrassed. “Childhood fear, I’m afraid.”
I dig through my junk drawer, searching for a flashlight. Damn if I can find one.
“Where are your kids?” I can’t help but wonder. Her two small daughters are often attached to her hip. In fact, the only time I see them without her is when they are delivering cookies and casseroles to my front door, hopping up and down with excitement. Apparently, being single in a family neighborhood is cause for worry, and everyone equates it with near starvation.
“They’re with their dad tonight.” She’s staring into the candle as if it’s telling her story to her.
“Oh. Why didn’t you go?” I’m kneeling now, looking in the lower cabinet. I can’t see her, but I hear her intake of breath and hesitation.
“We’re, uh, separated now.”
I stop moving containers of cleaner around. How did I not notice this? And why is it making my heart beat faster now that I know?
“I’m sorry.” I don’t dare stand, for I’m absolutely sure she will see the raging desire building within me. For weeks I’ve watched her from a distance, saying hello whenever we meet. In the early morning, I run and she walks. On the road I drive my golf cart to run my errands and she passes me in her yellow convertible. On the golf course I drink with my buddies to help my terrible slice and she often smiles and waves as she plays behind us with her friends. On the water, I fly fish from my dock while she cruises slowly by in her boat, bikini top and surf shorts.
Just when I think I’m ahead of the curve and I know I’m purposely going to run into her, she surprises me by appearing before my planned moment. Now it’s the mailbox. She’s often sifting through her mail as I approach my box, key in hand, eyes squinting in the sun, taking a much-needed break from my writing corner. It seems she’s everywhere, and now she’s separated, and what’s worse, she’s in my house on a dark, rainy night.
I ignore the two flashlights I find in the cabinet and stand slowly. I glance at her, meet her quick gaze, and look away, but not before I’m once again moved by the angle of her jaw and the slash of her cheekbone. I know she is a photographer, but I wonder if anyone has ever photographed her. I don’t have a clue about cameras or lighting or anything remotely close to photography, but I damn well know I’d love to take her picture, blow it up, and hang it on my wall.
“Don’t be,” she eventually says. “It’s been a long time coming.”
I press my lips together, unsure what to say. I decide to lie about the flashlight but I don’t want to, afraid she’ll leave regardless.
“I have no idea where my flashlight is,” I say. “Probably in my car, and for sure the heat has drained the battery.”
She sighs. “That’s fine. Thanks for looking.”
“You’re welcome to as many candles as you need.” I have a dozen or so in the cabinet. And suddenly I’m concerned about my scented candle obsession. “I like my house to smell good.”
She laughs a little. “It does smell good.”
I cross to the candle cabinet and begin removing lids for her to smell. “I have all kinds.”
“Actually, if it’s okay with you…I’d prefer to hang out here.”
I turn, holding a candle that promises to smell like a thunderstorm. “Oh.”
She stands, walks to me, and takes the candle. She’s looking into my eyes, pulling me in like a magnet. “I don’t want to be alone.”
She holds the candle to her nose and inhales. “Mmm, I like that one. But I like the way you smell better.”
I find myself blinking in disbelief. I fight for breath while she returns to the stool and slides on. “There’s something about the smell of suntan lotion and sweat that gets to me. Just makes me want to lick it.”
I let out a noise of half laughter, half shock. She looks at me and smiles, but it’s different this time. It’s less friendly. Less innocent.
It’s hungry.
I move to my couch and sit. The pressure on my clit sends it throbbing, along with my heart. I shift, scoot back, and try to look casual. I cross my legs but my clit prevents it. Her words keep replaying in my mind, and I try to remember the last time anyone had their mouth on me.
“You don’t mind if I stay, do you?” She turns on the stool and stares me down. “I know it’s late, but I know you’re a bit of a night owl.”
I feel my eyebrows raise. “No, I don’t mind. I, uh, was just going to do some work, but honestly I’ve been putting it off.”
“You’re a writer,” she says. “Pamela told me.” Pamela lives on my other side, and she knows everything about everybody. It didn’t surprise me that she’d told Sidney about my profession.
“Yes.” I burn, knowing the next question. She is going to ask me what I write. To anyone else I can declare what I write, no problem. But to a beautiful woman, gay or straight, it isn’t as easy.
“You write lesbian romance,” she says, flooring me.
I rub my palms on my cotton shorts. “Mm-hmm.”
She nods. “Do you like it?” She fingers her shirt, makes a face like she’s uncomfortable.
“Yeah, it’s…I don’t know…”
“Fun?” She grins. “Can I take this off? I’m freezing.”
I nod, frozen. Then, manners taking over my libido, I rise to get her a dry one. “I have a few small ones that might fit you.” I head for the bedroom, heart pounding. What’s happening here? Is she flirting? Coming on to me? Does she know what she’s doing?
No, of course not. She just doesn’t realize that she’s not hanging out with a straight girlfriend. She’s not trying to get to me. To turn me on.
I rummage through my dresser drawer and find a small tee. I turn to return to the living room but I see her glowing with candlelight in my doorway. She’s holding a candle, wearing her black lace bra and matching panties. Her body is unbelievable. Tanned and toned. Petite but strong.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “But wet clothes are no fun.”
I hold out the T-shirt, speechless.
She enters the room. Places the candle on the dresser. Takes the shirt from my hands. She places it, too, on the dresser.
“For a writer, you don’t say very much.”
She reaches out, touches my face. I let out a shaky breath, breathe back in and then come alive.
“Sometimes words are useless.” I place my hands on her hips and tug her closer. There’s no mistaking it now. And I can’t stop the freight train of feelings rushing through my body even if I wanted to. She makes a noise of approval and collides into me. I meet her open mouth with mine and we devour one another like long-lost, starving beings. Our tongues seek and thrust and I can’t get enough of her, can’t pull her close enough. My fingers dig into her full ass and I lift her with her legs straddled around me. She moans, kisses me deeper, knots fingers in my hair, and grinds her hot crotch against my abdomen. She’s hungry for it, begging for release.
I take her to the bed, push her onto her back. Her legs cling to me and she’s thrusting as if she can’t
help herself, wanting me to fuck her.
“Please,” she says. “I want you so bad.” She runs her hand down her body and rubs herself through the fabric of her panties. “I’ve never…Please touch me. Oh God, I feel like I’m going to explode.”
I push her hand away, remove my own shirt, and lower to kiss her deeply. I press my body against her aching flesh and tease her with the pressure. She moans into me and I throw my head back and cry out as she runs her nails down my bare back.
“Don’t toy with me,” she says. “I can’t take it.”
She releases the grip of her legs and lightly kicks me away. Then she scrambles back on the bed, lies on a pillow, and spreads her legs.
“I know you want this,” she says. “I see you watching me while trying so hard not to.”
She runs her hand down to her panties again. “Come put your mouth on me.” Her fingers tug the lace aside and I can see how pink and slick she is in the dancing light. “Make me come. Make me come so hard.”
I feel my mouth salivate and I crawl unto the bed. I kiss her thigh, moving up slowly. Impatient, she tugs on my hair and digs nails into my shoulder.
“Fucking do it,” she says, and her demand goes right to my clit and I nearly come in my shorts.
I lick up her inner thigh and snake my tongue into the peeking flesh, sending her bucking. I withdraw, wrap my fingers around her panties, and yank them down and off. She’s panting now and playing with herself. Her dark eyes are flashing with desire and her abdominal muscles are tensing.