Queermance Anthology, Volume 2
Page 6
‘Peter,’ his wife tried, but it was no use.
‘Don’t even start, Annie. You’re not even surprised by this, are you?’ Anger may have had hold of his mind but Peter Daley was not blind to his wife’s reactions. ‘How long’ve you known? Years, I bet, the two of you fucking laughing behind my back-‘
‘Mister Daley,’ Von began, but that simply made things worse.
‘Don’t you even fucking look at me, you filthy little whore!’ he fumed, pointing a finger directly at her. ‘This is all your fault. You and that disgusting pit you call a cunt.’
‘Dad!’
‘Shut up, Chrissy! Don’t you see what she did to you?’
‘She made me happy!’ Christine yelled right back, her face going as red as her father’s. ‘Shouldn’t that be enough?’
Peter growled and took a step forward, raising a fist. ‘Fucking ungrateful bitch, I oughtta-‘
As if he’d been expecting this to happen Alan stepped in front of both young women.
‘Go ahead,’ he suggested, his voice a little too friendly to be safe. ‘See what happens.’
He might have been angry, Peter Daley, but he was certainly not suicidal. Alan Walter stood at least four inches taller than him and considerably more broad. After several tense seconds, he stormed out of the broken house and down the street.
Alan glanced at Annie, who shrugged.
‘Don’t worry, I don’t care who’s sleeping with whom, as long as there’s no rape, kids or animals involved. Sorry about Peter. He’ll come around - I hope - but I’d better see to him.’ She smiled sympathetically to the girls and uncertain of what else to say, simply left.
Two hours after her father had left, Yvonne sat on the bed with a duffel bag on one side and Chrissy, in tears, on the other.
Christine begged Von to stay, promised to stand by her and protect her, cried her heart out - but Yvonne was resolute.
‘This’ll keep happening and I can’t stand the thought that next time it might not be fish, it might be you,’ she told the heartbroken blonde for what seemed like the fiftieth time.
‘But if we’re together-‘
‘Then it might be both of us. I don’t want to go, Chrissy, but I have to.’
‘No! Up in Melbourne -‘
‘This isn’t Melbourne.’
‘We can move there!’
‘With whose money, Chrissy? Yours?’ Yvonne shook her head. ‘You’ll be lucky if your dad doesn’t disown you if I’m around.’
The comment was hardly isolated. Not half an hour ago Yvonne’s sister Deborah had called to tell her that she had heard the news. Yvonne was, Deborah proclaimed, dead to her. She had no sister, not any more, and that final click as her sister hung up the phone had broken what was left of Yvonne’s hope.
‘I don’t care if he disowns me,’ sniffed Chrissy, trembling all over, pale as a ghost.
‘Well you should! He’s your Dad! Between Mum dying and Debbie disowning me���’ Von stopped, took a breath and let it out as she stood. She hefted the bag onto one shoulder. ‘Don’t ever underestimate how important family is, Chrissy. Not ever.’
Chrissy slid from the bed to the floor, covering her face with her hands as her stomach, already heavy, seemed to drop away into space.
‘You’re my family.’
‘No.’ Yvonne’s voice was firm. ‘I’m just the dyke who’s fucking your life up.’
Chrissy curled up on the floor and sobbed as she heard the front door close. A car door slammed, an engine started and then Yvonne was simply gone.
Melbourne was a riot of colour and sound, cool shadows drawing over the landscape as the sun went down, the moon already hanging full and fat in the darkening sky.
Speculation flew as the year got older as to what, exactly, was going to happen when 1999 drew to a close. Would the world’s computers crash, unable to comprehend the year 2000, bringing down banks and aircraft and hospitals? Would it be the apocalyptic turmoil that Prince seemed to hint at in his hit single, a song that seemed to be getting played every fucking hour that year?
Christine Daley was pretty sure that was all bollocks. Mass hysteria, as one of her psychology lecturers had once told her, was an inherently viral phenomenon - the more it spread the quicker it continued to do so, and the more the condition mutated.
She was thinking this as she waited on Elizabeth Street, very near to Flinders Street Station, waiting for a tram to arrive. The conference she had been attending - a unique opportunity for her, attending as a specialist in women’s studies as they applied to the field of psychology - was somewhat more boring than she’d expected, so for a few long moments she was unaware of exactly who she sat next to when the tram arrived to let her on.
The vehicle filled with people, all headed out of the central business district, and the tram jerked as it started on its way.
Chrissy did notice the woman who she was seated next to made a special effort not to come into contact with her when the tram began moving. She sighed inwardly. She knew a lot of people looked at her askance - a woman in her mid-40s, one arm decorated with tattoos from shoulder to wrist, several piercings in each ear and one in her lower lip - and it never ceased to irritate her. Sure, she’d put on weight since she was a teenager and was now more voluptuous than simply curvy. Certainly, she’d chosen to wear a mid-thigh dress that showed off her fishnet-clad legs. Of course, she had her hair dyed a vivid purple and wore it in a long mohawk tied back in a loose, messy ponytail.
But she was still a woman, just like any other.
Indignation swelled in her chest and she threw a sour glance at the person next to her.
Rich brown eyes stared back, shame and fear mixing within their depths, framed by shoulder-length black hair.
They agreed, after a tense moment in which both realised that the tram was too full for either of them to change seats or even stand comfortably, that they needed to talk. A cafe along the way drew them in and, over cappuccinos, the women who once were lovers began to chat.
Yvonne was in the city for a class in nutrition, having started a course recently, and was enjoying it. She had filled out over the years, gaining in size around her bust and her backside but far more the latter, giving her a mild pear shape that she was clearly selfconscious about. Chrissy, secretly, thought she looked far too attractive for Chrissy’s own good.
She had changed a lot over the years, in fact, and it took a little persuasion for Christine to find out why.
Yvonne was married. Not only was she married but she had two healthy kids, both adults now, a daughter named Emma and a son named Donald. Her surname was Peters now, and after the initial shock of the news, Chrissy guessed that Yvonne was far from happy with the arrangement. The pride and love in her voice when she spoke of her kids was replaced with a flat, careful neutrality when she mentioned her husband, Donovan.
Chrissy’s head whirled. Yvonne had shown nothing of interest in men when they were younger. Why, then, the change? She very nearly asked but instead found herself inviting her once-lover out to a bar. ‘To unwind,’ she said.
Yvonne, who had been on her way back to her hotel apartment, reluctantly agreed.
It wasn’t the only lesbian bar in Melbourne and it certainly wasn’t the best but it did the trick. Yvonne, nervous to begin with, had never been a heavy drinker and soon was easily too tipsy to keep silent.
‘It’s just��� stupid,’ she exclaimed, waving an arm in a gesture too big to be sober. ‘I mean he’s a nice guy, a great guy an’ he loves me, y’know? Really, really loves me, but���’
‘But he’s got a dick?’ Chrissy suggested, ignoring the twinge of jealousy in her chest as Yvonne spoke.
‘Noooo, nonono.’ Yvonne giggled and covered her face with one hand, embarrassed despite the alcohol.
Christine raised an eyebrow. ‘He hasn’t got a dick?’
‘Oh, he’s got a dick all right,’ Yvonne giggled again, making a pumping motion with one hand that was as lewd a
s it was obvious. ‘Really nice dick - I mean not fantastic but hey, it does th’job, right?’
‘Uh���’
‘I just wish it was attached to a woman, that’s all. Dicks are fiiiine,’ Von drawled, ‘just not on men. If we could, y’know, stick ‘em on women���’
‘We can, they’re called dildos.’
‘Mmm.’ Yvonne looked unconvinced but eventually shook her head, more to clear it than to disagree. ‘So c’mon, what about you? You got a girlfriend?’
Chrissy shook her head. ‘She dumped me last month.’
‘Then she’s fuckin’ stupid.’
‘You dumped me,’ Christine pointed out. The pain in her chest was undeniable. No, she thought to herself, I’m not even close to over you, Von.
Yvonne nodded. ‘Yep. An’ I was fuckin’ stupid. Stupid an’ scared an’��� more stupid.’ With that she fell silent and drained her drink, a Tequila Sunrise, before shuffling off her bar stool. ‘Come on, fuck talking, I wanna dance. Last time I danced was at my wedding,’ she noted, disdain dripping from the word.
They danced. It was awkward at first but then a couple of other woman joined them. One, a brunette young enough to be her daughter, soon had Yvonne backed against a wall. Hands fumbled and bodies pressed as the two kissed and clutched at one another as if they were drowning.
The younger woman’s friend walked out soon after slipping Chrissy her number. Both of them were students at Melbourne University and, it turned out, in Yvonne’s class. Christine wondered how those lectures would proceed after tonight. Von seemed very interested in what lay under her new friend’s skirt.
It confused Christine, therefore, that it was she who ended up at Yvonne’s hotel room, instead of the young brunette.
It was as if no time had passed. Yvonne’s rather conservative business skirt was on the floor before the door was shut, treating a passing couple to the brief sight of her panty-clad backside. Her suit jacket was across the room and her blouse open in moments.
Christine’s hands, fumbling a little through her drunkenness and trembling with anticipation, took three tries to pull Yvonne’s bra off. When the woman’s breasts fell into view, Chrissy’s breath stopped.
She bent her head to suckle and nibble at those hardened nipples, lifting first one breast and then another in hands that seemed to fuse to her flesh, only barely willing to relinquish their newfound prizes as Yvonne desperately pulled Chrissy’s clothes off.
Von’s hand travelled downward, pulled Chrissy’s skirt up, felt the heat and the damp. No panties but a fishnet barrier that tore readily to allow her access, Christine letting out a startled gasp as the threads ripped and then a low moan as Yvonne’s fingers slid across the velvet folds which were already slick with excitement. A spike of pleasure as Yvonne found the bar of her clit hood piercing, a muffled growl as the taller woman pulled Chrissy’s head hard against one breast, then both of them fell to the floor - hard - attempting to reach the bed.
They were a hungry mess, Chrissy and Von, the latter fuelled by desperation and longing, the former by confusion and anger. It was a potent mix, pushing their emotions higher and their arousal deeper.
For the next hour Yvonne wouldn’t let Chrissy get up, running her hands up and down those fishnet-clad legs and staring hard at her lover’s eyes as she lapped, licked, sucked and flicked. Fingers slid in to penetrate, breath washed hot and hungry over damp skin, hair slid silky and luxurious in Chrissy’s fingers as she clutched at Yvonne’s head.
Ecstasy hit. Again. And again.
And���
Again.
Chrissy had to drag Yvonne’s head away from her crotch to get her to stop. The nub of her clit was so sensitive that even walking was an ordeal as she pulled Von toward the bedroom��� and then it was her turn.
Their lovemaking went on for a long time. When they fell asleep it was in each other’s arms, bodies sated and exhausted, the room smelling of sex and sweat.
Chrissy was alone in the bed when she woke up the next day.
For a split second she was furious - Yvonne had just left her there, after that night? - until she heard the shower running.
She eased back in the bed, smelling the two of them together, pleasure and a forgotten love swelling in her heart in a dazed, half-awake state that soon gave way to wakefulness and, with it, genuine anger.
Yvonne had waltzed back into her life and somehow - somehow - dragged her into an affair. As if that were not enough, Yvonne was cheating on a man. She had fucked a man - at least twice - willingly. At least, Christine assumed it was willingly.
She turned it over in her mind but could not parse it. Was she bisexual? Was this night with Chrissy just a fling? Was Chrissy to be discarded again when all this was over?
No, Christine was not yet over Yvonne and, laying there in bed, realised that she never wanted to be over her. She wanted Yvonne back, all of her, all for herself��� but as much as the taller woman claimed she could not love her husband, she had made no comment, given no hint, that she was thinking of leaving him.
And even if she did���
Yvonne came in, smiling a happy but nervous grin as she saw Chrissy awake. It faltered when she saw her lover’s expression, however.
‘I’m not just using you! Chrissy!’
‘Bullshit,’ Christine snapped, pulling away from Yvonne’s questing hand. ‘You’re going back to your fucking husband and pretending none of this happened. You’ve split on me once, I know you’ll do it again.’
Chrissy was pulling on her boots. The argument had started barely seconds after Yvonne had emerged from her shower and she still had her towel wrapped around her waist.
‘No, I wouldn’t! I told you, I was an idiot!’ Von’s hand drew back, not wanting to chase Chrissy off, but she shook her head emphatically. ‘I don’t love him, I never have.’
‘You love his cock, though.’
Yvonne said nothing, not knowing quite what to say.
Christine made a disgusted noise.
Yvonne narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh my God, you think I’m contaminated, don’t you? You think I’ve got fucking boy germs, and now you can hardly look at me!’
The accusation stung all the more for being true, even if Christine had not realised it before. She sneered, covering her confusion and hurt with attitude as she had countless times before.
‘That’s fucking stupid. What d’you think I am, five years old?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Of course I’m not!’
‘Well you’re sure acting like it.’
Christine shook her head, pulled her laces into position and went straight out the door.
‘No, Chrissy, wait -‘
Christine held in the tears until she reached her own little apartment. She made it that far. That, she assured herself, was something.
So why was something telling her she’d made a horrible mistake?
South-and-East Regional Health was a surprisingly large clinic but, then, it had to be. It served as the main health centre for fifteen regional and rural towns, primarily helping pensioners, the disabled and the unemployed to get access to good-quality care.
Yvonne Walter was the head nutritionist at SER. She had earned that position. While she came to the position fairly late - in her mid-to late-40s, following an amicable divorce from her husband of twenty-years - she had worked hard and thrown herself body and soul into the practice. When she had arrived, the position of nutritionist was largely ornamental, a box to be ticked to gain more funding. By her fifth year there, the clinic was respected as one of the best nutrition and dietician services in the state, let alone the region.
She was tall, she was willowy, she was a week shy of sixty years old and showed no signs of slowing down. Even a torn ligament in her knee, not something one recovered from easily in one’s later years, barely made her pause.
Yvonne’s hair had been clipped into a pixie cut for the last decade and now showed streaks of
silver that she referred proudly to as her ‘skunk stripes.’ Two close-set rings piercing one nostril gave her a ‘groovy granny’ look, according to her daughter Emma, and she was rarely seen outside of comfortable gym clothes these days.
Retirement was looming but until forced out of the profession by her well-meaning kids and her ex-husband - with whom she was still close friends - she would be at that clinic office every day she could manage.
One day, while looking through the list of new clients her receptionist had assembled, she noticed a name that she recognised.
Christine Daley.
Yvonne sat quite still for some time behind her desk, looking at that name. She took her time, revelling in the letters, the syllables, feeling her face flush in both pleasure and gentle heartache. She had long ago put those events behind her but it never ceased to amaze her how the body remembers differently. Her heart pounded. Her head swam. Her fingers tingled with the memory of warm skin.
Abruptly she stood up, dropped the list on her desk and went out of her office, into the waiting room.
There were three people waiting.
One of them was���
One of them was a shortish lady, prominent around the backside and bust, someone who in her youth had curves you could happily kill yourself on. Her upper arms and the skin around her neck had a slightly slack look, the look of someone who had lost weight too quickly at some time in the past, and her hair was a mass of shock-white with one single, prominent purple streak dyed unapologetically through.
Dimples on her lip, her ears, her eyebrows were evidence of piercings that had been removed and mostly healed over. She wore a long skirt that reached her ankles, orthopaedic sandals that had never been in fashion (and would never be) and a long-sleeved blue blouse that matched her eyes, still bright, the colour of a clear sky.
Yvonne watched Chrissy for a while and then, when her old lover looked her way, crooked her finger wordlessly.
Follow me���
‘You’ve moved to the area?’
‘Yes, just last month. I-‘