by Lee Lynch
Chantal lay perfectly still, lips against Annie’s palm, but her breathing had quickened. She moved her hands up Chantal’s arms. “You’re so soft. I’ve never felt such a luxury of woman in my life.” She’d never thought she’d like anything but the firm angular grace of her other lovers, but Chantal, Chantal was like a life-size down pillow, like heaped flower petals, like a celebration of womanly curves and recesses.
“You’re like me.” Not that she carried as much weight as Chantal on that short a frame. “I always wished I’d gotten one of those tall thin bodies. It’s humiliating, tiptoeing up to kiss a woman, being the one, now that I’m over forty, with the larger breasts, the padded hips. Tonight I finally understand why other women don’t mind my padding.”
Marie-Christine flashed like lightning into her mind. Hadn’t she broken her spell playing with Jo Barker? It was difficult not to regret the contrast. There had never been a hesitation with that one. She’d always been drunk with lust for Marie-Christine, a walking libido, wondrous at her every glance, willing at her every touch. She’d thrown herself at Marie-Christine, acting the classic fool, unknowing, uncaring that her wanton homage was to no goddess, but to a myth her desire kept alive.
“Sugar?” breathed Chantal into the heat of Annie’s night. “Sugar?” Chantal said more loudly. “There’s such a thing as playing fair.”
Chantal, Annie thought as her hands roamed the curves, a woman of substance, not a myth. A full whole woman, ripe with gifts and heavy with needs. An anchor, not a sail. They would fight the het wars together.
“Who’s playing? I feel like sugar, warm pink spun sugar, cotton candy-headed, sweet on you, stuck to you, ready to be nibbled by your soft mouth. Turn over,” she said, gruff because she spoke with the grit of sugar on her tongue. “No, don’t,” she said then and caught Chantal.
“Let up, then, Sugar.”
“Stay where you are,” Annie told her, as she loosed Chantal’s arms and slipped her hands up to the vault of shoulders, down to the padding above the breasts, then to the lavish breasts themselves, at last. She cupped those abundant offerings, shaped smooth as warm water by the gown. She just held them, as if considering the essence of the physical Chantal, then sought the nipples, touched the tender little things lightly, lightly till they tiptoed to kiss her fingertips.
Chantal not saying a word, but rolling with her. Annie, finally, couldn’t keep still; her whole body followed her tremulous arms, her lips insatiable on Chantal’s neck. Her pubis brushed wantonly back and forth on Chantal’s rounded bottom, every contact a spark. She wondered if she would, for the first time in memory, come like this, if she should let Chantal know, if it was all the tension of these months, or that Chantal was really so exciting, holding back like she was, obviously trying not to scare Annie off. “Chantal,” she said. “Chantal.”
“Annie. You feel so good. Touch me, touch me everywhere, don’t take your body away.”
Their words became mostly unintelligible, but Annie’s hands knew what they wanted. She molded Chantal’s hips, her belly. She returned to her breasts, lifted them, flattened them, teased the nipples until Chantal couldn’t stay still.
She worked Chantal’s gown, Chantal whose body followed her hands as if they were magnets, a degree right, left, forward, back, worked the gown up to Chantal’s waist.
A woman’s fragrance, Annie thought, the potent perfume of a woman wanting her. Goddess, it was delicious to be doing this again she thought, as she slipped her hand to Chantal’s front and Chantal moved one leg to let her inside. There was nothing like this in the world, this woman opening for her and she slipped her fingers between Chantal’s legs, like a waterslide Chantal was so moist. She found her lips, fingered them, then the avid little stem of her, with one finger and slithered lower to slip the finger inside, then quickly out, then in again, back to the stem of the woman, Chantal now wild with little movements, a long high sound from her throat, from her heart perhaps and pushing forward, down to Annie’s fingers, two of them, up and down, hands scrabbling back to touch Annie anywhere, to hang onto her. With a great exhalation Chantal became for a moment still on Annie’s fingers, her channel clenching inside, until she began a rocking back and forth and then a sharp inhale, exhale, inhale—”Sugar!” Chantal cried and collapsed.
Annie lay against Chantal’s back, panting, like she’d seen animals pant, eyes shut, aware of Chantal’s heat and pleasure and her own inner quivering.
Chantal twisted in her arms, pushed her by the shoulders down. “You’ve played so hard to get I feel like I’m flipping you, woman,” Chantal breathed into her mouth.
“No,” Annie tried to say. “I was scared.”
“You scared now?”
“No. You feel so, so—familiar. Like we grew up together.” Chantal was rough with her, resolute, never giving her space to protest or waver. Heavier, Chantal used that to her advantage when Annie, with her first-time ambivalence, tried to change her mind. Chantal held her wrists while she kissed Annie everywhere she could reach, her demanding stubbornness sexy as heck. Annie, strung like wire now, her pajamas sopped, wanted Chantal between her legs, but couldn’t say it.
“What do you want, Sugar?” Chantal asked.
“Chantal.”
“I know that. Where, Sugar, tell me. I want you to tell me where. How?”
Annie shook her head.
Chantal let her wrists go, kissed her some more, unbuttoned Annie’s pajamas and lifted her own gown off. “Oh,” said Annie at the sight of her. Chantal pressed herself down. “Geez,” she said at the feel of the woman on her at last. She tried to reach between them, to touch Chantal again.
“No way, Sugar. I’m doing you.” Chantal straddled her, a sight that stirred Annie’s heart to double-time. “Keep those magic hands to yourself,” Chantal told her, “before you make me crazy again.”
Annie smiled and reached. Chantal slapped her hands away. “I mean it, Sugar, I want you to talk to me, tell me.”
“I can’t.” Desire flooded out of her as if Chantal had opened a drain.
“Why?” Chantal asked, stopping.
“It’s embarrassing.”
“I’m not trying to be a perfectionist interior decorator.”
Was that true? “It’s not you. I’ve never talked about stuff like that.”
“So you’re shy in bed,” Chantal said. “Your body will tell me, won’t you, pretty body?” Chantal teased, dipping to touch her lips to a nipple.
Annie surprised herself with a sharp intake of breath. She imagined Chantal with some shadowy woman lover, and the explicit words between them.
Chantal was lying atop her, plush pelvis to pelvis. She began a rhythmic slide that pulled Annie’s clitoris north, south, east and west. “Or are you shy? Maybe,” she probed, “you don’t want to own up to feeling good. I think you want to pretend that this might all be one big mistake so you can slink off into the shadows and worry that you’ve done the wrong thing.” Opulent Chantal kept riding her pelvis, rubbing against her clitoris, too hard for her to come, but tantalizing her. “Tell me, Sugar.”
She shook her head, but Chantal kept on, their breasts grazing every time Chantal moved. The eloquence of Chantal’s body above her own—round breasts to round breasts, curved belly brushing curved belly, Chantal’s lavish white hips kissing hers—this was the stuff of a fantasy she’d never imagined. Annie shook her head again, a denial of pleasure. Chantal was right. No, I’m not feeling this, you’re not giving me this, I owe you nothing. “Chantal!”
’What, Sugar? Stop? More? Harder? Lighter? I’m giving you the words, Sugar, tell me and you can have it.”
It frightened her so much, this asking. What would happen to her now? “Chantal? Chantal?” She couldn’t stand it. “Chantal, your hand now—”
“Yeah,” Chantal breathed, smiling, eyes closed. Chantal lifted on untiring arms, never stopping her motion, lifted higher, lay beside her, fingers circling like sticky feathers, touching like butterfly l
ips. Did butterflies have lips? And it was happening, outside first, then deeper. Those short fingers danced on her with delicate, unremitting speed. She’d never let the feeling in so far before. When had she thrown her arms around Chantal? She was coming apart, her goddamn soul was coming, she thought as she crushed Chantal to herself, grinding against her, legs going every which way.
The next thing she knew, she was crying again, Chantal’s hands caressing her head. She’d blanked out. Lost control? Never, never, even with the best.
She looked at Chantal. “Oh, my god,” she said as Chantal gathered her to her softness.
The best. She’d never expected that of Chantal. She trembled and let herself be held, worrying that she was too old for ecstasy. Chantal would wear her out.
She never heard the twelve-fifty six go by.
Chapter Eighteen
Monday morning they got up early and stopped at Chantal’s house so she could dress for work. Annie was banished to the kitchen where Ralph cooked them up a quick breakfast of eggs, Jones sausages, dollar-sized pancakes, real maple syrup, fresh juice and Oolong tea. The kitchen was cool, its heat swept away by a sudden shower that had fallen in the middle of the night, waking them both just long enough to murmur into each other’s lips.
“Won’t he make someone happy?” Chantal said when she came into the kitchen.
All morning at work, Annie found herself whistling, pleased by Chantal and amused at the little fellow Chantal had managed to raise into a 1950s sort of housewife.
“You look like you got up on the right side of somebody’s bed this morning,” said Cece in the break room. “I wonder whose?”
“You’re looking more chipper yourself, Cece.”
“I pick up my car tonight.”
“Car,” Annie said, puzzled. “Car? Isn’t that a little tame for your image?”
Cece brought her Thermos of coffee over to Annie’s table. “I keep trying to tell you about it, girl, but since I switched to taking the bus to be with my Hope, the only times I see you, you’ve been, you know, out of it or something.”
“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
“I hear you. It’s this turning forty-five business that sold me on the car.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“Next month. Every winter it gets colder on the bike, you know? And Hope doesn’t have wheels because of the epilepsy. So, well, Louie got me a great deal on this little Geo Tracker, like a midget Jeep? It is bad.”
“Planning on keeping your job, then?”
Cece glanced sideways at her. “I’ll fight those bigots for it. Things quiet down on Rafferty Street?”
“Paris and Venita are bringing Gussie home this morning before their classes.” She hadn’t talked with Chantal about announcing what had happened last night, but she had to struggle not to grin.
“Yeah?” Cece asked, inviting more.
“I feel like life’s righting itself after another little spill. Let the fuckers try and knock me over again.”
“Go for it, Heaphy.”
“I’ll be giving notice next week if you have someone else in mind for my job.”
“I’ve got as many queers lined up to work for Kurt as he has homophobes.”
Ralph came to Rafferty Street evenings and cooked them low-fat meals that kept even Gussie happy. Annie’s sense of well-being became something akin to serenity. Chantal stayed over again. Things hadn’t been quite as hot knowing Gussie was downstairs, but they’d managed to whisper and laugh well past the twelve-fifty-six train. She was groggy Friday morning when one of the pair of co-workers she’d met the first day, Mutt or Jeff—the tall thin one with the chipped tooth—approached, pushing a light green flyer at her.
“The Selectmen are voting next week,” the woman told her. “We’re going to let them know Morton River won’t stand by for those militant homosexuals to worm their way in.”
Annie came wide-awake very quickly. “Militant? Worm?”
“Who wants homosexuals teaching our kids?”
The woman was acting perfectly pleasant. Could it be that the straights at Medipak really didn’t know? “You mean you want them to grant licenses only to facilities that discriminate,” she said.
“You have to discriminate against their kind. I don’t want some pervert within a mile of my four kids. I’m sorry you don’t have kids of your own, but you can add your voice to us who do. Especially for those poor retarded people who can’t defend themselves.”
She was paralyzed with anger. Her insides had turned to burning mush. She stared at the woman. Amy was the name on her Velcro patch. “I don’t get it. Just two nights ago, there was this big deal in the paper about a priest getting caught for abusing a little girl. How come you’re not storming the Catholic Church?”
“Because this is what’s on my plate. The Lord wants these liberals and feminazis and homosexuals put in their places. When it’s time to work against the priests, I’ll do that too.”
What was the look in Amy’s eyes? It wasn’t fear, not even hatred. It looked like a cold android blankness, all pleasantness programmed out now. Annie had a sudden rush of compassion for all the scared people like Amy.
“You really think there’s a conspiracy between liberals and feminists and gays?”
“Can my husband get a promotion when there’s a black working there? No. Are there girls in my boys’ Scout troop? Yes. Can you trust that president?”
“You think the Selectmen will bring back the good old days?”
“I’ll fight tooth and nail for my kids.”
No one at the Farm talked like this. The prejudice at Medipak felt a lot more dangerous than Judy’s clumsiness under pressure. As Annie entered the break room, many of the workers were reading the green flyers. Nicole had folded hers into a paper airplane and menaced Louie with it. Where was Chantal? The clerical staff took break right after the packers. If she could get rid of Amy and linger…
“Will you be there?” Amy asked.
“No,” she answered, trying to keep defensiveness from her tone. “It’s illegal, what you’re trying to do.”
“We’ll change the laws then.”
“Look, this doesn’t make any sense,” she started, but she knew she was just avoiding what she had to do. “Amy, do you actually know any gay people?”
Amy looked stern. “Of course not.”
A-mazing. She tried to match Amy’s sternness. “If someone you knew, not some stranger carrying a banner on TV, if it was a co-worker or neighbor who might lose a job because of screening, would you want that to happen?”
“Like who?” asked Amy, a sly look breaking through the blankness.
Crap, she thought. “You would, wouldn’t you?” Over Amy’s head, she caught sight of Chantal coming downstairs, flyer in hand. How could she quit and leave Chantal here alone? She couldn’t come out. She’d expose Chantal too.
Amy tossed her flyers on a cafeteria table. “Take some for your family. I have to go upstairs for a planning meeting.”
Then Annie saw Mrs. Kurt coming down the stairs from the offices, stopping to chat with Amy, a pleasant smile on her face. There was no place to hide. Mrs. Kurt looked directly at her, stumbled backwards and screamed, “Kurt!” She charged up the stairs. “Daddy!”
Fuck her, Annie thought, giving a jocular wave and silly smile.
She moved toward her lover. “I won’t do this, Chantal. Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean I should choke to death on all my fear and anger. Maddy’s right. Paris is right. People have always despised us. Now we’re fund-raising fodder for power-hungry, soul-grabbing men. They give permission to the Amys to hate out loud. I want to talk to Kurt.”
“Okay, Sugar.” Chantal’s forehead was wrinkled. “It’s really like the AIDS activists say, silence equals death. Am I the sort of person who would have stood by and watched Nazis take away my Jewish friends and relatives? I don’t like to think so. My great-grandmother was Jewish. Then why would I let this happen to m
yself? To Ralph? To you? I’ll come with you.”
“You sure? What about your mortgage?”
“Sugar, you weren’t going to protect me anymore, right?
“The stakes are a little higher, Chantal. Remember you said I couldn’t hide from Mrs. Kurt forever?”
“I saw her organizing this whole screening push. Did she see you?” Annie nodded. “She recognized you?”
Annie had to laugh. “Went screeching up the stairs like I was a lesbian ax murderer.”
“That’s why she was screaming! But no, Annie, I’m not backing off. After all, you’ve spared my life so far, ax murderer or not.”
She turned serious. “Whatever happens up there, Chantal, this has been a really great week for me,” she said.
Chantal led her up the stairs. “For me too. And, you know what, Annie Heaphy?” Chantal stopped at mid-stairs and turned to her. “I’ll stick with you wherever you work.”
Annie managed a small smile. “That’s just what I needed to hear, Chantal.” They started up again. “Boy, do I hate this return to reality.”
“It’s all reality, Sugar. Even the good stuff.”
“There you are!” Kurt said, suddenly emerging from his office. “I just got a call from the floor—”
“I know I’m late, but I have to talk to you, Kurt.” Her stomach had never hurt so much.
Mrs. Kurt emerged from a room, saw Annie and tried to get her husband’s attention.
“I told you, Paula, not now.”
Mrs. Kurt said, “But Daddy.”
“Five minutes, Paula. Let’s make this snappy,” Kurt said to Chantal and Annie.
He didn’t ask them to sit. She felt like a grade-schooler called to the principal’s office. When Chantal didn’t speak first, Annie found her toughest cabbie voice and announced, “It’s about the flyers being handed out by some of the crew.”
“They have my permission,” he snapped.
“That’s part of the problem, Kurt. Some of us aren’t exactly in favor of the city setting up discriminatory standards. As a matter of fact, I think it’s really bad news, especially with the company taking sides like this.”