by Anne Eton
Small, pale Dominika Staniszewski hung back as usual, sitting in a chair near the back, alternately cursing her shyness and wondering at the Linda Lovelace Challenge. She touched her long blonde locks, mimicking the redhead’s confident hair-toss. In her small town in Poland, girls and women never discussed such things as fellatio. Growing up, Dominika had not even known such things existed. And that partly was why she had come to America.
* * *
Growing up in Tarnów, Dominika had achieved minor celebrity as The Driven Girl. She had worked harder than anyone at her school, had fearlessly written to every grant and scholarship fund she could find, and had finally achieved her dream: full scholarship at an American college, Wellesley as it turned out, an all-girls’ school.
Her parents would not agree to her leaving Poland unless the college Dominika attended was women only; Mr. and Mrs. Staniszewski were very Old World in their attitudes and anxieties for their only child. And so the dutiful daughter had applied only to single-sex colleges and universities. At the time, Dominika had not thought it a major inconvenience. She had always been too busy to think about boys. There would be plenty of time for a husband later, perhaps after she had earned a medical degree.
And yet Dominika had not been prepared for the hypersexualized culture of American society. It seemed that at Wellesley, boys and sex were all that her fellow students talked about. On her first day as a freshman, the very first thing the shocked Polish girl had been briefed on by her new roommate was the schedule of the “Fuck Truck,” a shuttle bus that ran a continuous circuit from Wellesley to Harvard to MIT and back to Wellesley.
“This shuttle,” Dominika had stuttered. “It is called… what?”
“The Fuck Truck,” her freshman roommate, a skinny gum-chewing girl named Maggie, had repeated. “Like, if you wanna fuck, you get on the truck.”
Dominika had stared.
“Of course that’s not its REAL name,” Maggie had continued. “It’s really called like, the shuttle whatever. It’s allegedly for girls who want to go study at the Harvard and MIT libraries. But it’s really there for the fuck thing. You know? If we didn’t have some kind of way to get us out to some men once and a while, every bitch here would burn this campus down.” Maggie had then begun explaining how the easiest and cheapest way to get laid was to get invited to a party by boys at a co-ed college, and you could get invited to a party by dressing hot and hanging out at that campus’ coffee shops, sundry stores, campus lounges…
Dominika discovered she had a lot to learn about America.
And yet, once she had recovered from her shock, Dominika considered that all this was a good thing. Had she not worked so hard to get out of Poland for precisely the reason that her hometown was so provincial, conservative and unworldly? Dominika had wanted to experience life. Real life. And she knew that the only way was to push herself forward, overcome her natural inclination to hang back.
And so once she arrived, she joined the Wellesley College Widows, the campus a cappella singing group. She could not sing, or at least, she didn’t know if she could; it was something she had never attempted in Poland. The thought of harmonizing with girls who were much better than her, in English, in front of an audience no less, made her feel faint. And it was precisely for this reason that she had auditioned. She had discovered to her surprise that she had a passable soprano voice, and if her Polish accent in conversation sometimes mystified her fellow choirists, the accent never manifested itself when she sang. She made friends. Plus, Dominika loved the sleeveless all-black outfits.
Years passed quickly. As she began her senior year, Dominika believed that she had finally acclimated to American society. She had gotten used to sex being the number-one topic of conversation among her Wellesley friends, and had even grown comfortable enough with the subject that she joked and teased her friends back whenever they called her by her nickname, PDS (“Pure as the Driven Snow”). Dominika had never once boarded the Fuck Truck, even to visit another library. That’s what interlibrary loan was for.
The Polish girl’s singing improved to the point where she sang in the shower, just for the pleasure of hearing her own voice. She was so proud of herself for accomplishing her goal of pushing herself forward that she decided to do what previously would have been unthinkable.
She would act in a play.
The Polish girl had never acted before. The idea of saying lines, in her thick accent, on a stage with perhaps hundreds of people watching her every move, created a tightness in her throat and a throbbing in her head whenever she thought about it. And yet it was now or never. She had already been accepted to the best medical school in Poland, much to the great joy and relief of her parents. If she was ever truly going to push her boundaries and see what she was capable of, she needed to do it this year, her senior year.
And so Dominika found herself walking into the building that housed the theater department. Once inside she followed signs pointing to auditions. A new production of Othello had been announced in the school paper, and all Wellesley students were invited to try out. The blonde had thought that perhaps she could get a small part, a walk-on role maybe.
Dominika entered a hall that was deserted except for a lone black girl reading behind a folding table. As the blonde approached, the black girl looked up, saw her, and shouted back over her shoulder: “We have our Desdemona.”
In short order Dominika found herself sitting with the girls of the theater production. They all eyed her intently. Dominika wished she could disappear into the floor.
“So you have no acting experience?” asked a girl who had earlier identified herself as the director.
“Yes, that is correct,” the Polish girl had replied in a whisper.
The director looked around. “Anybody have a problem with casting her as Desdemona?”
The girls all shook their heads. No problem.
“I am sorry,” Dominika said, “but I do not understand. I believe this is a major role. I have never been on stage before, indeed I do not know if I may have stage fright. I was hoping only for a small part…”
“You’re perfect,” interrupted a short girl with thick frizzy hair.
“Yeah,” said another. “You look more like Desdemona than Desdemona. Archetypal blonde hair, blue eyes, white skin… And you look so shy. You look like an angel.”
Dominika looked down and flushed up to her roots.
“I wish Gina was here,” the director said. She added, as an aside to Dominika: “She’s playing Othello.”
“Gina will totally agree,” someone said.
“Maybe. It’s really her call,” warned another voice.
“If I may,” Dominika asked. She forced herself to look up. “There are other girls on this campus who look like me. With the blonde hair, and things like that. Why do you not cast them?”
“They’re not auditioning,” said the director.
A girl who had not spoken before nodded her head. “And besides…”
She paused, hesitating. Finally, she continued: “Okay, I’ll say it. You just seem really, really innocent.”
The other girls nodded solemnly.
Dominika turned red again, this time from anger. “I am not so innocent. I am not!”
“Are you a virgin?” the director asked.
Dominika’s jaw dropped. She opened her mouth wider to make a reply, then closed it.
The director turned to the others. “Gina will be here for rehearsal tonight, right?” Off their nods, the director turned again to Dominika. “Seven o’clock, downstairs. Bring some food, we might go late.”
That night, Dominika was on stage scanning what seemed to her to be an endless number of script pages when she heard voices all around shout: “Hail, Othello!”
Dominika turned around. A beautiful tall girl with long black curly hair and olive skin strode up the aisle toward them, smiling. She lifted a hand in greeting, but said nothing. Even though she wore only a t-shirt and jeans, the carriage of her wal
k and the way she held her head and shoulders communicated a strong, charismatic personality. Dominika could discern an hourglass shape under the baggy clothes.
The tall girl hopped up the steps with a loping athletic stride. The director hurried over to her.
“Hey Gina,” the director said.
“Hey,” the tall girl replied. “Is this her?”
The director said yes.
Gina turned her gaze to Dominika, sizing her up and down. She finally nodded. “Okay.”
And that was that.
It took all of Dominika’s scheduling skill to maintain her grades while simultaneously performing with the Widows and attending nightly rehearsals with the Shakespeare Society. But she did not complain. Indeed, she quickly thought herself lucky to be performing with an actor of Gina’s caliber. Everyone in the theater company deferred to her, and Dominika understood immediately why the girl had been cast as Othello: in addition to her talent, Gina was sexy, confident and cool without being haughty. She never seemed to make a wrong creative decision wherever the play was concerned. Her charisma radiated from the stage; during her scenes, everyone would stop what they were doing just to watch her perform. It was like watching a young, female Marlon Brando.
The only thing that broke up the good-vibe camaraderie of the troupe was whenever Gina’s girlfriend Annabelle visited. Annabelle was tall, blonde, and gorgeous, a Hitchcock blonde. The Dallas beauty queen’s beauty ran cold. And her iciness only seemed to make Gina hot, under the collar anyway; Gina only ever lost her composure when she got into an argument with Annabelle. And that seemed to be on every occasion that Annabelle visited the theatre.
“Don’t talk to me that way,” Annabelle had shouted at Gina only a few days into rehearsals. The other girls had dropped their eyes and pretended that they were busy, trying to give Gina and her girlfriend a respectful privacy that was impossible.
“I’m not talking to you any way,” Gina had replied, her voice rising.
“Yes you are! That tone.”
“Can we just save the drama till later? I’ve got enough here.”
“Well excuse me. I was just the one who was trying to tell you I cared. But obviously you don’t care that I care.” Annabelle had turned on her heel and walked out. Gina watched her leave.
After a long pause, the director had announced: “Okay, coffee break. Five minutes, then let’s go from the top of Act Three again.”
By this time, Dominika was used to the idea of a girl dating another girl. It was an inescapable fact of life at Wellesley. Gay, Lesbian, Bi, Transgender, Queer, Dyke, Butch, Femme—the formerly clueless young Polish lady was now familiar with all the academic terms, and what they meant. Still, a girl dating a girl seemed very foreign to her. If such things happened in Poland, the relationships were very much underground. Dominika wasn’t even sure how it worked. There was something about Tribbing, she suspected; she had overheard LGBT girls talk about Tribbing. But she didn’t know what it was, and was too embarrassed to ask. She didn’t google it either. The girl had a feeling that it was some kind of very sexual thing, and very sexual things made her uncomfortable.
Dominika had grown to enjoy the play rehearsals, so much that she would hurry to the theatre building, leaning forward, walking as fast as she could without running. She had become mesmerized by Gina, like every other girl in the production.
Dominika found herself bending over backward to try to please Gina, studying the taller girl’s every expression to try to discern even the subtlest hint of what made her happy and what did not. The blonde made it a point to learn her lines perfectly, but she feared her delivery was all wrong.
“Am I saying ‘thou’ correctly?” she once asked Gina during a break.
“Huh?”
“Am I saying ‘thou’ correctly,” Dominika had repeated. “I think maybe I am saying ‘dou,’ yes?”
Gina had shrugged. “That’s a question for the director.”
And then she had walked away.
Gina’s ambivalence toward her only served to make Dominika more fascinated. She began collecting information on Gina in casual conversation with members of the theater company. She learned that Gina had been offered theater scholarships by every major college drama program in the United States, but had chosen Wellesley. She was Italian-American, from a large well-off family in Connecticut, and her father owned a liquor store. Gina was a senior, like Dominika, and no one knew what Gina would be doing after graduation. Everyone assumed she would go to either Broadway or Hollywood. Her mixture of charisma, beauty, and sexuality made her future stardom a sure bet.
During one late-night rehearsal, Gina and Dominika ran a scene they had played many times before. The line Othello delivered to Desdemona was, “What promise, chuck?” Only this time, when Gina said it, she reached her hand and touched Dominika’s cheek as she looked into her eyes.
Dominika felt her body tingle all over. All of her dialogue left her head.
“Dominika?” the director had asked after a pause.
“Um, yes,” the Polish girl had replied. “Sorry.”
“‘I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you,” the director hissed.
“I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you,” Dominika repeated. The tall girl had only revealed her irritation at the end of the scene, shooting a disgusted look at the director as if to say: Casting this amateur was all your idea.
Dominika had worked even harder. She studied books on acting, YouTube clips with advice from famous acting coaches, and begged for every tip she could get from the director. Finally the director had taken her aside: “Look, Dom, you’re getting way too intense about this.”
“I am?”
“Just focus on the character. Okay? Focus on the character and you’ll be fine.”
“But I want to do well. I do not want to embarrass Gina…”
“You won’t. Listen. Gina told me yesterday that you had really improved.”
“She did?” Dominika felt an unfamiliar heat creep over her skin.
“Yeah. And God knows how hard it is for me to impress her, so for you… Well. Just relax. All right? You’re doing fine.”
Dominika had wondered if the story was true, or if the director only made it up to help her, Dominika, relax. Either way, Dominika decided, if the director thought her relaxing was the best thing for the play, she would try.
Dress rehearsals arrived. The troupe had a sizable wardrobe, and skilled costumers outfitted Dominika in beautiful period dresses, plus one diaphanous nearly see-through nightgown. If only my parents could see me now, Dominika thought as she studied her reflection. She smiled. Dominika, how far you have come!
Two nights into dress rehearsals, Dominika was trying to lace a bustier in the dressing room. She looked around for assistance, but she was alone. She shrugged. I’ll figure it out, she thought.
Gina entered, looking preoccupied. With barely a nod to Dominika, she began undressing.
The Polish girl tried not to stare as Gina ripped her t-shirt off and threw it into a corner. The actress’s big breasts wobbled in a plain white bra. A couple of movements and her belt was undone. She stepped out of her jeans, leaving them on the floor.
Turning, Gina reached for Othello’s military uniform, a mostly black-robe outfit with mushroom shoulders and a deep open V-neck. Then she pulled her hand back again. “Fuck,” she muttered. “Undershirt.” She turned to Dominika. “Seen the undershirt?”
The sight of Gina standing in her underwear struck Dominika dumb. The tall Italian-American girl looked spectacular. Her long dark curly hair spilled around her shoulders, and her bra’s thin fabric betrayed her aureole—large, light and perfectly round, almost covering her big breast’s peaks like caps. Tiny panties could not quite conceal a neatly-trimmed bush. Gina’s olive skin was impossibly smooth and creamy. It looked like mocha. For a split-second, Dominika wondered if it tasted like mocha.
“Hey.”
“What. Yes. I am listening!”
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“Undershirt,” Gina said impatiently. “Seen it?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Gina rolled her eyes. She threw on the outfit anyway. Her bra showed through the V-neck. She stormed out toward the stage.
The costumer corrected the undershirt situation minutes later. Dominika was happy for this. She would have been very distracted otherwise.
That night, Dominika lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The light snores of her roommate, a preternaturally nervous Gender Studies major, drifted across the room from where she slept.
Finally, Dominika rose and opened a laptop that rested on her neat desk. She started her web browser, directed it to Google’s search page, and typed, “Tribbing.” The screen replied:
Tribadism (/trɪbədɪzəm/TRIB-ə-diz-əm) or tribbing, commonly known by its scissoring position, is a form of non-penetrative sex in which a woman rubs her vulva against her partner’s body for sexual stimulation, especially for ample stimulation of the clitoris. This may involve female-to-female genital contact or a female rubbing her vulva against her partner’s thigh, stomach, buttocks, arm, or other body part (excluding the mouth). A variety of sex positions are included, including the missionary position.
Dominika stared at the text for a long time. Then she closed her browser and returned to bed. After a long pause, she shut her eyes and turned her head to the side. Her hand under the covers moved slowly down her stomach toward the space between her legs.
* * *
The next night, at rehearsal, Dominika lay on a table that was standing in for a bed. Gina and the director were arguing about the blocking of the strangulation scene.
“If I’m on the audience side of the bed,” Gina said, pointing at the prone Dominika, “they can’t see my face or hers when I’m throttling her.” She shrugged. “But if I’m on the other side, the audience won’t be able to see the dagger when I pull it out beforehand.”
“Can’t you pull the dagger out, then just walk around?” the director asked.