Dancing With Venus

by Roscoe James

  She watched Marci hop around laughing pulling her boots off. When Marci's hand fell on Jessie's waist to keep from falling over, Jessie's breath caught. She could smell her. Her hair. Her skin. The perfume that was Marci.

  “Done.” Marci's hand didn't come off Jessie's hip.

  Jessie knew she had to say it. She wanted to say it. But something cold and hard in her gut, something she'd been carrying around with her as long as she could remember, stopped her. When Marci's smile wilted and her hand pulled away, Jessie looked down and added quickly, “And that shirt. Hell, you'd scare the damn cows dry with a thing like that on.”

  Marci stared. Her eyes were damp, and Jessie saw a quiver in her lip. After a few more seconds, Marci's hands came up, and she grabbed the top snap of her shirt. She looked Jessie in the eye defiantly and said, “I told you I'd do anything for you. Will you do the same for me?”

  For you. With you. To you.

  Jessie pushed Marci back against the utility pole, and they kissed. Not a greeting. Not a friendly acknowledgment. Not some goofy air kiss you see in European movies. They kissed a kiss reserved only for a select few. A lover's kiss. Her hands wandered Marci's body, and she pulled the two of them into an embrace.

  “I'm sorry, Marci. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I just… It was just… I was scared. What I felt, it scared the shit out of me. You know me. I'm the psycho woman. When I get scared there's no telling what I might do. I'm so sorry. You don't know—” Jessie fought not to cry.

  “Hey, hey, hey. Shhhh. It's okay.” Marci kissed Jessie's forehead and ran her hands across Jessie's back. “It was my fault. I pushed too hard. I wanted you and didn't know how to get you. There wasn't time. I couldn't stand being in the same room with you at night and not being able to touch you. To hold you. Just curl up around you and listen to you breathe.”

  “But—”

  The employee entrance opened, and Jessie let go of Marci and jumped away. She didn't look to see who it was. She bent and picked up her things and took another step away from Marci. A busboy walked around them and dumped two garbage bags into the Dumpster.

  “Hey, you're that singer. You sure were—” The kid looked at Marci's bare feet, then looked at Jessie. “Well, anyway, you were great tonight.”

  “Thanks, kid.” Jessie sniffed, and the kid walked on by and went back into the bar.

  “I'm sorry, Marci, but this is all—”

  “That's okay, Jessie.” Marci hugged her and clung to her in spite of the sound of a car door slamming somewhere in the parking lot. “That was a little too public even for me. I've got a car. Let's get out of here.”

  * * *

  Jessie stepped out of the shower and trapped her wet hair on top of her head with a towel. She stopped at the mirror and wiped the sweat off the glass. She wasn't looking for courage. She wanted to look at herself. She wanted to look at the woman who would love another woman. She followed the lines of her face and stopped at her eyes.

  In spite of her apparent bravado, she felt apprehension nag. Not about the decision to be a willing participant in their imminent tango of passion and sighs. The dance had been requested, and the music was already playing softly in her head. The name of the song was Marci, and Jessie had been humming the haunting refrain since their first kiss back in Memphis. Her concerns lay out of sight. On a more subtle plane.

  Will I do this right? Can I make her feel physically as good as I feel spiritually? Will spirit follow body? Will devastating delights lead to more than just a pounding heart and bated breath?

  Jessie reached for another towel to cover the nakedness of her body. Her fingers lingered, then slipped away empty. She turned off the bathroom light and stood in the doorway. She felt as if she floated from the cavernous darkness of the bathroom to the dim light of her hotel room like a ship launched on night tide to discover the New World.

  The colors of her room, worn pastels and damaged splashes of coral green, seemed warmer, brighter. The light of a single bedside lamp glowed in muted amber, inviting her to come closer. A moth to the flame.

  The New World was waiting for her.

  Jessie chanced a glance. A Greek goddess lay naked on her bed, body stretched out, eyes never releasing her own. She chanced more than a glance and openly perused the deep valleys, languid plains, and soft mountains of the New World.

  “Jessie…”

  The world is indeed flat. And covered in a gaudy floral patterned bedspread. Jessie smiled.

  “Jessie.” Marci's soft whisper finally found its way into Jessie's head. She knelt on the edge of the mattress and gave offering to the smooth deep pool of Marci's belly button.

  “Yes?” She kissed the dimple a second time and moved on.

  “I… You… I've never been looked at like that. I just wanted to know…”

  Jessie kissed the side of Marci's breast and breathed deep the pure clean air that was Marci.

  “You've never been looked at like that by me before.” A tug and the towel on her head fell into the abyss at the edge of their world. She kissed Marci's jumping pulse and licked from shoulder to ear. “Maybe I've never looked at anyone like that before.”

  “I like that thought.” Marci pulled Jessie into her arms, and they explored the possibility of kissing with teasing licks and languid bites until Marci whispered, “If you kiss me I think I'll die.”

  “If I don't kiss you I know I will,” Jessie whispered back.

  The warm, pleasant points where Jessie's skin touched Marci's grew as she settled onto the naked body of the object of her desire. Her knee pushed into the soft skin of Marci's thighs until they yielded.

  A chorus of longing sighs surrounded their kiss. Marci ran her hand through the wet tangle of Jessie's hair and trapped her. When Marci let go, Jessie abandoned lips for chin and followed that to Marci's neck. She kissed her way between the warm, soft flesh of Marci's breasts and returned to the place she'd first set foot onto her New World. She licked and lavished the deep dimple until Marci's fingers tangled in an unspoken question in Jessie's hair.

  Jessie closed her eyes. For a brief moment something tried to change her course, to send her away. Desire overcame doubt and Jessie lifted her head. She lavished a long lick on the no-man's-land between Marci's navel and the puffy slit between her thighs. She stopped to kiss Marci's bare pubic mound. The smell was not unfamiliar but different, heady. Marci's thighs shifted, and Jessie felt restrained insistence on the top of her head from Marci's tangled fingers.

  Her own body was blushing with desire that swelled her nipples, gave her mouth a red flush, and had turned her pussy into a pool of salacious dampness that had been weeping since she stepped from the bathroom. When Marci's legs parted, Jessie saw the small dark apple on the inside of her thigh. Just below…

  Is she Eve? Am I about to taste forbidden fruit?

  A quick dart and Jessie's tongue came away wet and heavy with the taste of Marci. Her nose filled with the smell that was Marci, and there was no stopping. Jessie pushed her tongue until Marci's swollen slit split, and Jessie found her prize. The dark, salty, heavy taste of forbidden fruit. All thoughts of how or even why were banished. Jessie was filled with only one consideration, one desire—to love Marci into submission with her tongue. To tame the New World and partake of the forbidden fruit.

  Marci pulled Jessie's wet hair, and Jessie followed each tug, each push, her tongue licking, her lips kissing and sucking.

  “Yes,” Marci whispered.

  When Jessie discovered Marci's swollen clitoris, she sucked gently until she heard a moan. Then Jessie lost all track of words and sounds that came from the pillow at the head of her bed. She was lost in the smell, the taste, the feel of making love to Marci. To a woman.

  She had never been so unselfish or so giving in bed. And she had never known more satisfaction from those altruistic acts.

  Marci pulled hard on Jessie's hair. Her thighs opened quickly, then closed on Jessie's ears. A jerky whimpering filled the room, and Jessie li
cked and sucked until Marci shoved her away. She lay mesmerized while Marci's pussy tightened again and again around her finger.

  When Jessie crawled up Marci's body, she stopped and pressed her nipples into Marci's breasts. She swayed and let the warm, soft flesh tease and comfort. Like the conqueror she was, she captured Marci's mouth with her own. When the kiss ended Marci pulled Jessie close and clung. They rolled and kissed again.

  “I guess you got it.” Marci's voice was deep and husky.

  “What's that?” Jessie pushed Marci's hair out of her face.

  “Your I kissed a girl badge.”

  Jessie wanted to correct. She knew she'd gotten so much more, but old habits were hard to break. She sighed and fell into Marci's embrace.

  * * *

  “Don't, Jessie. I need you to talk to me.”

  Jessie traced Marci's belly button and let her finger wander lower. She felt lazy and sated. Smug. Their tangled tussle of legs, arms, and kisses had turned into Marci staring unblinking into Jessie's eyes while she slowly, skillfully, and mercilessly finger-fucked Jessie into oblivion, all the time kissing her frantically. Now they lay in the afterglow enjoying the moment.

  “I don't get it. Why does anything have to happen now?”

  “In spite of what you might think, things aren't what they may seem. My father doesn't know. Even with the scandal back at college, he didn't find out. My mother kept it from him.”

  “Why does your dad have to know now?”

  “Because I made a promise to my mother. We're different, Jessie. I can't be the rebel without a cause. It's not about what he'd do to me. Or even what he'd think. It's about what I would be doing to him if I kept us a secret.”

  The conversation was going places Jessie didn't want to have to deal with. She explored and tried to titillate. She was lost in the feel of Marci's skin when Marci slapped her hard on the arm.

  “Jessie, I mean it. This is what they say guys do. They either go to sleep or they want some more. I need you, Jess. I need you to listen to me.”

  Jessie snapped her mouth shut and withdrew her fingers. She scooted up Marci's body feeling so guilty she kept her kiss to herself. “Sorry, Marci. I just don't know how to… It's hard for me to talk about.”

  “I know it is. And maybe that's why it's important that we talk about these things. I don't really have the answers either. But I want you to help me. I promised my mother that when I found the right woman I'd tell my father.”

  “And you think I'm that woman?” Jessie found the idea absurd. “Look, Marci. I thought we were just, well, you know…”

  “Fucking?” Marci went stiff in Jessie's arms.

  “No! That's not it!” Jessie was lost in the wilderness without a map. “I don't know. Why does anything have to change? We can hang out, get to know each other. We don't know where this is going. What's the big rush?”

  “We don't know where this is going?” Marci pulled out of Jessie's arms and rolled for the edge of the bed. The bottomless abyss at the edge of the New World threatened to consume her. “Right. My mother told me. She always said I had to be careful where I put my heart. Not to leave it lying around where just anyone could find it.”

  “Come on, Marci.” Jessie tried to pull Marci back but was shrugged off. “That's not fair. I still don't—”

  “No. You don't. You wouldn't. You've got your little pink book. You're not gay. This isn't love. No. To you it's all about fucking. Getting laid.”

  “How the hell can you talk about love? We're a couple of women!” Gay? I'm gay? Jessie cleared her throat and tried to breathe. She desperately wanted to slow things down. She softened her tone and asked, “So no one knows you're gay?”

  “No one ever asked. I never said anything. No one noticed. Your sister knows—”

  “Sure. She caught you.”

  “She caught us. But she knew before that. Becky did too. Someone else did as well. But not everyone.”

  “So this is about, well, coming out.”

  “No.” Marci sounded distraught. “This is about me telling my father and anyone else I want about the woman I love. If that means that people know I'm gay, then that's what it means.”

  “Hey, don't sweat it.” Jessie tried to lighten the moment. To bring Marci back. “We're just a couple of girls dyking—”

  “Stop it, Jessie! I mean it. Don't say that. Don't use that word. It's degrading. To women in general, to me, and to you. Especially to yourself. At least gay sounds happy.”

  Is it the idea of a relationship with a woman that scares me?

  Jessie chewed her lip and stared at the ceiling. She was terrified. There were no words written there. She looked down at her naked body stretched out on the bed, Marci naked beside her.

  The sex? Touching her body? Her hands on my breasts? Her lips on my nipple? My tongue…

  She felt liberated and trapped, equally.

  Or is it the idea of any relationship at all that scares the hell out of me?

  “Marci. What if I don't know what to say?”

  Or is it the idea of being…gay?

  Marci turned and searched Jessie's face. Jessie wanted to reach for Marci when she pushed up from the bed and started getting dressed. She wanted to pull her back into her arms. She wanted to kiss her. To hold her. Most of all she wanted to be near the one person she…

  Instead Jessie watched from her side of the bed and said nothing. She did none of those things. She did exactly what she'd done in her bedroom when she and Marci had fought. Marci finally picked up her purse and walked around the bed.

  “That was beautiful.” Marci's fingers cradled Jessie's chin, and she fixed Jessie with a dreamy, soulful stare. “I love you.”

  Jessie, mouth agape, said nothing.

  And Marci was gone.

  Jessie stared into the empty space where Marci had been standing.

  How do you know that? How the hell do you know you love me? Me! The gay psycho woman.

  Jessie hugged her knees to her chest.

  I love who I am when I'm with you.

  Chapter Eight

  Jessie stretched and didn't notice the ceiling. She decided a girl-love hangover was ten times worse than anything Jack Daniel's could serve up.

  She was in the shower trying to ignore the big pink elephant that was living in her life these days when Bernie called. She accepted lunch only if he took her someplace where they served real meat, where she could smoke a cigarette after lunch without getting up from the table, and if he could do her a favor.

  They ended up sitting on a retaining wall at Venice Beach watching a continuous rolling advertisement for California beauty as skaters whizzed by wearing biker's shorts, Speedos, and bikinis.

  “You're a real piece of work. You know that, Jessie?”

  “That's why you love me, Bernie.”

  Two hotdogs and a beer later, Jessie had an appointment with the mysterious Mr. Blake, the record producer who had been footing her bills. She balked at signing a new contract with Bernie. She wanted to look Mr. Record Producer over first and see what he was offering.

  “You're gonna screw me, aren't you, Jessie?”

  “Look, Bernie. You got your cut of this studio work. I signed a limited contract for that. And I never go back on my word. I just want to make sure we're all talking the same language. If I'm ready to sign with him, you'll be the first person who knows.”

  “I don't want to know about it, Jessie. I want my—”

  “I'll call you as soon as we meet. If I'm interested, we can sign tomorrow tonight.”

  Bernie told her there were no more retakes for her studio work. Her part was finally finished. She was a little excited about the idea of her name getting out there, even if it was only liner credits as a guitarist and backup vocalist.

  But ya gotta start somewhere. Just like being in love.

  * * *

  Jessie stood outside the old church and pulled on the side of her short black dress. Even with the setting sun on her bare bac
k, the breeze that teased the big rubber tree in front of the old building was chilly. Buying a wrap hadn't occurred to her. Not in August in California.

  Her only instructions to the clerk had been black and sexy. She was dying to reach up under the hem of her dress and run her finger around the tops of her thigh highs. The rubberized elastic was driving her nuts. The white thong was banished. So was any other undergarment that might get in the way.

  She played the words over again in her mind. I want to love you, Marci. I feel more in love with you than I have with anyone else in my entire life. I love who I am when you're near me. I love how I feel when you touch me. I can't stop my hands from touching you. I just can't… And that's as far as she could get. She looked at the red rose she hoped would conjure the words she couldn't find.

  She watched limousine after limousine pull up and eject stately dressed patrons of the arts. She finished her cigarette, clutched her invitation, small purse, and red rose, and followed an elderly couple inside. She presented her invitation—the one Bernie had managed to get for her as a favor—to the usher, and walked in to find a seat.

  She'd read a little about the church in the program. Built in the mid-nineteenth century, it had fallen into disrepair in the 1980s when the congregation had abandoned it for a bigger, newer nave. The historical society had rescued the building, and the Los Angeles Center for the Arts used it on a regular basis for small string-ensemble and piano recitals. The pews were gone, and the seating was in the round with a raised stage in the center. The interior of the nave was wrapped in discreetly carved wood paneling that gave it a warm, inviting feel. The acoustics were great.

  Black studio microphones dropped inconspicuously from wires at four points around the stage. Jessie scanned the open hall and found a soundman lording over some expensive-looking recording equipment.

  A record?

  She surmised that everything about Marci's world was completely different from her own. The audience sat in a quiet cloud of murmuring. No one was yelling at a waitress or stomping their feet. She saw a sea of black with pearls and diamonds pasted around the edges. Not a pair of jeans in the house. In spite of the murmuring, the group seemed attentive, wrapped in anticipation. Not ignorant of the performer's imminent appearance.