by Radclyffe
She let me go and the fur collar sagged around her shoulders. “Next time, bring that record boy back here to meet us,” she said as she headed up the stairs. She stopped on the steps, turned and looked at me. “Call Jenny.” She pushed up her glasses. “She’s worried about you, too.”
I hauled the phone across the den, yanked the cord so that it reached into the bathroom, locked both doors and sat on the cold toilet seat.
“Natalie?” Jenny said, picking up on the first ring.
“Yeah,” I said and then ran out of ideas of what to say next.
“What happened?”
I wanted to ask her the same thing. Why weren’t we still lying on the kitchen floor wrapped in each other’s arms? I thought, but I knew she meant after I’d left her house. I twisted the spiral cord around my hand and told her how my mother’s innate homing device tracked me down. I paced from the shower to the sink and forced myself to relax. It was useless to worry about what she might have wanted or to wish that she wanted more than she did.
“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” Jenny said.
“It’s cool.” I stopped in front of the mirror. A zit was forming on my forehead. “I cried so I wouldn’t get grounded.”
“I wish I could tear up on cue.”
“I have hidden talents.” I held the phone with my shoulder and popped the pimple.
“Since you’re not under lock and key,” Jenny said, “come over again.”
I grasped the receiver. I wanted to, but if she pulled away again, this time I wouldn’t be able to hide the pain. And if she didn’t stop us, there’d be no denying what I was. A tunnel of wind buzzed between us.
“It won’t happen again,” she said.
I slid to the bathroom floor. While she hadn’t said anything there was always the possibility of something. The unknown was better than nothing. “My mother needs to use the phone,” I said.
“Wait,” Jenny said. “I meant I won’t be so mean.”
I held the phone away from my mouth and breathed out.
“You there?” she said. “I need to see you.”
“The Mossad agent won’t let me out.” I stood and brushed at the wrinkles on my shirt. “You come here.”
I’m a lunatic, I thought, as I raced into the den and clunked the phone onto the shelf. My mother had bionic hearing, so I wouldn’t be able to open the sliding glass door and let Jenny in. Maybe she could hoist herself up through my window.
I tiptoed upstairs and peered into my parents’ bedroom. My father was asleep closest to the door. My mother jolted up, reached for her glasses on the nightstand and tromped into the hallway in her powder-blue nightgown and felt slippers.
“Jenny’s coming over,” I said.
My mother stared at me over her glasses.
“Urgent girl talk,” I said, telling the truth.
She smirked with tacit approval. I knew she thought that Jenny and I were going to babble endlessly about the boy from Rudy’s and this gave her joy.
“I’ll wait outside,” I said, “so the bell won’t wake up Dad.”
She patted my shoulder and went to bed. Finally, I was like the other girls.
The Buick’s headlights were coming down our street. I hated that car, an occasional loaner from Jenny’s father that was supposed to prove that he still loved her, but it only reminded her that he was on vacation with his new family. Jenny pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.
I ran down the porch steps then stopped, not wanting to seem too eager. After a few minutes I crept forward to see what was taking so long. Jenny was grasping the steering wheel. If she was changing her mind again, I wouldn’t let her go home.
I marched around to the passenger’s side and got in. The car reeked of cigars, and I’d sat on a squeaky toy.
“Just come inside,” I said. “We’ll, I mean we won’t have to…”
She turned toward me. “We will.” Her hand was shaking as she reached to touch my face and her eyes were wide, asking me to make it all okay. I realized she was more scared than I was. I leaned into her damp hand and nodded as if I was wise and then did the only thing that seemed right—I kissed her.
She shifted out from under the steering wheel, held on to me strongly and kept kissing me, tasting of strawberry Lip Smackers. Her face was smooth. I wanted to fall back onto the vinyl seat, go with her conviction, but now, I was the one who stopped us. I had to; my mother was listening for the front door.
When I pulled back, Jenny dropped her head, confused. I wanted to flounce her Hamill bob. The windows were steamed up. “Let’s go in the house,” I said and snagged her overnight bag.
As we walked up the steps her hands dangled, so touchable in the orangey mist from the porch light. I stayed close, reached around her and opened the door. Inside, she waited for me to latch the deadbolt. I knew she knew that if we didn’t let too much distance get between us, it would be easier to go where we were going. I glanced upstairs, dimmed the hall sconce and kissed her quickly, feeling her smile as I followed her downstairs into my bedroom.
I set her bag on the lime-green carpet, horrified by the klieglike intensity from the pendant lamp above my desk, but I didn’t turn it off. That would’ve ruined it, making the darkness louder than the light. We could no longer pretend it was an accident, but it had to be blurry, without daunting definition.
I shut the door with my foot, listening for the click of the handle, and wished I’d chucked the piles of clean laundry from the extra bed into the closet. I gripped Jenny’s waist as she leaned toward me. Her lips pressed into my mine. There was no going back. If this didn’t work out, I knew our friendship was over, but I didn’t care as her hand fluttered down my arm and she hooked her fingers into my belt loops. I urged her toward my twin bed.
She squinted. “Can we kill the light?”
I let go of her, crossed the room and flicked off the switch. Kissing, we dropped onto the bed, me on top, then her on top, and then we tumbled onto the carpet. Mercifully, Jenny laughed. It seemed impossible that I could like her even more than before, but I did. Her flawless teeth shone in the dark. This was going to more than work out.
The small space between the beds was less dangerous, not laden with meaning. Jenny was pillowy and curvy as we rocked and rubbed against each other. When we rolled around on the floor, it didn’t feel like rolling around on the floor.
I thought about putting my desk chair against the door. It wouldn’t keep my mother out, but it would rattle, warn us if she came in. Then Jenny raked her nails across my back, and I wanted my whole body to burn like that.
Her soft neck smelled sweetly, faintly of White Shoulders. I worked off my shoes and kicked them under the bed. Jenny shifted. My knee fell between her legs and as I looked up, catching her gaze, the ceiling creaked. I put my finger over her mouth, though she wasn’t making any noise. She sat upright. Our knees touched, and I hoped she wouldn’t move away. The toilet flushed, the ceiling squeaked again and then, silence.
Jenny gaped upward, her eyes tight. It would be safest if we just stopped, but I couldn’t, we might never get back here, so I pulled the comforter from my bed and threw it over our heads, making her laugh. I patted her cowlick and her eyes crinkled as we sat under this ridiculous tent like two ten-year-olds pretending to be camping. I shrugged, giving in to the obvious. We weren’t going to do this, not tonight. Then Jenny looked at me, took in all of the real me, and this time I didn’t look away. She wasn’t scared of me; she didn’t blink. Then she unzipped my jeans.
REBOUND
Charlotte Dare
I had the best sex of my life with a widow I met at church bingo. That’s right, I said sex, church bingo and widow all in the same sentence, but before you go, “Ewww,” let me explain. Leslie wasn’t your grandmother’s bingo widow. She was just forty-eight when her partner died three years earlier. Forget blue hair and flabby arms—Leslie wore a sexy, cropped, honey-blonde’do, her arms toned and tanned by the summer sun.
/> My best friend and the bingo boss, Jan, set the ball in motion when she popped up in a Facebook instant chat. Come on, Vanessa, she wrote, come to bingo tonight. It’ll get you out of the house and your mind off what’s her name. She had been harping on me for weeks to come down to the church hall, dangling the carrot of this allegedly attractive older woman who played faithfully each week.
Her name is Patty, I typed back.
I know what her name is, she wrote. Just come down. You’ll have fun.
I was tired of pacing my apartment, of trying to make sense of the last tangled year of my life—the first six months a rapid deterioration of my eight-year relationship with Patty and the last six trying to adjust to life without her. I had recently watched Jim Carrey’s film, Yes Man, and found the idea appealing that saying yes to everything people ask might somehow lead to an exciting reversal of fortune.
FINE. I typed it in all caps to emphasize my exasperation. I’ll see you there.
After I purchased my regular bingo slips, the mystery bonanza slip and the red bonus one, Jan showed me exactly where to sit so I’d have an optimum view of Leslie. I plunked down in a metal folding chair and arranged my purple dabber, bingo slips, leather purse and hooded sweatshirt and then took a swig of a Dunkin’ Donuts decaf. Moments later, Jan texted me: Look at the lady in line w/black sleeveless shirt & blond hair. That’s Leslie.
I spotted her instantly among the throng of thick eyeglasses, canes and white sweaters. She seemed to know everyone as she chatted her way through the snaking line. I glanced over at Jan and wiggled my eyebrows in approval.
Leslie sat across from me in her usual seat with her friend, a silver-haired queen in pointy reading glasses. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help it. I used to fantasize about being with an older woman, never having enjoyed the pleasure. One look at Leslie and the fantasy sprang to life with renewed vigor. It got to be a game that evening—would I be able to avert my eyes each time she sensed me staring at her from the next table? Truth be told, I didn’t really try that hard not to stare.
This went on for several weeks: me staring, letting her catch me for a moment, offering her an innocent smile she always returned. Leslie was safe, a rebound crush helping me realize it was possible to have some semblance of feelings for another human being again.
By the fourth week, when the crowd had dissipated during intermission, Leslie snuck up from behind and sat in the empty chair beside me. “I know you’re Jan’s friend, but do I know you from somewhere else?”
I shook my head, rather chagrined. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I notice you stare at me a lot, and I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t met you before and forgotten.”
Snagged. “Uh, no, we haven’t met before.”
“Oh,” she said, waiting for an explanation but too polite to ask.
“I’m sorry for being rude and staring. I just think you’re very attractive.” I couldn’t believe I had actually told her the truth.
“Oh.” She paused and then arched an eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me?”
Now I just plain felt like an ass. There I was sitting in a church hall at a bingo fundraiser for a Catholic school being called out for leering at a widow—by the widow. But I stuck with honesty in light of my surroundings. “I guess I am. I mean you are very hot, but I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. I can move my seat if you want me to.”
She smirked, caught up in the intrigue. “You think I’m hot? Do you know how old I am?”
I shrugged. “Hotness has no expiration date. Ever see that photo of Helen Mirren in her orange bikini?”
She smiled again, this time with teeth. As she stood up, she patted my hand with tanned, bejeweled fingers. “And no, I don’t want you to move your seat.”
I was flying high on flirtation euphoria for the rest of the night. I’m sure I missed dabbing some called bingo numbers, but the fifty-dollar prizes were no longer of primary interest.
The following week was the last I would be able to see Leslie. I was taking a fall course at the community college that ran on Tuesdays, same night as bingo. So I sauntered into that church hall brazenly, egged on by both the hint of encouragement Leslie had given me the previous week and a heaping load of nothing to lose. From my usual seat, I monitored the entrance for Leslie, my heart racing faster the closer the clock ticked toward seven.
She made a point of smiling and saying hello to me when she arrived, and for the next hour and a half, my eyes lingered recklessly on her.
During intermission, as Leslie’s friend went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, she sat alone stretching against the back of the metal chair.
“Mikey, come here,” I called out to Jan’s eight-year-old as he milled around, looking for something to do. “Do me a favor and go give this to Leslie.” I handed him a folded up losing bingo slip.
He hesitated. “Why do you want me to give it to her?”
“Don’t worry about why.” I waved the second-half bingo slips in his face. “I’ll let you play some of my cards after break.”
I watched Leslie from the moment Mikey left my side. When he walked over to her, she flashed him a bright smile. After reading the note, she glanced at me, refolded the slip and stuck it in her purse with a nod, amused in spite of herself.
Sitting on Leslie’s couch a week later, I glanced around her living room, peering into this stranger’s life through the photos over her fireplace—her nephew’s graduation, a group shot of friends from a ski vacation and a particularly gorgeous one of her and her dead partner on some beach at sunset. Nice. Eerie but nice. She had surprised me when she called and said yes to my scribbled dinner invitation, but even more surprising was the natural flow of dinner conversation earlier that evening. We joked and laughed, exchanged views on various issues from healthcare reform to easy, last-minute cocktail party snacks. But my favorite part of dinner was Leslie’s rosy-faced grin when I told her the bingo hall fluorescents had belied her real beauty.
Now, while she poured us glasses of pinot grigio in the kitchen, my imagination wandered off in all sorts of directions. I spotted her stereo remote and tuned the radio to the AM station that plays American standards. The Glenn Miller Orchestra’s “Moonlight Serenade” had set the mood by the time Leslie sat down with the wine.
“What do you think, I’m seventy years old?” she asked with a smile and handed me my glass.
I laughed. “Who says I put this station on for you? I love this music.”
She leaned back against the couch, her arm brushing past mine. “I usually listen to Top Forty, but this is perfect for a relaxing evening. It reminds me of when I was a kid at my Nonna’s house on Ferry Street in New Haven.”
“I had a grandmother who lived in New Haven, too.”
“Every Italian kid did. I think it was the law,” she said, playing with the ends of her hair.
I smiled at the one thing that didn’t seem to accentuate our age difference, and then indicated a large, three-wick candle on the coffee table. “Can I light this?”
She nodded. “Well, this isn’t that different so far,” she said, referring to our dinner conversation in which she revealed she hadn’t been on a date since meeting Rita two decades earlier.
“The way people go about getting dates may have changed in the last twenty years, but the date itself is still pretty standard.” I clicked off the lamp and then sat back, not sure what to do next. It occurred to me that I had never seduced an older woman before. Actually, I’d never seduced anyone before, and I suddenly froze with awkwardness.
“So Vanessa, what’s next on your agenda this evening?” She sipped her wine and her lips shined deliciously after she licked the excess off them.
Looking straight ahead, I said, “Well, I was going to try to kiss you once I got up my nerve.”
“Oh.” She dropped a wicker-wedged flip-flop to the floor. “And how long does that usually take?”
I laughed quietly, stuffing my hands between
my buttcheeks and the sofa cushions to conceal their trembling. “Not this long, but you’re not my usual date. You’re amazing, Leslie. Fun, sophisticated, enchanting.”
“Thank you.” She sighed deeply. “You know, it’s been a long time since someone looked at me, I mean really looked at me.”
“I can’t believe no one’s moved in on you yet. What’s the matter with these women?”
She laughed and absently patted my thigh. “It’s funny. After Rita died, I couldn’t imagine being with anyone for the longest time. But if someone told me that three years later I’d be sitting here with a woman eighteen years younger, I would’ve said they were nuts.”
“The first night I saw you at bingo I never dreamed I’d be here either—well, I did dream about it, but I never really expected it would happen.”
Her gaze halted my breath for a moment as I realized I was feeling more than just the urge to jump on her. As badly as I desired her, I could’ve simply sat there all night watching the shadows from the flickering candle flames dance across her face.
“So you wouldn’t mind if I kissed you?” I finally asked.
She playfully contemplated the question. “I don’t think so.”
“Okeydokey then.” I took Leslie’s wineglass and mine and placed them on the coffee table.
“Your hands are shaking,” she said and clutched them in hers. They were warm; her grip firm, purposeful.
I pulled them back. “You make me nervous.”
To my surprise, she reached out and caressed my cheek. “You make me nervous, too.”
Suddenly, her hand gently pulled my face toward hers. When our lips made contact, I took over, taking it slow with long, sensual kisses. She giggled as I tickled her lips with the tip of my tongue, and my pussy tingled when she snuck her tongue into my mouth. As my kisses grew more aggressive, she moaned, tracing my triceps with her hands.
“Are you okay?” I whispered.