by Radclyffe
“Sad, to be all alone like that,” she says. “Goes to show, though, doesn’t it? I mean, my mum’s always on at me to find a man and get married, but she did all that and still ended up alone.”
“Oh, not you too? That’s mums for you. S’pose I’ll be the same one day, pestering Billy to give me grandkids!” We both laugh, and I put the dressing on her cut. Slowly, so I don’t have to let go of her hand too soon. Daft, really.
“So which gym do you go to?” she asks, not pulling her hand away or anything.
“Just the sports centre one. They do a special rate if you’re on benefits.” I flush. “I mean, VJ gives me what he can, but it’s not enough to live on, and by the time you’ve paid for child care...”
She’s still smiling. “I know, believe me. And anyway, what’s the point of working just to pay someone else to look after your kid? He’d rather have you, wouldn’t he? And who could blame him?” I’m sure she just means because I’m his mum, though her voice is soft as she says it, and she gazes into my eyes like it could mean something more.
There’s a knock on the door, even though we left it open. “Ellen? The ambulance is here,” the male constable calls.
“I’d better go,” she says as our hands slide apart. I’d like to think there’s regret in her eyes. They’re pale grey, and beautiful like the rest of her. “Thanks for patching me up.”
Next Friday Mrs. MacReady still hasn’t come back to her flat, and I wonder if she ever will. I hope she doesn’t hate me for calling the police. I’ve been in that flat, with its bare floorboards and crumpled newspapers. I know all she had left was her independence.
I go to the gym as usual, and it does the trick, like it always does. I don’t know if it’s the exercise or MTV, but when I’m in there it’s like another world: no worries, just thoughts. I think about Ellen, but it’s not a sad kind of longing like it has been all week, just a gentle happiness that I ever met her.
And then I see her. She walks in like a dancer, all cool and sporty in her Nike pants and vest top, so slender they drape as much as they cling. She smiles when she sees me on the exercise bike, and comes over to say hello. I’m horribly conscious of my faded breast cancer T-shirt and the saggy jogging bottoms I got for two quid down the market.
“Hi, Carla! I thought I’d give this place a try—my gym costs a fortune, and it’s not all that great. Maybe we could have a coffee, afterwards?”
I pant out a yes, and she smiles again and goes off to the elliptical. It’s dead ahead of me, and as she moves I can see her hips outlined, see that lovely heart shape of her bum. Her arms are pale, like the rest of her, and a little muscled, but still soft-looking.
I do an extra ten minutes on the bike without even noticing.
I’m just wondering how much longer I can string out my usual routine without making it obvious when she comes over. She still looks as cool as a spring morning, even with her face a little pink from the exercise and beads of sweat on her chest. I try not to stare at those. I must look a right state, all red-faced and panting.
“I’m ready for my shower, now—are you nearly done?” she asks, like she doesn’t know.
“Yeah, I think I’ll call it a day too,” I say, and we walk down to the changing rooms together.
My breathing isn’t getting any slower, and it’s nothing to do with how fit I’m not.
I wonder how she managed to get a locker so close to mine. Maybe it’s luck. Maybe someone up there does give a fart about me after all. We park our bags on the same bench, hers all smart and with a label, mine a battered old knock-off that’s falling to pieces but still just about doing the job.
“You know, I like it here,” Ellen says, pulling off her top. “Think I might get a membership.”
She’s got lovely breasts, I see as she struggles out of her sports bra. Small and perfect, with the prettiest pink nipples you ever saw. Me, I have to stand well back when I take my bra off so I don’t take her eye out with one of my big bazoombas. Stretch marks on them too, not that anyone’s got close enough to notice in a good long while.
“You know, when I was at school I’d have killed for a bustline like yours,” she says.
“We should’ve traded bodies,” I tell her. “I always hated everyone looking at my chest.”
“Can’t blame them, though, can you?” She pulls off her Nike pants and the thong beneath, and I can’t think of anything to say. She’s so beautiful. So pale and willowy, like a dryad or a naiad from the stories my mum used to tell me when I was little. The hair at her crotch is darker, like ginger snaps. I wonder if she tastes as sweet.
She smiles. “I’m just dying for a shower, aren’t you?”
And she grabs her towel and a couple of bottles, and pads off to the showers in her bare feet, and I just stand there with my tits out, open-mouthed.
Then I finally get my arse in gear and follow her.
She orders a latte in the cafe afterwards, and I have a cappuccino. “Have you heard anything about Mrs. MacReady?” I ask her, because it’s been preying on my mind.
Ellen nods. “’Fraid so. She won’t be going back to the flat. They’ll find her a home. I’ll let you know where.”
“Thanks. I’d like to visit her.” If it’s not on the bus routes, maybe VJ would give me a lift, instead of to the gym on a Friday. “She’s not really got anyone else.” I’d like to spoon up the chocolaty froth from my cappuccino, but I don’t want Ellen to think I’ve got no manners. Then I catch her watching me playing with my spoon with a wicked look in her eye, and I do it anyway. Her smile makes my stomach flutter.
“I think she’s like us,” I say. “Mrs. MacReady. I mean, she’s never said so, but she told me once she only got married because she wanted kids. And then she never had any. How bloody awful is that?”
“Things are better now,” Ellen says, picking up her spoon and a packet of sugar. “We’ve got choices she never had.”
“What’s it like, being a policewoman?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Oh, I dunno. What’s it like being a mum?”
“It’s brilliant,” I tell her. “Best thing I ever did. Don’t know what I’d do without my Billy, even if he can be a bit of a so-and-so sometimes. It’s just—you know how relationships, sometimes they don’t last? But your kid, he’s yours for keeps.” I go a bit red, I think. “I don’t usually go on about it like this, though.”
Her eyes seem to sparkle. “You should do it more often, then.” She stirs her coffee, then takes out the spoon and holds my gaze as she gives it a lick before putting it on the saucer. “I always knew it’d be either the police or the army for me. Decided in the end I wasn’t sure if I could actually kill anyone, if it came down to it, so the police it was.”
“I bet your family is proud of you.” I don’t mean it to come out a bit wistful.
She just smiles again. “Oh, you know families. Never satisfied. So, you and Billy’s dad, how did that happen?”
It usually hurts, when anyone asks that. And it’s not that it doesn’t now, but somehow, this time it’s more like I’m feeling the memory of it, rather than the pain itself. “I never meant to be a single mum. I was in a relationship, had been for a couple of years, when I started trying for a baby. But when I miscarried, she couldn’t deal with it. It was like she thought it was a judgment on us, or something.” Or maybe she just wanted an excuse. “But when she left, I still wanted a baby. And that’s when VJ said look, there’s not much chance he’d be having a kid any other way, why didn’t we have one together?”
“So you did. It must have been hard.” Her hand brushes mine.
“Worth it, though,” I say, and then I have to take a sip of my coffee because my throat’s gone dry.
Ellen tells me she’s got the day off, so we spend it together. Daft stuff, like walking through the park and getting ice creams. She likes vanilla, I’ve always gone for chocolate. They’re a good mix, together. When we get back to mine she asks if she can come in. I wish I’d tidie
d up but it’s not like she hasn’t seen the mess before. There’s an old film on BBC2 so we sit down to watch it, but halfway through she slides her arm around my shoulders. I don’t mean to make so much of it, but when I turn in surprise it just seems natural to kiss her.
She tastes sweet, and her lips are cool and soft as ice cream. I kiss her again, worried she’s going to melt away from me. Her hand comes up to cup my boob, and it’s like there’s a direct line sending the tingles straight down to my crotch. I’m wet for her already. I shuffle closer on the sofa, and she throws a leg over mine so she’s sitting on my lap, the film forgotten and her hand still kneading my boob. I push up her T-shirt. Her skin’s like velvet, with steel underneath. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone this badly.
Ellen breaks the kiss to lean back and tear off her T-shirt. I wish I had the courage to do the same but I’m not like her. I’m not beautiful, me.
Ellen does it for me, and then she undoes my bra and kisses my boobs like they’re something special. “You’re lovely,” she says, so sweetly, so breathily I almost believe her. I can’t speak, so I unhook her bra and set those perfect breasts free. Her nipples pucker and harden, so I tongue them gently to encourage them. She gasps and arches her back. Then she climbs right off me to undo her jeans and slide them down those slender hips.
I never knew what a turn-on it could be to have a beautiful, naked woman on my lap while I’m still half-dressed. From the waist down I’m perfectly respectable, at least to the naked eye, although from the waist up I’m a wanton slut. I grab her bottom, kneading the cheeks and pulling them apart.
“How long have we got?” she asks, her voice rough.
I look at the clock and work it out. Takes a bit longer than usual. “Couple of hours yet, before VJ brings Billy back.”
“Then take me to bed.”
“You go first,” I say. I want to look at her as she walks, all fluid motion wrapped up in smooth, creamy skin. There’s a tattoo of a rose on her left cheek, where only a lover would see it. I brush it lightly with my fingertips as she walks, and she shivers.
“I want to see all of you,” she says when we get there, her hands on my hips and sliding up to my boobs. I undo my jeans and push them off awkwardly. At least I’ve got decent undies on. I never wear my worst ones when I go to the gym.
“Take those off too,” she says. “I’m busy.”
She is, too, kneading my boobs and brushing her thumbs over my nipples, making them stand out proud. I step out of my damp knickers and she drops to her knees, kissing her way all down my belly. My legs shiver as she nuzzles into my crotch. “Lie down,” I tell her.
“Only if you do too.” She smiles and stands up, putting her arms around my waist. We kiss again, all tongues and hands, and climb onto the bed, still kissing.
I slither down, about to go down on her.
“No,” she says. “Come back, I want to see your breasts.”
So I use my hand on her, and she plays with my boobs, licking and sucking and biting them as she gets close. She feels like molten gold around my fingers, and when she comes she arches her back and cries like a cat. I stroke her as she comes down from it. I still can’t believe she’s here with me.
“Your turn,” she says, and kisses her way all down me, her face still flushed and her eyes bright as diamonds. She’s got a wicked tongue on her, Ellen has. It teases as much as it pleasures, keeping me on the edge so long I think I’m going to die. When I fall, I shatter, but she’s there to pick me up again and hold me.
Afterwards, we lie together on the sheets, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun, the duvet thrown to the floor. Ellen’s head is on my shoulder and one hand’s just playing with my boob.
“Going to miss these when you leave?” I ask. It doesn’t come out as light as I’d hoped.
“I’m going to dream of these, love,” she says with a smile in her voice. “Mind you keep them safe until I come round again. When can I come round again?”
Any time, day or night, but I’m not so daft as to say it. Well, maybe I am, at that. “Come whenever you can,” I say.
Ellen sighs into my breast. “Wish I could say tomorrow, but I’m on lates. Shift work’s a sod.”
“I’m a mum, remember?” I say, pulling her closer. “I’m used to broken nights. Come when you can.”
I feel her smile against my skin, and I close my eyes on the sunlight streaming through the curtains, making the dust motes dance and sparkle for joy.
June’s never blazed so bright.
LEAVING
Angela Vitale
She’s the James Dean of women, cut long and lean, muscular, her words so often an understatement, her attitude so boldly owning the world. She’s stepping down from my doorstep, tipping her hat, leaving. Of course, I have told her to leave, and I don’t want her to go.
I bite my lip, the mixture of contradiction strong. The sky behind her is darkening down, the last flush of cerulean blue turning to cobalt on the horizon, just enough to outline her taut stance, her boi hips loose, turning away.
I, too, turn, and then steal a glance at her exiting my arched gate. I am angry to feel the fight of her in me. I fight the urge to finalize the torment of her leaving. Instead, I pick up my phone.
Moving down the hall toward my bedroom, I hear her phone ring out my window, with my ring tone, just as she opens the Chevy door. I can see her truck’s shape through my fence boards.
“Hey…” she answers, her voice low and rough.
“T, close the door. Come around the back of your truck.” I wait, watch her feet lumber, move and plant. “Climb up in the flatbed, T.” She’s moving so slowly, it looks like she’s on a tranquilizer. I wonder if it is because she is sad she is leaving.
“Look over the fence, I have something to show you,” I announce.
“Oh shit.” Her voice drops on shit. “Your neighbors are gonna bust me.”
“T,” I call out. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
I watch her shape shift through my horizontal wide wood window blinds. She grabs a branch of the elm tree to pull herself up.
I angle the shade of the bedside light to shine on me inside the house like a spotlight. I set the phone down. I trace my fingers up over my hair and down the sides of my dress. I push my breasts up and together into their closest resemblance to a double-D. I pull them apart and catch a nipple between my fingers, then roll the tip deliberately between my forefinger and thumb. I let out a low, loud gasp.
“Shit, Ang.” Her voice rolls low and hushed from the receiver. I lift the hem of my dress, pulling it up in grades, enjoying it in my fists, knotting them, twirling them so that the hem rises slowly up the long thickening contour of my thighs. I turn, my back to her, and bend, lift my dress above the curve of my cheeks.
“I don’t think I was done with you, T,” I purr into the speakerphone. “I have to leave you with this.” I lift my dress from my body. It catches over my head, blocking my eyes. I turn against the windowpane. I feel the breeze hush across my breasts, her gaze like a muscle on the wind.
I toss the dress. It’s a tiny, flimsy thing. I press one of the twins to the cold, hard glass, smashed to the surface like a lens, the light searing around it, a halo. I push myself back from the glass and fall on the bed in the classic XX mud-flap pose, displaying my profile, back arched, one knee lifted, breasts bare and high. I flirt my legs and give them a playful kick. I hold position. Flirt. Kick. Then pivoting, I face her, and spread my proud legs into a wide-open V. I am exposed, every inch of me lit. I’m enjoying it. I trace my fingers from the arch of each foot up the inside of each leg. Tipping my V sideways, I fold one arm through a contortionist move, my upper arm tucked under my inner thigh, my thigh high on my shoulder and circling back around far enough for my hand to give one solid smack to my butt. Punctuation. I blow her my sexiest, final kiss. Then I fold my legs and turn over and turn out the light. In the dark, I lean back and press a pillow over my eyes and mouth as if to sti
fle the desire that hides in me. I push another pillow between my legs... I am going to have to make peace with solitude. I roll over and moan. I push the silence, fabric and loft until it covers and drowns my sensation.
When I get up to get a glass of water, I smell her cologne, that clean scent on the wind. Sure I am imagining it, I am shocked when I turn the corner and smack into her in the hall. She grabs me around the waist and I scream. “You’re gonna get it.” Her voice is a playful, low, confident threat, threaded with that cold undercurrent that confounds safety, that mixes up warmth with danger. I turn around and run. She catches me. Our lips find each other with their rough hunger.
The hall is dark, dimly lit only by streetlights. She pins my hand and pushes me to the wall, pulls my hips toward her and leans into them squarely. She’s hung, and I feel the push of it. My feet climb and push against the opposite wall, straddling her. She pushes her weight into me, covers me and presses my back up.
“I’m not finished with you,” she rumbles, and the top of her hand lifts into my pussy while the other begins to pull loose the five-button latch on her jeans. In my creamy wetness, like a fruit, she frees her sex and pushes herself into me in the hall. The thrusting contrast of hard and soft is driving me crazy, her thumb moving in slow, round, wet circles on my clitoris. I come quickly, collapsing in her arms, and she holds me a moment.
When I catch my breath and stop crying, she grasps my wrist roughly, tenderly, and pulls me down the hall. She pushes me toward my room and folds me face-down over the bed, my legs still right-angled to the ground. There’s a ferocity to her now. From the toy chest, she is fixing something larger into her harness, the tension of her wrist changing as it holds me, her other arm moving. I push back against her.