Southern Girl Series: Bohemain Girl, Neighbor Girl & Intern Girl

by Cates, Georgia

  Ignorant fuckers.

  I mentioned changing my name one time, really just as a joke, and Lawrence nearly stroked. She said that I couldn’t because I was her Ollie.

  “Although I love both names, that’s really sad.”

  “I have to laugh about it because it’s so fucking stupid. And the alternative of laughing is so much worse.”

  It would eat me alive if I allowed it. I refuse to let that kind of trash make me miserable for the rest of my life.

  “It’s a little surprising your birth parents only had you and your sister. People like that usually have a bunch of kids.”

  “True. I’ve thought that too. They were fifteen when Lawrence was born, nineteen with me, which is a long time for teenagers who lack the common sense and inclination to use birth control.”

  “Good Lord. They still needed parenting when they became parents.”

  From what I remember, our grandparents weren’t much different than Jimmy and Christie. Just older addicts and abusers.

  “I’m not really sure why they didn’t have a trailer full of kids. That would have meant more welfare. A bigger payday. I guess we can thank nature for taking care of it for them.”

  “Nature has a way of doing that sometimes.”

  “You know from experience?”

  Adelyn hesitates a moment before replying. “I was pregnant with Martin’s baby when I left him. It didn’t survive his attack.”

  “Holy shit, Adelyn.”

  “I didn’t know I was pregnant until I woke up in the hospital and they told me I’d lost the baby. At the time, the miscarriage felt like nothing more than a medical diagnosis. I know that sounds cold, and like nothing you’d expect to hear from a mother, but I never had the experiences that go along with finding out you’re pregnant. It was already dead and gone from my body by the time I found out. For me, it was as though it never existed.”

  “That makes him a killer. Maybe not in the traditional sense of the word but the outcome was still death.”

  The anniversary marking her almost death is also a reminder of the baby she lost. “Regardless of the circumstances surrounding the child, that couldn’t be easy to deal with.”

  “I’ve spent more time in therapy than any one person should.”

  The abuse. Her near death. Loss of her baby. Her brother’s death. That’s a lot for one person. How is she so self-contained? So lively? So… incredible?

  “Therapy is how I got turned on to baking. My therapist suggested I try something constructive. At times, I think it’s the only reason I don’t lose my mind completely.” Adelyn draws a deep breath and exhales slowly. “But you know what? This is not first-date material.”

  I smile. She is right, though, and I don’t want her to be sad tonight. “Do you think the dough is ready?”

  “I hope so because I’m starving.” She gets up and reaches for my hand. “Come on, pizzaiolo. Let’s go make some pizza.”

  * * *

  Motherfucker.

  There’s no way I’m in a drag bar watching this. Except I am. And I will never hear the end of it if Lucas and Porter find out I was in a drag club.

  A tall, voluptuous blond named Pussy Galore introduces himself… herself… as the host for the evening. She’s decked out in a fully sequined dress, wig, cosmetics. And her tits are enormous. “What’s going on with the chest situation?”

  Adelyn tilts her head and lifts a brow. “Is someone drag-curious?”

  Does that mean the same thing as bi-curious? “No. Just plain ol’ curious.”

  “It’s different from person to person. Some take female hormones. Some have undergone full-on sexual reassignment. Some have male parts with breast implants. Some are plain men who’ve done nothing besides glitter and sequins.”

  “The ones without real tits stuff their bra?” I use the word real loosely.

  “Well, yeah, but not like a prepubescent girl. No socks or tissues. A lot of them buy the same products as women who’ve had mastectomies.”

  I don’t understand this. The thought of dressing like a woman has zero appeal to me. I don’t want to ever be or look like one. I only want to be inside one. And often.

  But I guess the same can be said for these men. A lot of them probably have zero desire to ride a motorcycle or pound their fists into a punching bag or slide their dicks into a tight, wet pussy.

  Or maybe they do those things and this too. I don’t know and I don’t really care. I’m only here because Adelyn asked me to come.

  Pussy Galore announces a group of five performers as they dash onto stage. “Damn. They move fast in those fuck-me pumps.”

  “I’ve been wearing heels for fifteen years, and there’s no way in hell I could do that without turning an ankle.”

  The group breaks into song and dances to “It’s Raining Men” and it couldn’t be more fitting. “The first performance of the night is always a group.”

  There’s one African-American performer in the group on stage. “Is that Maurice?”

  “No. He’s probably in the dressing room putting on the final touches of his makeup.”

  “What did he say when you told him you were bringing me?”

  “I didn’t tell him. I want it to be a surprise.”

  I can’t imagine getting on stage and doing something like this is easy. “Would he be nervous if he knew we were coming to see him perform?”

  “No. Maurice doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of him; therefore, he doesn’t get nervous. I thought it would be in your best interest if he didn’t know ahead of time.”

  “My best interest? What does that mean?”

  Adelyn laughs. “You’ll see.”

  Pussy Galore returns to the stage when the first performance is over. “And now, ladies and gentleman, put your perfectly manicured hands together for one of our club favorites. Miss Wet Me Houston.”

  The crowd erupts into cheers and catcalls. Big time. “Looks like the crowd loves Wet Me.”

  “Yes, they do. She’s very interactive with the audience.”

  “Which is it? He or she?” Adelyn is confusing me bouncing back and forth between the two.

  “Different for everyone. Maurice hasn’t had sexual reassignment or breast implants so he’s fine with being referred to as he. But it’s she when he’s in drag.”

  This is confusing as hell. I thought he wore feminine clothes all the time. Is that not considered drag?

  I immediately recognize the Whitney Houston song Maurice is going to sing. “All the Man I Need.”

  “You said he was interactive with the audience. What does that mean?”

  “Relax. Sit back. Enjoy the show.”

  I’m not sure I like that mischievous grin on her face right now.

  Maurice, or Wet Me, comes onto stage and I’m shocked by how genuinely feminine he looks. He isn’t tall and gangly like a lot of the queens. I would totally think he was a female if I saw him out on the street. “He looks just like a woman.”

  “I know. Pretty amazing, right?”

  He opens his mouth and I’d swear it’s a woman’s voice. “That’s his real voice?”

  “Yup.”

  “That is crazy.” Makes me wonder how many times I’ve seen a woman who isn’t really a woman.

  One of my fraternity brothers was making out with a girl one time and she turned out to not be a girl at all. I always thought it was bullshit, that maybe he was gay and trying to hide it after getting caught. But I see now how it might be possible to get it wrong.

  Wet Me comes off stage and snakes her way through the crowd. She briefly stops at the tables in her path and flirts with men not in drag. Touching them. Serenading them.

  She zigzags around the tables, and I know I’m in deep shit when she stops at ours.

  Oh. Fuck. No.

  She’s wearing a headpiece mic so her hands are completely free. Free to remove her feather boa and toss it over my head. Free to pull me toward her. Free to plop down in my lap and put her ar
ms around my neck.

  I’ve never, never, never had a fucking dude in my lap. Ever.

  Adelyn holds up her phone to take a picture and I shake my head. “Fuck no,” I mouth.

  She smiles and says something, but I can’t hear her over the music and singing in my ear.

  I’m not going to be a dick about taking a picture with her friend. I lean in for the photo and Wet Me presses her face to mine while she continues to sing about all the man she needs.

  All right, Maurice. I’m going along with the picture but don’t push it. You’re still a guy with a dick and you’re sitting in my lap.

  I’m grateful when Wet Me gets up and moves on to the next table. “Did you know she would do that to me?”

  “I had high hopes.” She turns her phone around and shows me the picture she took of us. “That is nothing but awesome sauce.”

  Fuck no, it’s not. “No one sees that. Ever.”

  “Don’t worry, Thorn. Just another secret to add to our growing collection.”

  The audience applauds like crazy when Wet Me finishes her song. “You’ve been a really good sport about coming here. Most straight guys wouldn’t set foot in this place.”

  “It was entertaining. Maurice, or Wet Me, is very good, but I can’t say I want to come here for our second date.”

  Adelyn tries to hide her smile behind her hand. Unsuccessful. “There’s going to be a second date, huh?”

  “I’m hopeful.”

  “What do you say we go backstage and see Maurice before his next act so we can slip out and continue this first date elsewhere?”

  Hell yeah. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  Adelyn leads me to the back of the club. Many people call out to her, giving hugs, kisses, and saying “Hello, darling” as we pass. All while eyeing me.

  I’m blocked by a brunette queen who meets me eye to eye. It feels very confrontational and I might find it a little intimidating if I weren’t confident in my ability to defend myself.

  “Hey, newbie.”

  “Hello.”

  “Back off, Cherry. He’s with me.”

  “Just looking, doll.” Her eyes roam my body from top to… crotch. “Mmm. We don’t get many like him in here.”

  “Leave him alone. He’s straight.”

  “Honey, they all say that.”

  Adelyn grabs my hand, and we push through the crowd. I’m not at all comfortable with the level of physical contact happening as we pass. And then it happens. “Whoa. Fuck. Somebody just grabbed my dick.”

  There’s only one person in this place who has my consent to do that, and it wasn’t her hand on my cock.

  “Ah, shit. I’m sorry.” She moves in front of me and backs up until my cock is shoved against her ass. “Press against me so that doesn’t happen again.”

  F.U.C.K.

  My body is smashed against hers but it’s impossible to move together without breaking contact. The more I try to walk with her, the more we counteract and I end up unintentionally thrusting my cock against her ass with every step.

  My now rock-hard cock.

  I’m in a drag club with a huge hard-on.

  Nothing about that is right.

  I’m still behind Adelyn with my hands firmly on her hips when she knocks on the door to a dressing room. “It’s Addie.”

  “Get in here, darlin’. And bring that motherfucking delicious honey with you.”

  This isn’t Wet Me. This is Maurice.

  “First of all, bitch. Why the hell are you bouncing up in here without calling some-damn-body first?”

  “If you knew we were coming, you’d have done something far more outrageous than give Oliver a lap dance.”

  “True. You were right to not call.” Maurice looks me over. “So this is your Oliver Thorn?”

  Her Oliver Thorn? What has she said about me to give him that impression?

  “Good to meet you. Enjoyed the show.”

  Maurice looks at my hands cupped over my crotch. “Liked me sitting on your lap that much, huh?”

  “Umm…” How the hell do I answer that? Any reply is going to confirm I have a hard-on.

  Come on. Go down. Go down. Go down.

  Fuck. The more I think about it, the harder it gets.

  “Behave, Maury. Oliver got violated on the way back here. We had to use my ass as a shield to keep hands off him.”

  He uses the eyeliner pencil in his hand to point at my crotch. “And your honey looks like he hated the fuck out of that.”

  “Maury. You’re being wildly inappropriate. You’re embarrassing me. And Oliver too, I’m sure.”

  “Come on, girl. You want him. He wants you. We aren’t in eighth grade so there’s no reason to get embarrassed over a stiffy.”

  She wants me? Did she tell him that?

  “Your ass is fired, Maury.”

  “What… ever.” He waves his hand as if to dismiss his termination. “This is the third time she’s fired me this week alone. Always an empty threat.”

  “Stop talking shit to Oliver, or it’s going to be for real. You’ll have to be Wet Me every night to make a living.”

  “Okay. Okay. No more shit talk.” Maurice turns his back to Adelyn, and without saying a word she unzips the back of his dress for him.

  “How many more songs tonight?”

  “Two.”

  “We’re gonna take off but I wanted you to meet before we go.”

  Maurice drops his dress to the floor and beneath it he’s clad in all kinds of lingerie. Bra-corselet thing. Panties. Garter belt. Thigh highs. Everything I love seeing on a woman.

  Damn. This dude could fool a guy.

  Temporarily.

  “I hate that y’all are leaving but I understand.” Maurice steps into a strapless, red formal gown and spins. Without a word, Adelyn zips him. I get the feeling she’s done this more than once. “What’s the plan?”

  “Night swim.”

  “Mmm… you’ll be freshly fucked for work in the morning. Do her good, Oliver. She’s always cranky as hell on Mondays. A real pain in my ass.”

  Adelyn sighs and holds up her hands. “I’m so done here. Let’s go.”

  “If she’s not wearing a smile in the morning, I’ll know you didn’t do your job right, Oliver Thorn.”

  I have so many responses for that comment, but I choose to keep all of them to myself.

  Adelyn grabs my hand. “We’re going out the back door.”

  “Fine by me.” I don’t have a desire to get groped again.

  Maurice calls out to Adelyn. “Love you, darling.”

  She growls. “Love you, Flamer.”

  The back hall is far less crowded so we’re able to make a fast exit. “You call him Flamer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that not offensive?”

  “I can call him Flamer. You can’t. Unless you become good friends. Which I highly doubt you want to do after that display of foolishness. I’m sorry about that, but he’s flamboyant. The thought of holding back never occurs to him.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be a filter there.”

  “No filter. That’s the perfect way to put it. And you never have to be around him again if you don’t want to.”

  Maurice is a big part of her life. Avoiding him would be difficult.

  There is something I’ve realized the last few weeks. I like being around Adelyn Maxwell. It doesn’t matter what we are doing, I like spending time with her. And I plan on being around a lot. In fact, the thought of not being around her feels wrong. “I don’t think that Maurice and I will be riding motorcycles or boxing together, but I can handle seeing him from time to time.”

  “You make it super easy to like you.”

  “I don’t have to work too hard at liking you either.”

  I use the cab ride home to think about the things Maurice said.

  You want him. He wants you.

  Mmm… you’ll be freshly fucked for work in the morning.

  Do her good, Oliver.


  If she’s not wearing a smile in the morning, I’ll know you didn’t do your job right, Oliver Thorn.

  I have no idea what’s going to happen tonight. But if I’m a lucky motherfucker, Adelyn will give me the chance to make her wear a smile to work in the morning.

  8

  Adelyn Maxwell

  I’m going to kill Maurice. But first I’m going to grab his balls and yank them over his ears. He can wear them like dangling earrings. That would damn sure be flamboyant.

  I can’t believe Maurice said those things. He’s wrong for embarrassing me like that, even if everything he said was right.

  I do want Oliver.

  I’d love to be freshly fucked for work in the morning.

  I’d love for him to do me good.

  I’d love to be wearing an Oliver-issued smile in the morning.

  Three years ago, if a man like Oliver waltzed into my life, I wouldn’t have been this confident. Oliver has awakened something within me that had been dormant. It’s as if only he can bring that part of me alive again. I need it. I want him.

  It’s time to work on that.

  “You grab the beer. I’ll get the towels, and we’ll meet at the pool.”

  I don’t mention anything about him going home to get his trunks because they’re unnecessary. We’re skinny-dipping tonight.

  “On it.”

  I certainly hope so.

  I turn on one exterior light in addition to the one in the pool so we’re not in complete darkness. Skinned-up knees from tripping isn’t sexy. And a fall might prevent me from kneeling later.

  “We need music.”

  “No Whitney Houston, please. It could cause some seriously unwelcome flashbacks.”

  I laugh. “Okay. No Whitney. What about Singer-Songwriters radio?”

  “Sounds good.”

  A slow, seductive song begins. It couldn’t have worked out better if I’d chosen it myself.

  Oliver’s sitting on the edge of a lounger, unmoving. Is he waiting for some kind of confirmation this is actually happening? That we’re really getting naked?