by Radclyffe
Then, when we’d cleared all the way to the still unplowed road and worked up a fine sweat, Lea climbed up onto the back of the truck and surveyed the enclosed expanse of virgin white. “Snow angel time,” she announced.
“There isn’t room to spread your arms,” I pointed out, but she just grinned and started unzipping her jacket.
“Okay, snow demon, then, if you’re going to be picky.” Off came jacket, shirt, bra; I watched in awe as she dropped even her trousers and flopped forward into the soft snow, arms curved upward and hands curling out from the top of her head like little crescent horns.
“Terrific!” I said, applauding. “How long do you want to stay there? Incidentally, I hear the plow coming.”
“Help!” she spluttered through a mouthful of snow.
I managed to get her up without damaging too much of the very interesting impression she’d made in the snow; even her cold-puckered nipples had left clear dents. Then I half-dragged, half-carried her into the house and dumped her on the futon just as the plow approached. While she struggled to kick off her boots and pants and pull up the blankets, I grabbed the pan of thickened maple syrup still hot on the edge of the stove.
Sugar on snow is a classic tradition in northern New England. I knew just what newly-imprinted snow I could use as a mold.
When I came back inside with my sweet creations, Lea rolled around in helpless laughter once she realized what I’d done.
“You can have one of these if you want it.” I held out the plate. “Haven’t you sometimes kinda wished you could suck on your own tit?” I bent to lick one sweet, vaguely breast-shaped treat.
She eyed the rubbery forms beginning to lose definition in the warm air. “That wouldn’t be my first choice. But if I’m not going to get a better offer, I’ll fend for myself.” She tossed off the blankets and arched her body upwards. Before I could get rid of the plate and follow my impulse to lay a trail of sticky kisses from her tender belly to her cunt, she had pulled up her pants and rolled off the bed.
“Wait a minute,” I pleaded. “You can have anything you want!”
“What I want now is lunch,” she said, rooting around on my pantry shelves and choosing a few cans. “Don’t interrupt while I’m in domestic mode.”
My major hunger was situated well south of my stomach, but I cleaned off the syrup with snow water as well as I could and kept out of her way. She was still shirtless; I enjoyed the scenery, the brisk grace of arms and hands, the subtle movements of naked breasts.
The savory aroma of her concoction reminded me that I’d used a lot of energy shoveling. Food might not be all that bad an idea. I consumed my share of a soup somewhere between chili and minestrone, and then asked, hopefully, “Apricots for dessert?”
Lea glanced down at herself. A faint flush spread across her skin as her nipples hardened into exquisitely tempting tongue-candy, but she pushed away from the table and grabbed a shirt.
“That,” she said, “might be better by firelight. And anyway, there’s still snow to clear, where the plow shoved it into the driveway.” She scooped up her boots and shirt and headed toward the door, slipping her hand briefly but effectively between my thighs as she passed. “Plenty of time to build up tension.”
So she was planning to stay at least another night. My tension hit levels even shoveling couldn’t release.
The plow had left a huge bank of snow across the driveway. We cleared away most of it, leaving a narrow strip along the road by mutual consent to signify that we were still “snowed in.” Then there were other paths to be cleared, to the woodpile and toolshed, and looming mounds to be raked from the eaves of the house. Finally, after consulting with my knees and deciding that a little more wouldn’t make much difference, I strapped on snowshoes and went along the ski trail for a mile or so to check for fallen trees—and to give Lea a chance to rest.
When I came back through the dusk, lights were visible down the river valley. My nearest neighbors, at least, had their electricity back, and my house must have it too. I figured Lea would be cooking in the kitchen now, free to use the modest amenities of modern life it offered, but she was still tending to a kettle on the woodstove. The cabin was lit only by the fire and an oil lamp I always kept handy on the mantle. I could see that the electric wall clock was running and had been reset, so Lea must be deliberately prolonging our adventure.
The soft light made the room seem all the warmer, more intimate, although Lea’s presence cast the warmest glow. Something spicy was cooking, and there was still a lingering scent of maple syrup. Or—wasn’t that the syrup pan heating again on the edge of the stove?
“What are we having?” I asked, trying to warm my frosty hands by the fire before daring to touch Lea.
“You’ll see, when it’s ready,” she said, “but first you’ll have to earn it by providing an appetizer.”
“I’m all for that!” I leaned close to kiss her, and she responded with enthusiasm, but broke off too soon.
“That’s fine, but not all I had in mind. You’ll have to forage for it.” She handed me the jacket I’d just hung on a peg by the door. “Bring me a basin of the whitest, most pristine snow.”
I grinned, snatched another kiss, and got right to it. Her general plan was clear, although she’d certainly aroused my curiosity as to just how it was going to take shape.
Lea stood for a moment, long-handled pan in hand, surveying the smooth white surface I’d provided. “Y’know,” she said thoughtfully, “some folks say the only thing men can do that women can’t is to write their names in the snow standing up. Although you certainly wouldn’t want to eat that yellowed snow afterward.” With deft, swift movements she poured out a thin stream of hot syrup in curving lines. The heart shape was only slightly lopsided, and the names “Kit” and “Lea” within were clearly distinguishable to an eye eager to see them.
“It’s too beautiful to lift out and eat,” I said in awe.
“You’re right,” Lea agreed. “And that wasn’t my original plan, anyway. How about taking it out on the porch and letting it freeze? And then you can bring me some fresh snow.”
I returned in minutes, warmed by a tingle of anticipation—and stopped in further awe. Lea waited, entirely naked, with the lamp dimmed and the firelight caressing her body.
You didn’t think you were going to get off without some very chilly personal contact, did you, Kit?” she said, trying to sound severe. “Put your hand in it. No, not there! In the snow!”
So I did, without flinching, and held it there, fingers spread, until Lea pulled me away. Silently, steadily, she poured a thick stream of amber syrup into the mold I had left.
“Now,” she said, “you may warm your hand anywhere you’d like—aagh!” Her voice rose at least an octave as I took her up on the offer. She tightened her warm thighs around my fingers, though, even while she reached into the basin of snow to lift out the congealed shape there and raise it to her lips.
“So sweet...” She tasted each distinct finger before drawing it all over chin and throat and breasts, and lower. I sucked at her irresistible lips until she urged my mouth down the sticky trail, all the way to the truest, warmest sweetness, eager to flow.
Dessert came first that night, and the next night, too, complete with the savoring of apricots. Lea had to leave eventually, to tend to the other aspects of her life, but in a month, when the maple sap was rising, she was back to sample a new crop of syrup.
Soon summer will be on us, with wild strawberries ripening in clearings along the trails, followed by raspberries and then blackberries. I’m sure we’ll think of some way to incorporate the tangy intensity of their flavor with our own; but nothing will ever warm me more than sugar on snow.
MÉLANGE
Allison Wonderland
If she’s dead, I’m going to kill her.
My fingers tug at the telephone coil, winding the coral-colored cord around my hand like a bandage. I stare at the rows of buttons and digits and letters and listen
to the insufferable drone of the dial tone.
I can’t call Irene’s boss, because the fabric store has been closed for three hours.
I can’t call the community center where Irene takes a ceramics class on Wednesdays, because today is Sunday.
I can’t call the police, because even though I miss Irene, my missing her doesn’t necessarily mean that Irene is a missing person.
I can’t call Irene, because she is trapped in a time warp and doesn’t own a cell phone. I don’t believe in them, she asserts, as if denouncing a deity.
Replacing the receiver in its cradle, I slump to the couch and begin to thumb through the rolodex of worst-case scenarios. This is standard procedure. Rarely are people optimistic when they don’t know the whereabouts of a loved one. No one ever says, Oh, I’m sure she’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about. At least not sincerely. Instead, they become perturbed and petrified and panic-stricken.
This is probably how my parents felt every time I (dis)missed my curfew as a teenager. I think I will apologize the next time I see them.
Damn it. Where is she?
Why didn’t she leave a note? She always leaves a note. She should have left a note. She should have left a note where she always leaves a note: in washable marker on the skin of a banana.
I heard that snicker. I snickered, too, the first few times. But once I adjusted, once I learned to decipher her one-note missives, they didn’t seem so silly anymore.
Every morning, without fail, I eat a banana for breakfast, so she knows that I’ll get the message. And, she reasons, since I’m going to discard the peel anyway, it’s an ingenious way to preserve trees and the money that doesn’t grow on them.
Here’s how it works. If Irene writes a number on the peel, like a five or a seven or a nine, that means she will be home by five or seven or nine o’clock. If she writes a word on the peel, like milk or tampons or deodorant, that means we have run out of milk or tampons or deodorant and that she has gone to the store to get what we have run out of. Once, Irene wrote the word lube on the peel, and I was dismayed when I found out that she intended the lube for her bicycle and not for our bedroom.
I get up off the couch and trudge into the kitchen, pausing when I reach the wastebasket. I pluck the peel from the trash and peer at the shiny yellow surface. But there is neither a number nor a word. There is only an oval-shaped sticker of a woman with an enormous basket of fruit strapped to her noggin.
As I drop the peel back into the basket, I catch sight of my nails, nibbled down to the nub. Irene used to scold me for this, eventually breaking me of the habit. I had been in remission for seven months until my relapse this evening.
Damn you, Irene. What am I going to do without you?
There is something intrinsically selfish about the loss of a loved one, whether that loss is real or feared. How will I live without her? How will I cope with my loss? Everyone else in Irene’s life, even her life itself, seems secondary, incidental, to the anguish that I will feel if I lose her.
I return to the couch, accidentally sweeping the TV remote to the floor as I tuck my legs underneath me.
Irene didn’t really care for television. She only watched a few select shows.
Didn’t? Watched?
The resurgence of Worst-case Scenario Syndrome. I’m already thinking about her in the past tense, reminiscing as if I’m writing the first draft of her eulogy.
I’ve known Irene for seven years and lived with her for three. We met at the fabric store where she works. Irene says that even though I took up with her, I wasn’t exactly taken with her. And she’s right, I wasn’t. When I approached the counter with a bolt of glittery blue organza, Irene waved her scissors at me and stretched her face into an absurdly broad smile.
As she sliced the fabric, I scrutinized her appearance. She wore slacks that were identical in color to a glass of orange juice and a sweater she had no doubt swiped from the closet of Heathcliff Huxtable. Her accessories consisted of silver thimbles suspended from her earlobes and glasses with chunky cheetah print frames and a slew of smiley-face stickers affixed to their stems. I’m trying to scare away all the superficial people, Irene informed me as she handed over the fabric—and her phone number. A test, she confessed later, to determine if I were really as shallow as I seemed.
A smile twitches at my lips. There are so many things about Irene that I would miss. I would miss her eyes, with their voluminous shape and turquoise irises. I would miss her body, with its sugar cookie skin, creamy and comely. I would miss the way her clothes mingle with mine in the hamper. And the way her lashes graze my cheek when she gives me butterfly kisses. And the way her Star of David becomes entangled in my hair when she hugs me, which hurts, but it prolongs our embrace, so it’s worth it. And—
“I’m home!”
I spring from the couch and careen around the corner like a speeding car. My socks skid across the waxed hardwood, and I crash right into her, knocking us both to the floor.
“You take that welcome mat very seriously, don’t you?” Irene quips. “Well, you’ve certainly got my vote for homecoming queen.”
I inhale her words, with their sweet scent of butterscotch, and make no attempt to get up.
“Sorry I’m late. I kind of dozed off at the bookstore. I guess now I can say that I’ve slept with Dorothy Allison.” She laughs, seemingly content to stay sprawled on the floor. “Anyway, I know I should’ve called, but…well, I would’ve if I could’ve, but I couldn’t, so…I didn’t. But I did ask the saleslady—the one who I bought the book from, because of course I had to buy it now that I got caught sleeping with it—anyway, I asked her to write me a note, and she just looked at me like…I don’t know, like I was a few encyclopedias short of a full set or something. So, no note, but you trust me implicitly, so…no worries.”
I stare at her, unblinking, undecided about whether I want to kill her or kiss her but slowly leaning toward the latter.
“Are you okay?” she asks, concern coloring her voice. “You didn’t throw your back out, did you?” She studies my face, her eyes oscillating like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.
“What happened to the banana?” I want to know.
“What? Oh. I was feeling spontaneous this morning,” she shares, “so I wrote the note on the bathroom mirror instead, after I took a shower, when it was all steamed up. I guess by the time you got up”—she shrugs—“it had already evaporated.”
I lift my hand, bring my finger to her lips, outline the ellipses of her mouth. “If you were dead, I was going to kill you,” I confess.
She giggles and coils her arms around my neck. “You worry so much,” Irene says, and it isn’t a complaint or a reproach. It is simply a statement of fact.
I continue to gaze at her. This mélange of wit and wile and whimsy. Our lips unite, motivated by instinct and impulse.
I feel a familiar warmth diffusing through my body, surging through the labyrinth of nerves and veins and arteries, before returning to its place of origin.
My heart.
PLACE, PARK, SCENE, DARK
Elspeth Potter
After I broke up with Angie, sometimes women would hit on me. I’d tell the truth: “Sorry, can’t. Werewolf.”
Only tonight, instead of the answers I’d gotten used to (“Freak!” or “What the hell is your problem?”), she smiled and slid onto the stool next to me. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” She was too femme, like a model in a magazine. Her sleek Asian skin looked like she exfoliated every five minutes. Her hair hung to her butt, black like used motor oil; she wore slut-red lipstick, slick and shiny as patent leather, that matched her miniskirt and snug jacket. Her knee-high boots, also red, had heels that could poke out an eye.
She crossed her legs and I glimpsed inner thigh, creamy as ice cream. I licked my lips. Apparently, tonight femme could be my type. She asked, “What kind of a werewolf?”
I swigged my beer to hide surprise. The kind who wished someone would
bite her and put her out of her misery. I said, “The biting kind.”
“Really,” she purred, leaning forward. Her jacket gaped, of course. She wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. I could see the upper slope of tits, a bit of rounded shoulder where it curved into her delicate neck, and that hard line of collarbone that always makes me want to trace it between finger and thumb. She smelled like leather and pussy, and I’m not kidding about how I could smell her. Hell, I could’ve told you how she tasted from her smell. In a couple of days, when I Changed, I would’ve been able to pick her out by smell at the New York Pride Parade.
Ms. Femme looked like she could smell me, too. She said, “I like it rough.”
“Where’d you get your dialogue, a porn movie?” I asked, looking away from her collarbone and then trying not to look at her ass. “You’re bothering me, little girl.”
She smiled, slow and dangerous. “I’m here to bother you. I’m Xia,” she said. “Hong Xia. You can have that as a present. You’re Ellery Carver. Your old friend Angie said you needed me to tie you down and”—she leaned forward again and breathed into my ear—“fuck your little bitchy brains out.”
If I hadn’t sworn off killing, I would have killed Angie. Didn’t she remember this was our anniversary? Of the last time. Or did only pitiful fuckers like me remember things like that? “Sorry,” I said. I tossed a ten on the bar and thumped my glass on top. I reached for my jacket.
Before I could straighten up, a lot of warm woman stretched against my back. Xia’s thigh lifted and rubbed the side of my leg. I could feel her flex through my jeans. Exfoliating obviously didn’t hurt her muscles.
She said, “Don’t be a spoilsport. The moon’s two days from being full, babycakes. It’s safe. Let’s go to the park and play.” She pinched my ass hard enough to hurt.
The pinch did it. I don’t like games, but at least I knew Xia wasn’t afraid, and it had been a long time, because even when I masturbated I remembered that last horrible time and what I’d done to Angie. I pulled away from Xia’s grip, shrugged into my denim jacket, and plunged my hands into my pockets. “In the grass,” I said, half-hoping she would refuse.