Best Lesbian Romance 2014

by Radclyffe

  “You…first…”

  “No.” It’s a moan. “You.”

  I’m not sure which one of us starts first, just that one triggers the other, and back again, and again. We build on each other’s joy, a twining spiral of fever pitch and release.

  “I love you,” she whispers, and I’m sure I will always remember that sound, and the catch in my own throat as I say it back to her.

  Now, exhausted, I finally sleep.

  I’m busy the next few days, so it’s a while before I have the chance to look through the box of photos. I curl up on the sofa with another cup of tea. Kathy’s already there, feet propped up, laptop keys clicking as she works.

  She puts down the computer and sets her glasses on her nose. They’re from the dollar store, shocking green, and she wears them on a beaded chain she made. I don’t need reading glasses—yet—but I borrow them a couple of times to look at some of the older photos where the faces are small and a little blurred.

  Then I pull out one, and in my own intake of breath I can hear the echo of my mother’s gasp from the other day, when she saw Kathy.

  Kathy plucks the photo out of my hand. Her eyes widen.

  “Yeah,” I say. “So, are you a vampire or a time-traveling alien?”

  The picture is of my mom, I’m guessing during college from her age and clothes. The black-and-white photo shows her with another young woman, their arms around each other’s waists as they laugh into the camera. My mom’s scarf is whipping in the wind, while the other woman has a hand up to keep her own hat from blowing away.

  The other woman looks a hell of a lot like Kathy.

  Kathy flips the picture over. “Betsy and Charlotte,” she deciphers the faded penciled words. “Who was Charlotte?”

  “I have no idea.” I dig into the box. “I don’t remember Mom ever mentioning her.”

  There are more photos of Charlotte, more than I’ve seen of any other friends of my mom from that era. The ones she’d been close to, she was still in contact with (if they were still alive)…or so I’d thought. The more we find, the more we realize Kathy isn’t Charlotte’s doppelgänger, but at the right angles, there’s certainly a resemblance.

  And, I suspect, there had been something going on between my mother and the lovely Charlotte.

  “Tell me if I’m losing my mind…” I begin.

  “Always,” Kathy vows. I smack her thigh, which reminds me of a few nights ago, which distracts me for a moment.

  “There’s something about the way Charlotte is looking at the camera in some of these,” I finally say. “And the way my mom and Charlotte are together. I know women were…they held hands as friends more often then, that sort of thing. But I feel like I’m seeing a…closer relationship?”

  “I was actually thinking the same thing,” Kathy agrees. “These shots here, of the two of them”—she fans them out on the coffee table—“I think they might have been done with a self-timer, rather than someone else taking the picture.”

  “Which might explain why they were free to be so… snuggly.”

  “I think,” Kathy says with a grin, “that your mother might have some ’splaining to do.”

  By the time I visit my mother the next day after work, I’ve convinced myself I’ve been reading too much into the pictures.

  We have our usual hellos, the small talk about the food at the home, that she won at bingo yesterday. Then I bring out the manila envelope.

  “I started scanning those pictures you gave me,” I say. She doesn’t remember, so I remind her about Uncle Dan bringing them. I’m not sure if she agrees because I jog her memory or because she doesn’t want to admit she’s forgotten—whether to me or herself isn’t clear. Is that what we fall into? Playing games with ourselves, convincing ourselves everything is okay?

  “I was wondering,” I continue, handing her a photo. “Who’s Charlotte? I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned her before.”

  I watch as an array of emotions cross my mother’s face. I’m not imagining things. I see fondness, sadness…love.

  “She was a friend,” my mom says.

  “From the looks of it, she was more than a friend,” I say.

  She glances at me. I raise my eyebrows, but I also smile. “Mom,” I say gently. “You can tell me.”

  She bites her lip, and tears fill her eyes. She doesn’t cry, though—she’s cried in front of me only once before, and that was when my father died. Our family, we don’t believe in that sort of thing. Thankfully Kathy’s broken me of that bad habit.

  And then my mother tells me the story. Not in graphic terms. In fact, she dances and skirts around things, darting looks at me to see if I’m picking up the innuendo. Then she looks away again, lost in a memory that thankfully she still has, still clings to.

  What comes out is roughly what I’d suspected. A college fling, she says, that nobody else knew about. It was more than that, though, I can tell from her voice that she’d loved Charlotte. She tells me she and Charlotte had a relationship, but it wasn’t as accepted back then, and—as she insists over and over—she loved my father very much. I’m tempted to say, “So you’re bisexual—that’s fantastic,” but I think using the word will shut her down.

  So I give her my support, my understanding. She seems to relax when she realizes I’m not judging or questioning her.

  Ever since I saw the photos of her and Charlotte and guessed what might have happened, I’d been thinking. My mother may have dementia, but she hasn’t forgotten everything. I can’t treat her like a child.

  She wants me to be happy. She deserves to know I am.

  I tell her about Kathy.

  My mother is silent for a long while. A heavy knot forms in my stomach. Was this a mistake?

  Then, finally, she asks, “Are you happy?”

  “Happier than I ever could have imagined,” I tell her. “She’s the one, Mom. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with her.”

  “It won’t be easy,” she says. She always has to warn me of the negative side of things.

  “We’ve been together for eleven years,” I say. “We’ve weathered the negative so far.”

  “Well, then,” my mother says. “Well. What I want to know is, when’s the wedding? When do I get to walk you down the aisle?”

  I laugh, and we cry, and then we talk about wedding dresses.

  We have the ceremony in the courtyard of the care facility. Just family and a few close friends. The water splashing in the fountain sparkles in the sunlight, and the colors in the tiles are mirrored in the riotously blooming flowers.

  On our wedding night, kissing Kathy is like kissing her for the first time and the millionth time, new and yet familiar, fresh and yet filled with the memories of every kiss we’ve shared.

  Before I fall into the mindless spiral of desire, though, I realize something.

  What’s important isn’t the future, isn’t the possible forgetting. What’s important is right now, this moment, glorying in everything that it is with no other goal than mutual pleasure.

  Someday, down the line, we might forget the person…but we can never forget the love.

  FAITH

  Jean Roberta

  Every time she opens the door, I’m reminded of a sunrise. Or maybe a moonrise, a less flashy and more mysterious form of illumination.

  Her name on paper is Leah Wagoner, which suggests gypsies on the move. She has deep brown eyes, glossy dark hair that shows bronze undertones in afternoon sunlight. Her hair flows over her assertive shoulders when she doesn’t tie it back. Her breasts are full and joyful. She wears knit tops in bright colors that present her cleavage like an inviting valley in an ad for travel or real estate. The way she stands in her doorway suggests that her legs and feet would rather be dancing. Or walking away.

  She gets mail from left-leaning political organizations that want her to sign petitions against human rights abuses, from foundations that want her to help save the whales, the dolphins, the wild birds, the land, the water
, the forests and to join the fight against breast cancer, birth defects, diseases of the heart, lungs, liver, pancreas and brain, as well as malnutrition and a shortage of artificial limbs. She subscribes to a magazine about graffiti around the world—who knew that “Fuck Off” in a bouquet of languages could be a subject of art criticism? She also gets letters from New York City, hand-addressed by a Matthew Wheeler. His wheels don’t seem to bring him here.

  “I got your mail again.” Including a message from your male. I smile, not knowing whether this is the most appropriate expression to accompany my offering. Should I seem happy that local mail delivery is so careless? Should I wince sympathetically and run the risk of looking self-indulgent or bitchy?

  “Thank you. It’s very nice of you to bring it over, Cass.” She barely glances at the bundle I brought her before throwing it onto a small table in the entranceway.

  She knows my name, though I don’t remember introducing myself. My memory must be slipping.

  “No problem,” I tell her. I know I’m blushing like a teenager. “Your house is right on my way.” Duh. Every house is on the way to somewhere.

  Why is her mail so often delivered to my house, and never mine to hers? Or does she have a stack of envelopes for me, yellowing in a kitchen drawer? Or thrown out with the garbage? It would be rude to ask.

  She has more to say. “It must be part of the grand plan. They say nothing happens by accident.”

  Is Leah inviting me to become a casual friend, someone she can joke with about Matthew? (“Men!”) That wouldn’t work, at least for me.

  I have never felt so moved by the curves and indentations of another female body. The creases of her elbows tell their own stories. The dark moisture at her armpits looks as rich as the juice of a just-ripe fruit. Her denim-covered crotch sends strong, slow vibrations in my direction. I love the way her hips rock slightly as she shifts from foot to foot. Her smooth neck shows innocence while her voice suggests experience.

  If nothing happens by accident, my stupid crush must be a side effect of a mail carrier’s dyslexia, a little joke of the goddess.

  I couldn’t really have a crush on someone I hardly know. I must be projecting all sorts of desires onto her because I’ve been so disappointed by the women I know too well. Plus I’m starving for skin and pussy. I need to stop this.

  “I’ll see you next time—” I tell her, already turning away.

  She pulls me to her with one arm around my shoulders and the other around my waist. Her naughty eyes look into mine as she closes my mouth with a soft kiss. I can’t breathe.

  She grins. “Sorry if I guessed wrong. But I don’t think I did.”

  “You’re joking.” It’s all I can think of to say.

  “I’m checking you out. I’m glad you’re still here.”

  I’m still standing in her doorway, in full view of the street. She doesn’t seem to care, but I don’t want either of us to be driven out of this neighborhood by a mob of peasants with torches and pitchforks. I’m not sure the town we live in has completely forgotten its rural roots.

  On the other hand, her interest in me is a miracle. She only wants to fool around, but that’s so much more than I thought I’d get. I should accept it and be grateful.

  “Leah—”

  “You never noticed me before, but fate brought you to my door. You need to have faith in the process, babe.”

  I step in and close her front door behind me, feeling as if I’ve crossed a line. I laugh on an exhale. “Come here.” I pull her to me. Her breath is in my face, and I can feel the heat of her scalp. I press my lips to hers. She responds like the hot bitch she is, opening her lips for my tongue. I taste her and swallow her moan.

  She catches her breath. “Cass, you’re so thin, always on your feet. You need another kind of exercise.” She grabs one of my hands and leads me into her front room.

  I haven’t studied her décor, but she obviously has faith in her own taste. Her walls are a womblike dull red, her carpet is pearl gray, her wooden furniture looks old and well cared for. The house is small, but she has created interesting effects in every inch of space.

  She doesn’t want us to stop here. She leads me through the kitchen to a bedroom in the back of the house. The walls are covered with paintings of trees, houses, back lanes, skies and a few people.

  Now I know where I heard her name before. She’s the artist who made a painting of the public library to be hung inside it. For a day, this news pushed all the world’s wars off the front page of the newspaper.

  “Look at this.” She shows me a big canvas, propped against the far wall.

  It reminds me of a picture in an elementary-school reader. It shows a street full of people going about their business in dazzling sunlight. Three-story vintage houses are interspersed with modest bungalows, some painted in quirky colors like salmon or mint green. Flowers in neat rows can be glimpsed in the background. A young girl is pulled down the street by a dog, a frisky terrier on a leash. A small adult holding a comically high stack of white boxes rushes away from a parked van with the name of a business on its side.

  Holy sesame oil. The sign on the van reads “Ambrosia Catering.” It’s my business. And the busy caterer who seems totally unaware of how she looks could only be me.

  “You painted this?” What I really want to know is why.

  “Do you like it? City Council commissioned it for the centennial.” So this is how I’m going to be remembered in times to come. But it’s not about me.

  I must be diplomatic. “It’s true to life. Well not really, but you’ve captured that whole block.”

  She seems to be keeping a laugh bottled up like an unpredictable genie. “If that’s all you have to say, let me show you my bedroom.” She presses against me from behind, holding me possessively.

  I pull her hands off my sweaty rib cage and turn around to face her. “Why am I in that painting?”

  “Why not? You’re one of the local landmarks.” But her picture doesn’t show me running a business. It shows the business running me.

  Even still, I want her. As it happens, I can spare the afternoon.

  She leads the way to her bedroom, which is dominated by a high double bed covered with a thick purple duvet and a row of gold velvet pillows with tassels that look suitable for tickling nipples.

  Before we can climb onto her love-nest, I press her against the wall. “Stalker,” I growl into her ear. I hope I sound sexy.

  “You’re hard to ignore. You’re so much bigger than your size.”

  I like this better than the usual question about why I’m not fat if I’m really a cook.

  She wraps her arms around me as I hold her head in place so I can kiss her the way she deserves. We melt together as our tongues touch. I slide my hands down her sides, feeling her hot flesh through her clothes. I unbutton her cotton shirt, exposing her collarbone and her smooth, creamy skin an inch at a time. As soon as her shirt opens, she sheds it in one fluid motion and slides down the zipper of her jeans.

  Leah was born to display herself. She tosses her flowing hair over one shoulder as she reaches behind herself to unhook her shiny black bra and fling it onto a chair. She bends forward to push her jeans and panties down her legs, keeping one eye on me as she steps out of each leg.

  “Baby.” I wrap my arms around her and approach one of her puckered nipples with my mouth.

  She pushes me back with a hand on my forehead. “No clothes. I want to see you too.”

  I pull my sweater over my head with both arms, and she takes it away to throw it over her own clothes. My underwear is utilitarian white cotton, so I quickly take off my bra and pull my panties down with my corduroy pants, not wanting her to think I lack flair.

  We fling ourselves onto her bed like children. I maneuver her onto her back, spread her like a starfish and admire the view for a moment. Her body is a landscape that I would like to explore for as long as she lets me. Or until she gets an important long-distance call.

  H
er nipples have a purplish tinge, and they are both hard, wanting attention. I fasten my mouth on one and suck it steadily, pulling it carefully between my teeth. I hear her faint hiss as I flick my tongue across the swollen bud, kneading her breast. I move to the other one and repeat the process, stretching each nipple to match. I reach for a pillow, find a tassel and use it to brush her tormented nipples as though painting them. She squirms and laughs.

  I kiss my way down her breastbone, past her waist and her touchy, gurgling belly. She strokes my short hair, urging me on. I reach her dark, curly bush and notice the moisture sparkling on the ends of her hair.

  “Ohh,” I moan. “I could just eat you up, honey.”

  “You’re the food expert.” She is shamelessly offering herself to me, and I am amazed at my luck.

  I part her lower lips and sink a curious tongue into her slit. I taste salt and musk and feel her hips move. Holding her womanly asscheeks with both hands, I find her clit and tease it with the tip of my tongue. I suck it into my mouth, feeling her quivering tension.

  She is so responsive that I’m tempted to keep her trembling on the brink for as long as possible, but I don’t want to wait.

  I slide one finger into her hot, wet center and feel pebbled flesh like the stones of a riverbed. I rub and stroke, feeling her move shyly at first. Her hips push forward, pushing for more, and I match her rhythm until we are pumping together. By now I have three fingers buried in her. The squishing sound seems to fill the room.

  Leah hisses in my ear. She’s so close, and I want to give her everything she needs. Did she whisper my name?

  Come, come, come, I chant silently. She seems to hear me, and her breath grows louder. “Ahh-ohh.” Her clit is so swollen now that it couldn’t hide from me if it wanted to. I settle my lips around it and lick.

  As I expected, she comes loudly. I’m glad she doesn’t try to control the volume. I feel a spurt under my fingers as though a fountain wants to burst out of her. The bedspread under us is soaked. I try to feel relieved that I don’t need to know how to clean it. I don’t live here.