by Fox, Lana
What’s more, after a mere hour and a half she understands the storeroom system as if she’s been working here for years, and is using the till like a genius.
But me? I’m not at my best. I’m glancing over my shoulder at Janey every minute, noticing her perfect buttocks inside those fitted trousers as she bends over to pick up a box, or I’m watching her smile as she rings up a pair of mules, or imagining whether she’s braless underneath her shirt and tie, her nipples all hard and pink, her breasts a swell of pale skin. All I want to do is slam her against the wall and open my mouth on hers, running my hands across her chest and feeling her nipples hardening beneath. I want to rub my pussy against her thigh, Kitten, and run the edge of my peep-toe stiletto up and down her trousered shin, showing her how much I love her like this – all gender-bending and kinky.
Pearl arrives at eleven. She’s less excited about Janey’s outfit. In fact, she looks a bit peeved. ‘I don’t see why I can’t wear something like that,’ she says.
‘Pearl, I had no idea you liked to wear a tie!’
Pearl flips her blonde hair behind her shoulders. ‘I told you how much I hate flared skirts. I’m a pencil-skirt woman.’
I tell Pearl that Janey’s outfit is temporary. Next weekend, she’ll be wearing a Pussyfoot uniform.
‘You’ve made a decision on this new girl quickly, haven’t you?’ She crosses her arms, gives a look that says, Well?
I butter her up and remind her how splendid she is, and all is forgotten.
But back to the smut, Kitten! At one point, Janey and I are both in the stockroom, and Janey is up on the stepladder, reaching for a super-small size. As I slink past her, my eyes are level with her bum and, dear God, I get so close to pawing her through the material and feeling those smooth buttocks that I almost lose my mind. Then, when she’s climbing down, and I’m on my way back, shoebox in hand, she smiles, reaches out for me and pulls me into a hug. It’s a surprise because we’ve never hugged before. ‘I’m sorry I got pissy about the tie,’ she whispers. ‘I’m so grateful for this job, Debs. And I love wearing this get-up too.’
She brushes her hand up and down my back, super-slow, so I can feel my every cell warming with her touch, and our breasts are pressed together, and her jawline smells of that soap of hers, and her cheek is so soft as she pulls away.
‘I’m … glad you … like it,’ I stutter. ‘You’re … a great fit.’
‘Mmm,’ she purrs, running her fingertips idly down my bare arm. Her eyelids grow heavy, and she looks up at me through her lashes. ‘You and I work well together,’ she murmurs, ‘wouldn’t you say?’ I can feel my arousal all over my body, as if sexy women are blowing warm air all over me, kissing me behind my ear and down my breasts and thighs …
Then comes the real corker! Before she pulls away, she rests her cheek against mine and says, ‘I know I look all “man” today but, just so you know, I’m wearing the skimpiest pair of satin knickers under here. They’re black and lace-trimmed and totally femme. They rub against me in lascivious ways.’
As she moves away, I stand there, mouth agape, my flesh in a personal hell of longing. I want to kiss her hard, up against the boxes of shoes, letting them collapse around us as I rip off her clothes … Oh, Kitten, I’d hump her like a crazed dog, rubbing myself against those lovely toned thighs, squeezing those perfect breasts of hers and rutting her … yes, rutting!
Needless to say, by the time my lunch break comes around, my knickers are damp, my heart is pumping, my body feels as warm as if I’ve been sitting near an open grate. But Janey’s in the restroom, so I can’t go and touch myself, and waiting for her to come out is too much to bear. So I rush towards the café as quickly as I can, the wind blowing my umbrella inside out. On the way, I get a call from Area Manager Carol, who tells me that when she turns up she’d like a word with Pearl as well as Janey, so she’ll be getting there a little early. ‘Kill two birds with one stone,’ she says. ‘Maybe you and I can find a minute too?’
For a moment, I wonder if Pearl has complained about Janey’s outfit. But no. Pearl’s more loyal than that. So I tell Carol I look forward to seeing her.
So now here I am, journalling at the cafe, sipping my tomato soup. I’m still feeling an obsessive burn between my thighs, Kitten, and the lacy knickers that I’m wearing today rub against my pussy every time I squirm. I’m turned on by the rough softness of my own underwear! I feel like I’m a schoolgirl again!
2 p.m.
Dear Kitten,
Oh, dear God, where to start?
Back at the store, there’s no sign of Pearl, and I find Janey serving Billie, my drag queen. Today, Billie’s a woman, which isn’t always the case – mind you, like Janey says, ‘being’ a woman isn’t about your bits. Right now, Billie’s a dark-skinned goddess, with broad shoulders and corkscrew curls. Her top is strapless, shimmery and silver, and her lips and fingernails are blood-red. As she strides up and down in a pair of silver high-heeled sandals, I watch her deliciously lengthy legs and the rock of her splendid buttocks. When she spots me, she patters a wave, then places a hand on the choker around her delicate throat: a string of see-through stones, bound together with metal links.
‘Your new girl’s a natural,’ she tells me, touching my shoulder. ‘And I love, love, love her outfit!’
I glance over at Janey, who gives me a cute, cocked smile before turning to tidy some shoes into boxes.
‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she,’ I say, as Janey bends over a little, and her round bum cheeks rise up. Again, I’m thinking of pulling down her trousers and smacking that lovely round bum.
‘Did you know she’s studying the stiletto heel?’ says Billie.
‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘She’s a bright spark, our Janey.’
Aware that I’m all moon-in-June, I change the topic by asking Billie if these shoes are for a drag show, but she says she’s actually meeting her boyfriend’s parents this evening and wants to look utterly stunning. ‘You’re always stunning,’ I say, ‘and holy hotdog, these shoes are divine on you!’
‘They’re crazy if they’re not impressed with you,’ says Janey. And soon I’m ringing up Billie’s purchase as Janey packages the seven-inchers in layers of tissue with an artist’s care. ‘These heels are spectacular,’ sighs Janey.
‘Perfect for hurling at cops,’ says Billie, and laughs.
Janey titters.
‘Did I miss something?’ I say.
Billie says that she and Janey have been talking about Stonewall. I don’t know what Stonewall is. So Janey explains that the Stonewall Riots happened in the 1960s in a New York bar. ‘The police were arresting everyone for being queer,’ says Janey, ‘but one of the queens – Sylvia Rivers – she wasn’t having it. So she took off her stiletto and hurled it at a cop.’
‘Bang, bang!’ cries Billie, clapping her hands. ‘Give a queen a stiletto and she’ll make it a bomb!’
I grin. Bang, bang! I like that. Stilettos as a big, bad weapon! ‘People who say that shoes can’t be deep don’t understand what they stand for,’ I say.
‘Perfectly said, as usual,’ says Janey, as she brushes my hand with hers, and she lingers for a moment, and I can smell her shampoo and feel the warmth coming off her, and oh, oh, oh …! I barely even say goodbye to Billie because I’m so close to Janey, and I can feel us swaying towards each other, her lips so close, her breath so warm, her fingertips stroking up my arm and resting round my jawline. Suddenly I’m not in the real world any more, I’m just sinking towards her, and she’s rising on tiptoes, and the smell of coconut soap is filling my head, and her soft lips are way too close, and I whisper, ‘God, you’re perfect,’ and she says, ‘God, you’re delectable,’ and I whisper, ‘I hope you know you’ve got the job,’ and she says, ‘What are you doing for dinner tonight?’ and I say, ‘Nothing, as yet,’ and she says, ‘If you get hungry, maybe we could eat?’ and I say, ‘Oh please!’
And she leans in closer, her eyes growing heavy, and I’m dizzy with wantin
g her, giddy with her warmth. But the doorbell tinkles and we spring apart, and I look up to see a couple of girls in black ribby tops and light denim jeans. ‘I’ll take these,’ says Janey, turning away, trailing her fingers along the counter.
Where the hell is Pearl? She isn’t answering any of my calls. What if Carol turns up and I don’t know where Pearl is? I don’t want to lose another member of staff, especially Pearl, whom I love. Turns out Janey’s so efficient that I’m at a loose end, so I tell her to text when she needs me, and now I’m in the back office doing some paperwork.
Outside, the rain hasn’t stopped. There’s even a rumble of thunder.
All right, Kitten. I warn you, this is a soap opera of an afternoon.
Fifteen minutes into my paperwork, Janey does indeed text, so off I go to help. When I arrive on the shop floor, Janey’s talking to a man and her voice sounds cool. Maybe it’s because he’s male – does Janey have a problem with men? The man in question has his back to me but, with that slightly stooped posture and a suited torso, he looks strikingly like Henry.
As I walk across, Janey is telling him, ‘I don’t believe you. I know she would have told me.’
For a moment, my heart freezes. What’s going on?
Then I hear the man say, ‘Maybe, but did she tell you that we went for Italian last night?’ And, dear God, that’s Henry’s voice! Janey is talking with Henry!
‘What’s going on?’ I call.
Henry turns towards me. ‘Hello, darling! Just wanted to see the shop for myself –’
‘What have you been saying to Janey?’ I snip.
Janey stares at me with a look that’s a mix of horror and fear. ‘You went to dinner with him?’ she asks, her voice soft and faraway. ‘You said you didn’t have a date last night. That’s what you told me.’
‘It wasn’t a date!’ I say. ‘We went out to talk.’
Janey has flushed an angry red. ‘Is this before or after you dumped Guy?’
‘Janey, don’t let him –’
But Henry butts in: ‘Who on earth is Guy?’
‘Will you both listen!’ I snap.
But Janey turns away, a hand in the air. ‘I’m done with this,’ she snaps. ‘You leave one liar and you end up with another.’
‘He’s my ex!’ I call, but it’s too late. Janey tosses her name-tag over her shoulder and leaves the store, the door swinging in her wake.
When I turn back, Henry is smiling a warm smile. ‘All a big misunderstanding,’ he says. With that he steps towards me, as if to kiss my face, but I jerk out of his reach.
‘It certainly is,’ I say. ‘That was not a date last night.’
‘It was an Italian meal,’ says Henry. ‘What’s not a date about Italian?’
‘We never called it a date.’
‘So? I’d sent you birds of paradise, Debsie! What did you think I wanted? To catch up?’
‘To apologise!’ I snap. ‘To say sorry for fucking up my life! And now what are you doing? Fucking up my life. Again.’
He runs a hand through his hair. Suddenly, he has the expression of a wounded pup. ‘Debsie,’ he says, his shoulders slumping. ‘I just … You’re having a fling with that Janey girl, aren’t you?’
‘Sadly, no,’ I say.
‘Oh?’ He says, a glimmer of hope in his voice.
‘But I want her,’ I add. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
His brow furrows as he launches across the room, striding up, as if he’s late for a flight. He takes me by the shoulders, and it really hurts! But when I tell him to let go, he doesn’t. Instead, he leans right in, crushing me in his hands, and says, ‘I know it’s my fault that you’ve begun these crazy fantasies, but if you’ll let me make it up to you, I’m ready.’ He breathes on my face, his lips close to mine. ‘Jesus, Debsie,’ he says, ‘you’re a man’s woman! Look at you! You’re stunning. Why on earth do you think you’re a lesbian?’
‘Don’t tell me what I am,’ I snap, trying to wriggle away. ‘Take your hands off of me,’ I say, but his grip is like a pair of iron cuffs.
‘You are the most insufferable woman,’ he says, and suddenly, he’s forcing his mouth on mine and kissing me, hard, like he’s Humphrey Bogart and I’m a femme fatale. For a moment, I revel in it because, my God, Janey has made me so wet, the wanting of her, the way she makes me palpitate when she’s in the room … and I can feel him hardening against me, pressing into me, and I almost relax into feeling it all. But after a second, I push him away. And in the same moment, the rain outside grows heavy.
‘Leave now,’ I tell him.
‘Didn’t you feel that?’ he asks me. He grabs my wrists to pull me back. And when I wrench myself away, I stumble and find myself propelled backwards. I flail my arms, losing balance on my peep-toe heels, and end up falling against a display table, my butt thumping into a host of metallic shoes.
‘Get out,’ I tell him, struggling back to my feet, as stilettos and ballet pumps topple around me.
‘You’re coming home with me,’ he says, pacing towards me again. ‘We’re going to pull ourselves together.’
This time, I use a voice I’ve never had to use before. It comes right up from the depths of me, rough and hard. ‘Some of us don’t need to pull ourselves together!’ I shout. ‘Some of us just need to call the police and get our bastard husbands to leave this bloody shop!’
Just then, I realise I’m holding a silver stiletto that I must have grasped when I stumbled into the display. And seeing as he’s standing there, like a stubborn fool, I lob the shoe right at him. ‘This,’ I shout, ‘is Stonewall.’
‘What?’ he says, jumping out of the way.
Then I pick up another stiletto and another, and lob those at him too, so he’s ducking to avoid them, and telling me to calm down. And as he waves his arms and shouts, ‘Debsie, this is crazy!’ I pick up a gold slingback and nearly hit the mark, getting him right on the edge of his thigh. ‘Jesus!’ he shouts, ‘you could hurt a man with those!’
‘That,’ I say, ‘is just the effect I was after.’
‘Debsie –’
‘Get out of here,’ I say, picking up a strappy sandal. ‘I’ll give you one more chance before I call the police.’
‘All right,’ he says, throwing up his hands ‘OK. I’m going, OK?’
As I raise a suede platform – rather a nice one, with silver-studded heels – he turns and rushes from the shop. For a moment there is silence. I gaze around at the mess, stunned by what just happened. Only now do I notice a customer in a pink cloche hat, cowering gingerly in the corner of the store, clasping a pair of court shoes to her chest, her lipsticked mouth in the shape of an ‘O’.
I neaten my hair and pull myself upright. Hurling the stock around certainly isn’t a super-savvy marketing ruse. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say. ‘Now, how may I help you?’
But she’s already putting the shoe down, making her excuses and running from the shop.
I sigh. What an afternoon! I feel like crying. Janey, it seems, has sent me a text: You know how I feel about you, it says. How could you date him behind my back? You and Lil can have one another. I feel so sick that I have to grab my head. I’m done with liars, Janey continues. I’ll leave my rent on the kitchen table.
Within moments, I’m locking up the store and dialling for a taxi, so afraid of losing Janey that I keep forgetting to breathe …
Chapter Fourteen
Stripped Down
Saturday, 24 March
Kitten, all I know when I open the front door and rush upstairs to Janey’s room is that I have to stop her. She was only a few minutes ahead of me, so she can’t have packed up yet, surely … but a part of me is panicking as if she’s already gone.
I burst into her room, and come to a standstill when I see her there. She’s on the other side of the bed, picking her underwear out of an untidy stack of clothes and piling it up. Little briefs, coloured black, grey and white, lie in a pile near her pillow. She doesn’t look up at me. Neither does she stop fo
lding.
‘I’m sorry!’ I gasp. ‘Don’t go!’
She freezes, sighs, places a pair of briefs on the stack. Then, at last, she meets my gaze. ‘This isn’t going to work, Debs.’
‘It is! It can!’
She shakes her head. ‘Why aren’t you with him?’
‘Because I don’t want him.’ I tell her how I did go to dinner with him last night, but only to hear his apology. Then, when I see her eyeing me suspiciously, I add, ‘Well, to be honest, I’d just finished with Guy, and I thought I could do with some grovelling.’
‘You didn’t think to call me up?’ I’m about to answer, but she returns to her folding, mumbling, ‘No, because I’m a woman, and you’re not into women.’
‘But I am,’ I tell her, walking up to the bed. ‘I’m into you. And you’re a woman.’
I sit there, watching her slender fingers as she expertly folds her last couple of briefs. All I want is for her to run those fingertips across my cheekbone, down my jaw, between my breasts, right down into the core of me. All I want is to feel them, superlight, against my clit, circling, circling … She moves on to T-shirts next, folding, folding. For a while we sit in silence, my heart thumping.
‘Are you still here?’ she says, with a glare.
‘You can’t leave.’
My words pull her up straight. Exasperated, she says, ‘You’ve broken my heart. Why the hell would I trust you again?’