Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman - Romantic Interludes 2 - Secrets

by Radclyffe;Stacia Seaman

  “Sex. There has to be sex, and it has to start now. I think I’ve been very patient. Twenty-three years has to be a record.”

  We kissed lightly, tentatively at first, as if unsure how to cross the threshold between friends and lovers. But that first intimate touch ignited the years of suppressed desire. Her lips were softer than I imagined, her mouth hotter, her tongue more probing and demanding. I moved against her and as our bodies entwined so did our lives—finally, completely, eternally.

  Julie Cannon, a native sun goddess born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona, is the author of six Bold Strokes Books: Come and Get Me, Heart 2 Heart, Heartland, Uncharted Passage, Just Business, and Power Play (November 2009). She has selections in Romantic Interludes 1: Discovery, Erotic Interludes 4: Extreme Passions, and Erotic Interludes 5: Road Games. Julie and her partner Laura spend their weekends camping, riding ATVs, or lounging around the pool with their two kids. www.JulieCannon.com.

  Masquerade

  Julie Cannon

  What do you do when you are so entrenched in something you can’t even see the way out? So deep you have no idea even how to begin? Any time you think about it you feel foolish and embarrassed. And that’s before anyone even knows you’re doing something different.

  I’m in that predicament. My name is Elizabeth Beckett, but everyone calls me J. No one knows my real name except me. I have no family, at least none that claim me or would even recognize me if I introduced myself. I ended up in foster care when I was twelve, my mom in jail and my dad long gone. But that’s another story altogether and I don’t dwell on things I can’t change. What I can change is me, and that’s my entire point here. I know what I want to do, but I am more afraid of doing this than I ever was of any dark street or mean foster parent.

  If you were to look at me what you’d see is someone in their early twenties, dressed in baggy Dickies, a tight T-shirt, and utilitarian black boots. My hair is buzz short, #2 on the clippers if you know what that means, and I have a tattoo of a naked woman on my left bicep. You would have to look closely to determine if the bumps under my shirt were breasts or simply well-defined pecs. Most people think it’s the latter due to the number of times people call me sir or dude. But I’m not. My hard exterior is an effective armor shielding my heart from pain.

  Remember that foster care I mentioned earlier? Well, I was one of the unlucky ones who disappeared into the system. No one was there to protect me, so I learned early on to protect myself, my body, and my emotions. You know the old saying “sticks and stones may break your bones but names can never hurt you”? Well, let me tell you, it’s bullshit.

  Why am I telling you all this? Because I’m tired. Tired of the charade, tired of being what I’m not. Not really. You see, I don’t want to be a bad-ass-baby-dyke anymore. I do all the work, make all the advances. I want to be a lady. Courted, cherished, and eagerly taken home to meet somebody’s mom.

  But how do I do it? This is where I live, where I’ve made my home. My friends are here, I can have just about any woman I want anytime, I own my own business that I can’t just pick up and leave. Believe it or not, my roots here are deep, and much as I want to live my life differently, I don’t want to pull up stakes and sever all ties with these people.

  I know, I’ve read all the coming-out books and articles that say your friends will still be your friends no matter who you are. I’m a smart girl; my brain understands, but my gut and my heart can’t stand another rejection. You heard me right. I said coming out because that is how I look at it. I would be coming out as someone very different than how everyone knows me. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? My friends might laugh at me, point their fingers and say I look like a dyke in drag. That would hurt.

  What do I want? It’s pretty simple. I want a woman to approach me, invite me for a cup of coffee, make meaningless small talk as she gets to know me. I want her to ask me out to dinner.

  She picks me up at my front door with a little trinket—nothing serious, maybe a handful of daisies or something corny like that. She stammers, stutters, and her eyes pop out when she sees me in my short skirt, cute top, and snappy sandals. I invite her in and we have a quick drink.

  She helps me with my jacket. She opens my front door. Holding my arm lightly, she escorts me down the stairs and holds open the passenger-side door of her car for me. Openly admiring my bare legs as I slide into her sleek machine, she can hardly breathe.

  I want her to not be able to keep her eyes from sneaking another peek at my legs, exposed as my skirt rides up. When we arrive at the restaurant, she jumps out of the car and hurries to open my door again. She offers me her hand to help me out, taking another look at my legs, this time not bothering to hide it. She tells me they’re beautiful.

  She escorts me in, her hand lightly on my back, just above my waist. She walks beside me to the table, holds my chair as I sit down. She gazes at me across the table, refills my wineglass, makes warm, witty conversation intent on making me feel at ease.

  She is dressed in a blue suit, impeccably cut to fit over her tall frame. Her hair is shoulder length, her eyes blazing blue, and her laugh deep and sensuous. She is an attorney, a successful professional and drop-dead gorgeous. We have dessert, coffee, and an after-dinner cognac. She pays the check with a platinum American Express card, her Montblanc pen boldly gliding across the bottom of the bill, without even glancing at the amount.

  I feel her eyes on me as we walk out, and I add just a little bit more sway to my hips. She stands behind me, so close that her warm breath makes me shiver, and I feel her breasts press against my arm when she hands the valet the claim ticket. Not to be outdone, I brush by her as she holds the car door, giving her a whiff of my intoxicating perfume. Intentionally I hike my skirt even higher than before, giving her and the valet a bird’s-eye view of what they’ve only imagined.

  We go dancing, to an upscale club where women share their desire for each other, not play pool or grope body parts in a dingy, dark hallway. She asks me to dance, holding my hand, leading me through the throngs of people. We dance close, and I’m the one that dances backward. I follow instead of lead. The beat of the music picks up and her eyes burn as she watches my body move. My body burns when it slows again.

  Getting late, she holds me closer, more intimate. During one particular song, she lowers her head and kisses me. She’s gentle as if worried I might refuse. Her tongue asks permission to enter, giving me the option to refuse. I don’t. The mating of our mouths and tongues symbolizes one of the most intimate of acts. I’ve never told anyone that I think kissing is just about as intimate as two people can get. Sometimes I think it’s even more intimate than the other fabulous place mouths and tongues go. There’s just something about it that makes me crazy. Quite a few times I come just by kissing, but no one ever knows.

  She asks me if I’m ready to leave, and I slide my arm through hers as we walk to her car. Back at my front door she doesn’t move to kiss me, but lets me take the initiative. By then I’m hers for the asking. She doesn’t have to ask, I give willingly.

  She sits on the couch in the living room while I make coffee. My hands shake so bad I spill the grounds all over the counter. I swear. I am way out of my element here. I am not the aggressor, the butch, the top, or whatever else you want to call it. I don’t know how to act. I desperately want this to go right. I need this. This is who I really am.

  Taking a deep breath, I ask myself why I am even bothering with making coffee. She wants me. She has made that very clear, yet I don’t feel pressured into having sex with her. It’s not payment for dinner at a swank restaurant, or dancing at an exclusive club. It isn’t even expected because we’ve been dating for several months. I think that’s what’s so refreshing and frightening at the same time. Sex didn’t come first with us and then we got to know each other. I know more about her than all of my previous girlfriends combined.

  It’s then I realize something. By being secure in herself she is, in fact, letting me lead. Everything w
e have done has been on my terms, my timeline. I’m not following her. She isn’t in charge. But in some respects neither am I. I know I sound confused, like I can’t make up my mind on who is doing what, and then the second revelation hits me like the frying pan that sits unused in my kitchen cabinet. It doesn’t matter. There aren’t any games here. No one has an assigned role they must play without improvisation.

  I thought that being feminine meant giving up control. On the contrary, you actually have more control than if you were a big butch. You can be soft, tender, and submissive one day—or even one moment—and rough, aggressive, and dominating the next. It is the utmost sense of freedom.

  My date rises from the couch when I return to the room. She does that—stands when I come to the table, or when I get out of my seat. And who said chivalry is dead? No one told this woman, and if they did she’d probably ignore them. With each step I take toward her, I feel more like a woman than I have ever felt before. My confidence rises and I lead her to the bedroom.

  Slowly and seductively she unbuttons my shirt. My lace bra peeks out from the opening, my breasts swelling in anticipation. Lingerie makes me feel sexy and sensuous, even if no one can see it. There is a big difference between lingerie and underwear. I used to shop at Victoria’s Secret for what it would do for me, seeing the woman I was within the scanty scraps of fabric. I bought this bra and matching panties for just this occasion—our first time together. Don’t ask me how I knew tonight would be the night, and not the dozens of other times we’ve been together, but somehow I just knew.

  She pushes my shirt off my shoulders and her hands shake when she slides my bra straps in the same direction. She licks her lips but doesn’t move toward my breasts. Her eyes blaze a trail over my skin, the hardening of my nipples having nothing to do with the chill outside. It is warm under her gaze and by the look of ravishing desire in her eyes, it is going to get much, much hotter.

  As she reaches around me to the back of my skirt, her shirt grazes my nipples and I gasp in pleasure. My nipples are ultra sensitive and it sends a jolt directly to my clit, not stopping anywhere in between. Her breath caresses my cheek an instant before she lightly kisses it. She is sweet and tender.

  Deftly she slides my zipper south, her hands lingering on my ass when it can go no farther. She whispers that I have a great ass and I smile against her cheek. She steps back and I hold on to her shoulders as I step out of my skirt. Her hands leisurely trail their way back up from my ankles, pausing at the vee between my legs before settling on my thin waist.

  She tells me I’m beautiful and I believe her. I’ve often said that myself to get a woman into bed. Most of the time it was true, but there is something in her eyes, the tone of her voice, that tells me loud and clear that it is not a line. She calls me Elizabeth.

  We move to the bed and she lies beside me. Her hands gently explore every inch of my body, paying particular attention to the places that make me moan and laughing at the places that make me giggle. Her lips replace her hands and she smothers me with terms of endearment and praise. She moves on top of me. Then I am on top of her. There are no rules or mandatory positions.

  Her touch is gentle. She worships my breasts, my thighs, the curves of my hips. Her long fingers enter me slowly and gently, but not before she looks into my eyes for any sign that I might not want this. Finding none, she fills me and I moan with desire. With infinite patience she moves in and out, each time sliding a bit deeper until I take all of her. Her thumb is on my clit, her fingers inside, and I have never felt so full. Her kisses become more passionate as my hips lift off the bed to match her strokes. Or is it the other way around? Her lips caress my neck, biting and nipping on the tender skin, then soothing with her hot tongue. Her mouth is a wonder on my flesh and she takes me over the top not once, or twice, but more times than I can remember. We make love. We don’t have sex, and we definitely aren’t fucking.

  Satisfied, she holds me in her arms. My pleasure was her first priority, hers secondary. We cuddle, talking quietly about nothing and everything, her fingers running through my long hair. Her skin is hot under my hands and it’s my turn to explore, discover, and please. She turns to me, and we make love again and again. The sound of my name on her lips is everything I have ever wanted.

  In the morning she is reluctant to leave. She doesn’t want to wear out her welcome or assume that we will spend the day together just because we spent the night together. I laugh at her shyness. Or is it politeness? Either way, she is endearing and I do want to see her again and again and again. I tell her so. She leaves me with a soft kiss filled with promises of the future.

  So that’s where I’m at. Well, actually I’m sitting in the back of my truck drinking beer with my fellow butches. It’s what we do, what we’ve always done. Fine food, expensive wine, and classy women are not on the menu tonight. My homegirl tosses her can into the empty box.

  “Hey, J, let’s go get us some T and A.”

  Suddenly I’m not very hungry, and for the first time in my life I answer, “Not tonight.”

  Yolanda Wallace has written dozens of short stories which have appeared in multiple anthologies including UniformSex, Body Check, Bedroom Eyes, Best Lesbian Love Stories: New York City, and Best Lesbian Love Stories: Summer Flings. In Medias Res from Bold Strokes in 2010 is Yolanda’s first published novel. She and her partner of eight years live in beautiful coastal Georgia. They are parents to four children of the four-legged variety—a four-year-old boxer and three cats ranging in age from five to eight.

  Saturday Night at the Dew Drop Inn

  Yolanda Wallace

  The Bayou, 1932

  The club wasn’t much to look at, nestled in a thicket of trees deep in the woods. The weathered exterior was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint and the rusted metal sign on its roof was nearly illegible after years of exposure, but everyone knew about the Dew Drop Inn. A deeply rutted clay road led to the front door, but few people were brave enough to take it on in a car or even with a wagon. When the rains came and turned the road into more of a mess than it normally was, you could break an axle on one of those ruts or maim a good horse trying to pry the animal from the grip of all that mud. Besides, it was easier and safer to stagger home on foot. Those who didn’t walk arrived by boat, maneuvering their handmade skiffs through the marsh with only the flickering light of kerosene lanterns lashed to the bows to illuminate the way.

  The club might be small, crowded, and hard to get to, but the Dew Drop served up the best food this side of Sunday dinner and the most low-down, soul-shakin’ blues in the entire Mississippi Delta. Shirley Robinson, the owner and operator, loved to say that her customers came for the food but stayed for the floor show. When the hooch started flowing, the sweat started pouring, and the rhythm worked its magic, it was no holds barred. Fights occasionally broke out as jealous rivals came to blows over a woman, but Miss Shirley’s broad-shouldered sons Lonnie and Donnie were quick to make sure the altercations didn’t last too long or go too far. And for the rare occasions that Lonnie and Donnie weren’t up to the task, Miss Shirley kept a double-barreled shotgun behind the counter. Big Bertha was loaded and at the ready, but Miss Shirley had needed to make her talk only a time or two. The sight of the massive woman with the butt of the long-handled gun resting on her hip was enough to cool most hot heads.

  Neither Lonnie nor Donnie nor Big Bertha would be needed on this night, though. Not with Annie Simpson in town. Because when Annie took the stage, everything came to a stop.

  When Annie, a big-voiced singer nicknamed the St. Louis Siren, was first starting out, the Dew Drop had been one of the first venues outside of St. Louis to put her on the bill. Miss Shirley had taken a chance by spotlighting an unknown, but the risk had paid off for both women. Annie eventually moved to New York in 1926 during the height of the Harlem Renaissance when Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and Carl Van Vechten began to make real names for themselves. She became a star not long after, and her records were known
from New York to Los Angeles and points in between. Despite her success—or perhaps because of it—the Dew Drop was one of her regular stops. Out of lingering gratitude and respect, Annie returned to the Dew Drop each year for a week’s worth of gigs. During that week, she held the whole town in the palm of her hand.

  People came to see her in droves, packing the club so tight that latecomers had to fight for seats in the rafters or crowd around peepholes carved into the side of the building. Because it wasn’t enough just to hear Annie sing. You had to see her, too. Her dresses, short and sequined, were custom made and fit her like a second skin. Beaded headpieces covered her short, marcelled hair. In her right hand, she held an accordion-style porcelain fan that she never bothered to unfold. She didn’t have to. No matter how hot it got on the tiny stage, she never seemed to break a sweat.

  The same couldn’t be said for the men in the audience, however.

  “Mmm mmm mmm,” one said as he passed a damp handkerchief over his glistening forehead. “Look at the way she move. Like she got a rubber band for a spine.”

  “Yeah, man,” his friend agreed, reaching for the flask in his back pocket. He took a swig of the white lightning and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She can snap that thing on me any time.”

  Watching from the kitchen as Annie performed her trademark belly roll, Miss Shirley shook her head with such force that the pearl choker around her neck rattled like dice in a craps game. “Thirty years and about as many pounds ago, I could do that, too,” she said to no one in particular. She grabbed a freshly steamed crawfish off the prep table, snapped off the head, and sucked out the juice. “Annie is good for business, but she’s bad for business, too.”