Closing my eyes, I feel the soft velour against my back and thighs. I picture Grace with her solid shoulders and beautiful neck. I have never been close enough to detect the color of her eyes, but I imagine them to be brown. Her black hair makes that a likely possibility, and the exact brown I picture is mahogany. Her face is slightly rounded and her mouth, though I’ve never seen it smile, must look exquisite when she is happy.
I open my eyes and blink suddenly. I am not prepared to see Grace standing in the doorway. Her attention is not on the prone couple. She is now contemplating me. I draw in a breath, not sure what to do next. I have made a pledge to know Grace, but my gut now tells me to stay where I am.
And then I begin to understand why. She needs time to take me in. Like a bluebird that alights in your garden, Grace requires a slow means of approach. As she watches me, I try not to change my expression. I do not want to show the craving, for I may scare her away, and I do not want to show my apprehension, for it may send the wrong message. She is not objectively scrutinizing me, nor is she staring. She is absorbing me, my body language, my soul. She is taking time to assimilate all that she has observed over these weeks and months of Fridays, and I am hopeful she will reach the same conclusion that I have.
As the bedded women begin an evident journey toward climax and their cries of pleasure begin to grow, Grace and I remain a distance away from each other, but solely connected.
For the longest time, we look at each other, her blue towel wrapped around her chest and falling to just above her knees, and I in my blue towel that hugs my waist. And then, with a slight lift of her chin, an almost imperceptible gesture but one that crashes into me with extreme significance, I know that she has completed her assessment.
I lift off the love seat, as unsure as I am sure, and I cover the distance between us in six life-changing steps.
“Your eyes are not mahogany but chestnut,” I say, as if she were aware of my imaginings.
“And yours have been watching me.”
“Yes.” I want to tell her that I have fallen in love with her from the first day I saw her. She may think the notion is ridiculous given the fact that we have never actually met, but I cannot belie my heart. My secret truth has been at this club every Friday for four months.
“You’re here every Friday,” she says, piercing my eyes with hers.
I nod that she is correct.
Will she think me a stalker? I have never made advances toward her, which in a sex club is the antithesis of what one could consider normal behavior. I pray she doesn’t find me discomforting for that reason. I wonder if she thinks of me as a just another shadow among the sexual players, a voyeur seeking some peculiar, solitary pleasure.
“You never talk to anyone or touch anyone.” Her observation is, again, accurate.
I wait, not knowing what she will say next. My heart hammers again, just as it had when I arrived.
“When you first started coming, I noticed you right away,” she says. “You fascinated me. And that night I began to hope that you would not go off with anyone. I knew that was not likely, but you didn’t. I was here that first night only because I wanted to see what it was like. I would not have come back after that one visit, but then I saw you.”
Could this be possible? She had experienced the same as I.
She continues. “I came back the next Friday and you were here again. And again, you didn’t touch anyone.”
“And I came back for the same reason,” I say.
She smiles and I am right, it is exquisite.
Suddenly, we are more exposed than we have been for months. It has nothing to do with the meager towels covering our bodies. There are no secrets between us. Our true selves are now revealed without pretense or disguise.
“I want you.” I am more sure than I’ve ever been.
“You mean my heart.” It is a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
She takes my hand in hers. This first touch I will always remember. She leads me to a hallway, away from the themed rooms that are now beginning to fill up given that it is late. I know she wants to find a private place for us and I am more than willing to go anywhere with her.
We lean against the wall, face-to-face. The painted concrete is cold against my shoulder.
“I have been waiting,” I say.
“For me?”
“No, for me. To finally approach you, that is.” I know this conversation is profound and bordering on impractical, but I must continue. “You seem so out of place here. But this is the only frame of reference I have of you. I have never seen you in the daylight. I haven’t seen you eat or run or laugh. But what I have seen, I am drawn to.”
In her chestnut eyes I see welcome anticipation. She wants to see where this will go. And then she says, “May I kiss you?”
Furtively and softly, we kiss. I feel her lips part and I open my mouth to hers. Our tongues touch chastely at first, and then we grow bolder, dancing with precise harmony to the same rhythmic sonata.
I draw the warmth of her mouth into mine and I feel her from the inside. Her breath becomes mine, and our life forces merge. We offer ourselves to each other through our kisses, inhaling each other’s essence, and in that moment I know more about her than a hundred coffee dates or dinners could divulge. I see her as a child, playing in her parents’ backyard, and I see her in her teen years, excited about the new school year. I see all the days that led up to the first night I saw her. In one kiss, I thoroughly comprehend this woman I’ve just met.
Our hands stay respectfully around each other’s backs, not venturing any further because a show of corporeal intent would ruin this moment. And I don’t need to feel her breasts or anywhere lower because I will have time later. We are joined right now in a complete way, face-to-face, nose to nose, with the unbelievable rightness of our bodies offered to one another. Her tongue accepting mine is the deepest bond we can forge. Our awareness of each other, body and soul, is absolute.
We part lips and pull back to check each other’s reaction. Her chin is down and she looks at me evocatively from under her eyebrows.
I suddenly laugh, realizing the paradox of the situation. “We’ve seen each other for months in a place where everyone is having sex, and yet we have just now touched.”
“To do nothing all those Friday nights was to learn everything about you,” she says. “And now I want to live the rest.”
Could this be happening? How did it come about that a woman I had only gazed at turned into the woman I know I am to be with?
But as I look back over my weekly sojourns to this place, an incredible realization overcomes me. Simply, words and physicality did not get in our way. We did not travel down the path of anecdotes and meaningless narratives, nor did we succumb to a physical imperative, resulting only in orgasm. This total connection that we share comes purely from silent, unadorned observation. With only our eyes, we discovered our intimate truths, unclouded by subterfuge and physical need. And when we finally did touch, we were already known to each other.
Finding Grace in a French sex house is my reason for being, and we will now abide by our destiny.
Clara Nipper lives in Oklahoma and enjoys fine dining, bubble baths, long walks, and playing with her dogs, Virginia Woof and Bark Twain. Her Bold Strokes novels include Femme Noir and the forthcoming Kiss of Noir. Kids, stay in school!
Sentimental Fool
Clara Nipper
I opened my grandmother’s refrigerator for iced tea. She made the very best iced tea I had ever tasted. I noticed a bowl of nectarines on the bottom shelf.
“Grama?”
“Yes, honey?” She didn’t look up from her quilting.
“Why do you always buy fifteen nectarines?”
Grama’s head raised and she stared out the window with a small, sad smile on her face. “Because I’m a sentimental fool, that’s why.” She returned to her needlework.
“What’s that?” I thought I knew what a fool was; Todd
always made a fool of himself during study period, but I wasn’t sure about the other. I couldn’t imagine Grama acting like Todd. I loathed him. He was cute.
As I asked her, Grama’s eyes were sharp behind her glasses. She put down her quilt. It was for me when she finished it. She even put bits of my favorite outgrown clothes into the pattern. Grama had told me the quilt was a double wedding ring design and I hated the sound of that, but she assured me I would appreciate it someday. I sipped my tea. You couldn’t push Grama, not one inch.
“Lemons in a bowl on the counter if you’re of a mind,” she said.
“Okay,” I answered lightly. I slowly rolled one of the plump fruit on the table to loosen its juice. I resisted the urge to add “ma’am.” Grama didn’t respect suck-ups. I carefully carved a slice of lemon and squeezed it into my tea. Grama made this tea just for me. She never drank it. Claimed not to like it. I waited.
“A sentimental is one who values romantic memories very highly.”
“What romantic memories?” Grama had once sneaked a kiss on someone like Greg’s delectable cheek during recess? Grama had once had someone like Douglas give her his art project? Grama had had valentines stuffed in her locker? Grama had had her house papered by all the boys on Halloween? Just like a grown-up, speaking in riddles. Just say it! Just tell me!
“Romantic memories like…” Grama’s voice suddenly sounded like a choir of angels singing, as if they had finally been set free. “Romantic memories like…” She stopped and looked hard at me. I never felt more like an adult than I did then by not squirming under her stare.
“I don’t know if you’re old enough to hear this, but here goes. I want to tell it. If your mom gets mad about it, send her to me; don’t let her yell at you.”
“Okay.” I wiggled my rear deeper into the carpet. This would be good.
“I buy fifteen nectarines at a time because I once asked someone, as a favor, to buy me a dozen nectarines, and this person brought me a lovely basket with fifteen nectarines in it. And this person told me I should always have more than I wanted.”
That was it? That was romantic? I stared at my tea disappointed. The cubes floated lazily. Frost drops slid down the glass. Should I conceal my disinterest by asking questions?
Grama snorted. “That’s not all, come with me.” Grama shot out of her rocking chair. Grama was a tough old bird. My mother said she was still as strong as a man. I left my tea and followed her into the backyard. Grama had made it into a wildlife sanctuary. She started it years ago with one bat house and a few bird boxes, and now, it was completely alive. On different visits, I had seen lightning bugs, ladybugs, horny toads, frogs, butterflies, and hummingbirds. Grama called them hummers. She tossed me out here whenever she was sick of me watching television when I visit. Grama told me she made it into a habitat because there was nobody to mow the grass anymore. I told her about Paul, a boy in my neighborhood who did it, but she smiled, patted me on the head, and said that wasn’t what she meant.
Sometimes, she let me help her weed and plant, but she was very picky. Occasionally, she was bossy and didn’t even notice. But she let me eat her blackberries and strawberries as long as I left some for the birds and turtles. There is nothing like a sweet, sun-hot berry. Even with dust, it was better than candy.
We came to an old apple tree. Grama caressed the smooth bark. “See that?” Her hands were bony and roped with veins. I squinted and raised myself on tiptoes.
“Is that a heart carved there?” I looked at her in wonder. Grama smiled in satisfaction.
“Yes, that’s another romantic memory.”
I scratched the bark. “What’s that other thing?” It looked like an eight lying down.
“The symbol for infinity, or forever.” Grama’s voice sounded funny and I stared at her with my mouth open. Her eyes were soft and liquidy. I got the feeling that she was pushing me to understand this. I could only drink it in gradually. Grama looked up into the tree, staring fixedly at the leaves. I was scared she would start crying. What do you do when your Grama cries? I didn’t even know what she would be crying about. I held my breath.
“We had thirty-five love-filled years together,” Grama stated at last. “Died the year before you were born. You, little one, helped me through the worst time of my life and you didn’t know it. Your mother was generous enough to let me care for you all the time and ease my sore heart.”
I swallowed and leaned against the tree. “Was it Grampa?” I whispered. I had never had one; I sometimes wondered what that would be like. A gnarled, wrinkly man with bushy eyebrows. Ornery and playful, but nice and gentle. One who taught me Old Secrets.
“No.” Grama smiled strangely. I felt confused and shocked. Grama must have had a grampa because she had Mom. Who was it if not a grampa? White-haired people were supposed to be predictable and conservative.
“Who was it?” I never stopped to think I was too nosy. I had to find out.
“Sara.” Grama waited for me to catch up.
“Mom? It was Mom?” That was Mom’s name. My head was spinning.
“No, it wasn’t your mother. I named your mother after her. Sara was my spouse, Sara Kate.”
“Kate! That’s my name!”
“Yes, it is, punkin, and it fits you. Your mother also loved her dearly. Sara and I were your mother’s parents. I had a baby, your mom, with Sara. We raised her together.”
I frowned. “But in Biology—”
“Yes, yes,” Grama said impatiently. “I know. I promise I’ll explain all that later. Right now, I’m explaining why I’m a sentimental fool. Come inside.” Grama took off for the house without looking back.
I was slow to move from the tree. I looked at the heart and the infinity symbol again. I felt Grama had purified me somehow. Blasted all my rust off. All my thoughts were new born. I felt different. I was excited. I was on the brink of an adventure. Grama felt about a woman the way I felt about boys. That was okay. But I was richer now for knowing. Wiser and more textured. My heart felt bigger. I heard the back door slam. I hurried to follow.
I found her in an unused bedroom on the bed she kept impeccably made. She was examining the contents of a huge, dusty box. I sat down.
“What’s all this?”
“More sentiment. Beautiful memories.” Grama dabbed her nose with a wadded tissue. “Here.” She handed me a stuffed duck like a Beatrix Potter character. “I have hundreds of ducks in every shape, size, and form. We called each other names. Do you do that with boys?”
“Kind of,” I hedged with a smile.
“Well, I was her Puddles and she was my Puddleduck.”
“That’s cute,” I said. Our eyes met over the box. I felt sad for her. I ached, wanting to fill some of Sara’s void so Grama wouldn’t feel so sad. How could I comfort her?
“Here are some of our love letters.” Grama lifted out stacks of envelopes bound with grosgrain ribbons. “We were very prolific.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Here are some souvenirs of trips we took…here’s a pair of earrings she gave me…here’s the shirt I wore the first time we kissed…this ring,” Grama held out her hand, “is one she designed and had made for me. See that opal in the center? That’s older than your mother or father. Sara gave it to me on our first anniversary.”
I studied the things eagerly, wanting to inhale it all. I didn’t want this story to end. I wanted to hear how they lived happily every after, and then, see Sara sitting on the bed with Grama.
Grama sure was different than my other old relatives, who sported blue hair and wiglets and were always discussing illness.
“Why is all this stuff put away?” I tenderly held a tiny, beautiful jade carving.
“Kate, when you lose someone, there’s an enormous amount of pain. Sara and I didn’t have nearly enough time together. When she died, it was too hard to live with these things staring at me all the time. I cherish them, and would defend this box with my life, but it was just too hard. So I put them away hoping I would go soon after h
er and be with her again. Then you were born. Maybe she sent you for me. But it’s evident I’m not going to die soon, so I think it’s time to unpack her, don’t you?”
“Yes!” I felt I was discovering a long-lost sibling in Sara. Twelve years she had been waiting to come out of this box. Shyly, I said, “In Sunday school, they say angels watch over us from heaven. Maybe Sara is.”
Grama put a shaking hand to her brow. “Yes, I hope so. I want to believe that. I have a talk with her every night. Sometimes, I ask her to pass messages to God. At first, all I did was cuss her for dying, but not anymore. Now I just pretend she’s in bed with me, her head next to mine, and I tell her I love and miss her and just talk.” Grama finally looked up and smiled. “That’s why I still make tea. I’m glad you like it. Sara loved it. But do you know what was her favorite drink?”
“No…” I thought of my other ancient family. “Coffee?”
“No, green Kool-Aid!” Grama’s cheeks were pink.
“Ick! Gross!” I laughed. Sara sounded cool. “My favorite is grape,” I told Grama, who already knew this.
Grama shrugged. “I don’t have a favorite.” Her eyes twinkled.
“Grama,” I took the plunge before I got scared and backed out, “isn’t it gross to kiss a girl?” I stared hard at my hands. My knee trembled. Grama laughed and patted my hair. I looked up.
“Isn’t kissing boys gross right now too?” she asked.
I thought about it. The fun was in being chased, and the risk of getting in trouble, and the breathless excitement. The kisses themselves were actually tight little pecks barely touching hot cheeks. And they were all I wanted for now. Anything more was icky. “Yes, I guess so,” I answered.
“Well, that’s natural. Later, you’ll be attracted to someone and find pleasure in kissing him. So, don’t worry; you won’t always find it gross. And for me, Sara was the only woman I ever kissed. And we were so happy to do that. It was good for us, like vitamins. We fit together like puzzle pieces. As long as you do it with someone you love, it is never gross, always great.” Grama extracted an envelope. “Look how sentimental I am.” She laughed. “I even saved her hair. I cut some before she was cremated.” Grama peered in the envelope. She put her nose to the edge and sniffed. She touched inside with one long thin finger. “Oh, well, that’s that.” She replaced the envelope.
Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman - Romantic Interludes 2 - Secrets Page 21