by Logan Belle
Mallory rested her head on the arm of the couch, gazing up at the redhead in the photograph. She imagined herself with red hair, like the model Karen Elson. It might actually look good. She wondered what Alec would think, then remembered that it might not matter anymore.
“What’s the word for freedom, again?” Mallory asked, putting back the shot.
“Svoboda.”
“Yeah. Well, you know what they say about freedom.”
“Nothing left to lose?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t believe that,” Bette said. She set her shot glass on the coffee table. “You like those photographs?”
“Yeah. They’re amazing.”
“I have better ones to show you. Follow me.”
Mallory followed her across the living room, almost tripping over the edge of the zebra rug. She would not have another shot—two was enough.
Bette’s bedroom was painted robin’s egg blue. One entire wall was mirrored. A series of photos in black frames hung above her bed—three in an even row. From across the room Mallory knew instantly they were of Bette. That short black hair and pale ivory skin was iconic.
In the first she wore a black corset, seamed stockings, and long black opera gloves. In the next, she wore just the stockings and high red patent leather heels—her back was to the camera; she was bent over and peaking at the camera from below. The third photo showed her sitting against a white wall, wearing knee-high argyle stockings and black Mary Jane heels, with her arms crossed in front of her breasts but her legs spread to show her vagina.
“Wow. Those are . . . incredible.”
“Thanks. My friend Evangeline took them. She’s an amazing fashion and fetish photographer. Next time she’s in town I’ll introduce you.”
“Were you embarrassed to do that photo?”
“No. Why would I be embarrassed?”
“It’s so . . . personal.”
“Relationships are personal. That’s art.” She sat on the edge of the bed, then waved Mallory over to her. “Stand in front of me.”
“Why?” Mallory asked nervously.
“Because I want to look at you.”
“No,” Mallory said with a nervous laugh.
“Why not? You look at me all the time.”
“You like being looked at!”
“All women like being looked at. Some of us are just better at admitting it than others. So come on—stand in front of me.” She tugged on Mallory’s hand, and Mallory complied reluctantly. “There you go—indulge me,” Bette said with a wink. She suddenly looked as animated and excited as a school girl.
“Wait here and don’t move!” she said. “Actually, turn this way.” She tugged on Mallory so she faced the mirrored wall. “Okay—now close your eyes.”
Mallory half closed her eyes.
“No, really close them tight. I want to see wrinkles.”
“I don’t have wrinkles yet.”
“Well, close them so tight you create them! Yes—perfect. Be right back.”
Mallory heard drawers opening and closing. “Don’t open them,” Bette called from across the room.
“I’m not.” But she was dying to. For one thing, the two shots of vodka were making it hard to maintain her balance with her eyes shut.
“Keep them closed.”
Mallory could tell Bette was getting closer again, and then she felt soft fabric against her face; she was blindfolded.
“Bette! What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you the chance to be like a photograph—observed, not observing. I really think you need to let go and allow yourself to be objectified. It’s very liberating.”
“This feels a little too liberating to me. I like limits. . . . I mean, I’m a lawyer. I need boundaries . . . structure.”
“You’re not a lawyer—you failed the bar, remember? Now chill and just go with it.”
“So I should just stand here while you stare at me. And this is supposed to be liberating?”
“No, you’re supposed to stand there and take your top off. Then we’re getting somewhere.”
Mallory let out a half laugh, half giggle. “I am not taking my shirt off.”
“Of course you are. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Only if you leave the room. And I mean it—I want to hear the door close, and you have to talk to me from the other room so I know you’re out there.”
“How can you experience being observed if I’m not here to observe you, silly? Here, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll turn around while you take it off.”
“Oh, my God—as if!” Mallory was laughing now. And she was vaguely aware that for the first time for as long as she could remember, she wasn’t worried about or thinking about anything beyond the moment.
“Just do it—it will take your mind off of Alec. Seriously, if you wanted to just wallow on a couch all night, you might as well have gone to your friend’s place.”
“What friend?”
“The Stepford Wife you brought to the show with you the other night.”
“Allison? She’s not a Stepford Wife.”
“She will be—trust me. So I don’t see what you’re so afraid of—it’s not like I don’t have tits of my own. Great ones, if I say so myself.”
Mallory couldn’t argue with her there.
“Besides,” she continued. “I already saw you half-naked in the dressing room at La Petite Coquette. So just humor me and take off your shirt. Or do you want me to do it for you?”
Something about Bette’s last question made her stomach do a tiny flip. And, as if the other woman could sense that, Mallory felt Bette’s hands on the top button of her blouse.
“I like this shirt,” Bette said. “Where’s it from?”
“Thomas Pink,” Mallory said in a whisper.
She felt air on her skin, her shirt fully unbuttoned. Bette moved behind her and eased it off her shoulders. She traced her fingers down Mallory’s spine, then up again, pausing to unhook her bra. Mallory considered stopping her, but she couldn’t think of one good reason why.
Her bra fell to the floor, and she felt Bette tugging off her blindfold.
“Now look at yourself,” Bette said. Mallory opened her eyes, gazing straight ahead into the mirror. But she couldn’t look at herself—instead, she was focused on Bette, who had also removed her own T-shirt. Although Mallory had seen her naked breasts twice already, it was as if she was seeing Bette for the first time.
“Don’t look at me—look at yourself. See how beautiful you are?”
And then she reached around and cupped Mallory’s breasts. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Mallory felt something electric pulse in the center of her.
Bette brushed her fingers across Mallory’s nipples, bringing them to points. She pressed her own breasts against Mallory’s back, and Mallory felt herself grow wet.
“Turn around,” Bette breathed against her neck. Mallory moved to face her, and when Bette pressed her mouth against Mallory’s, she eagerly opened her lips. She realized she had been, on some level, imagining this moment since that first butterfly kiss in the Standard Hotel bathroom.
Bette pulled her onto the bed, easing off Mallory’s skirt and then her own jeans. Mallory felt a pang of anxiety. Was she supposed to touch Bette? She was lost. All these years of being fucked by men, and she had no idea what to do with a woman. How was that possible?
“Just be still,” Bette said, as if reading her mind. Mallory lay back, and Bette bent her mouth to Mallory’s breast. Her lips were so soft, and Mallory was aware of how warm Bette’s mouth was—it felt different than with a guy. Bette sucked and ran her tongue over Mallory’s nipple, then bit her lightly, her hands running down the inside of Mallory’s thighs. Mallory lifted her pelvis removing her underwear, shocked at how much she wanted Bette’s fingers inside of her.
Bette moved her mouth down Mallory’s stomach, kissing and licking her. Mallory arched her back, her hands in Bette’s hair. She felt Bette’s mouth ge
t closer to her pussy, and it made her tense. But why should she be nervous? Bette was a girl, too—if anything, she should be totally at ease.
And then she felt Bette’s tongue brush over her clit, then softly slide lower until she found the spot to push her tongue deep inside. Mallory cried out, arching her back and pulling Bette’s head closer. Bette moved her mouth back to Mallory’s clit, working one finger in and out.
“Oh, my God,” Mallory said, feeling her pussy clench against Bette’s finger in waves that made her whole body tremble. Bette moved back up to lie lengthwise with Mallory, the rhythm of her hand not missing a beat. Mallory kissed Bette’s mouth, licking her full lips, tasting herself on this strange and beautiful woman.
Bette sensed when Mallory was finished, and she brushed her hand softly along the outside of her pussy, kissing her breasts.
“What do you want me to do?” Mallory said.
Bette smiled at her, her fingers languidly tracing Mallory’s thigh.
“Why don’t you just watch me?”
“Really?”
“Yes. You know I like putting on a good show.”
Bette stretched out next to her, spreading her legs. Mallory felt uncomfortable watching her, but she knew it was what Bette wanted, so she kept her eyes on Bette’s hands. Bette cupped her breasts with her left hand and sucked on the middle finger of her right, then rubbed her wet finger all over her open pussy. To her surprise, Mallory felt herself getting excited again.
“I changed my mind,” Bette said, her fingers skimming over her clit. “I want you to touch me.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Mallory said.
“Lie next to me.” Mallory moved across the bed and pressed her body against Bette’s. They kissed, their mouths wide and hungry for each other, and Mallory let herself feel the wetness between Bette’s legs. Bette took her hand and pressed it firmly into her pussy, and Mallory gingerly slipped a finger inside of her.
“Yes,” Bette breathed, and Mallory’s stomach did a tiny flip. Bette guided her hand, pulling it up to massage her clit, then returning it to her center. Mallory moved her finger in and out, and felt Bette clench hard around her hand. Mallory wondered if this was what Alec felt when he was doing the same thing to her.
Bette climaxed with a shudder, and when Mallory withdrew from her, Bette took her wet fingers and pressed them into Mallory’s mouth. They locked eyes, and Mallory knew she wanted her to lick her finger, to taste her. She hesitated a second, then sucked Bette’s stickiness from her hand. Bette sat up and kissed her deeply, then pulled her down to lie with her against her pillows.
“I’m a little freaked out,” Mallory confessed, her head against Bette’s shoulder. She could feel the rise and fall of Bette’s chest as she breathed, and she was surprised by this intimacy more than by the sexual encounter they’d just shared. She thought of Bette the way she had first seen her, this unimaginably remote creature who seemed almost unreal. And here she was beside her in bed.
“Why? Because I’m a woman?”
“Well, yes. That. And because I haven’t been with anyone except Alec in four years.”
Bette rolled over to face her.
“I don’t think you should tell him about this.”
“I have to—I can’t just keep something like this from him. That makes it like I cheated on him or something.”
“I hate to break it to you, darlin’, but he most certainly will see this as cheating on him.”
“No, he won’t. He wanted me to sleep with you.”
“Yeah—with him there. I see your logic, but trust me, you will not get a free pass because of that.”
“Oh, God. I’ve just made things worse. Now I have to sort out the fight and deal with this.”
“Blame it on the vodka. Do you have any Russian in you? I mean, aside from when I’m fucking you . . .”
“Bette, I’m serious! I love Alec. I don’t want to lose him. I think I should just deal with the fight we had tonight, work through that, and then when things are better on that front, tell him that I kind of hooked up with you.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
They both stared at the ceiling.
“You are really hot, by the way,” Bette said, rolling over and kissing her cheek. “I’m going to take a shower and get some sleep. I have to be at the club at noon for Agnes to fit me for a costume, then to practice a new act I’m trying out tomorrow night. Want me to make up the couch for you? Or you can sleep here if you want. I’m not great at sharing a bed, though.”
“The couch would be great,” Mallory said, knowing full well she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
9
Mallory tossed her bag on the sofa, and dropped her coat in a heap on top of it.
“Hello? Alec, are you here?”
It was almost eight o’clock at night, and the day of silence between them had been agonizing. She’d called him twice from the office but got his voice mail. She couldn’t wait another minute to finish the conversation that had escalated into a fight, then find a way to move on.
Mallory sank into the sofa, trying to remember the last time she’d been so exhausted. Maybe the night she pulled an all-nighter junior year. Or the first weekend she spent with Alec when she was so excited to be next to him she couldn’t sleep. Last night was the same—she would doze off for a short while, then wake with a start, realizing where she was, her body still feeling the thrill of Bette.
She’d slept on Bette’s couch, under the picture of the redhead. She had dreamt she colored her hair, but it came out bright purple. The firm sent her home for the day and told her not to come back until she looked like a lawyer, so she left, but when she arrived home in the dream, she looked like Bette, and Alec told her he could never be in love with a lesbian.
She heard the key in the door, and Alec walked in, clearly happy to see her.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
He took his time putting his coat in the closet. When he turned to face her, his expression was warm but guarded.
“I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk,” he said.
“I know.”
He crossed the room and pulled her into a hug. It felt so good to be held against him, to breathe his familiar Alec smell, to feel the brush of his lips against her temple. This is love, she thought.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said, sitting next to her on the couch. “I was way too harsh. I was thinking about it after you left, and I thought about texting you, but I decided to let us both have the night to cool down. Did you stay at Julie’s?”
“Um, Alec, I really feel bad about last night.”
“It was my fault. I know you’re not a quitter, and if you are this unhappy at the firm, we will talk about it and figure out a way to fix it. I love you—I want you to be as happy in your career as I am in mine. I thought you had that with your law career. It seems impulsive just to change your mind about something after you’ve invested all these years.”
“I know. I’ve thought that too. But until I got into the firm, I had no idea what it really meant to be a lawyer. I love the law; I like the ideas behind it. . . . I liked learning it. I just don’t want to spend my life practicing it. So a part of me is thinking, if I know this now, why spend another five years going down the wrong path? Won’t it just be harder and more of a waste to leave then?”
“What else would you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I think you should give it some more time—see if you can figure out something else. But until then, try to give this your best shot. Certainly don’t make a decision until after you’ve taken the bar again. I know you’re going to ace it, and I want you to experience that, so you stop feeling so bad about what happened in August.”
He hugged her again, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips. He moved his hand inside her blouse, and when his fingers brushed her nipples she thought of Bette.
“Alec,” she said, pulling back.
<
br /> “It’s fine, baby. We’ll figure it out,” he breathed, his mouth moving down her neck.
“Wait—I need to tell you something.”
She pulled back, taking his hand and leading him to the couch.
“I was really upset last night. You and I are supposed to be able to talk about anything, and I was admitting something to you that was hard for me even to admit to myself, and you freaked out. I left here, and I tried calling Julie, and she didn’t pick up, and Allison wasn’t around. I even went down to Allison’s building. I didn’t want to come back here, so I thought of calling Bette, and luckily she was home.”
“You called Bette Noir?”
“Yeah. I saw her yesterday, and I’d started telling her about my job situation and she was so understanding. . . .”
“Well, I’m glad she was there for you. It’s a bit odd that out of all people she’s the one who you ended up confiding in, but so be it.” He reached out and stroked her hair.
“Yeah. Well, it was a little more than confiding.”
He stopped touching her.
“What do you mean?”
“This is hard for me to explain, Alec. I was upset—not just about the fight last night, but about the way things have been between us since I got to New York.”
“What do you mean, how things have been since you got to New York?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”
“I feel less close to you. I feel like an appendage to your life here instead of really being a part of it. Part of the reason I let myself get pulled on stage the night of my birthday was because I thought, on some level, it would make you finally see me. I don’t feel like you want me physically the way you used to. . . .”
“I think our sex life is as good—if not better—than ever.”