Here’s to you, honey, said the lesbian.
They drank down their medicine, which seized hold of them within twenty minutes, so that after half an hour our moonstruck Francine found herself rubbing her hand round and round the lesbian’s buttock, whirling her tongue ever more rapidly in the lesbian’s mouth until she had forgotten how to stop, gasping with astonished joy whenever the lesbian thrust her tongue into her mouth, which dominated her so pleasingly and perfectly; now the flats of their two tongues were sliding back and forth against each other, and Francine climaxed with a muffled scream. The climax went on and on. She was kneading the lesbian’s breast; she could hardly bear to let go, but her caresses were informed by some wordless conviction that it was incumbent on her to maintain the coherence and perhaps even the existence of the lesbian’s body: unless she kept fondling every part of Neva, she would lose her, piece by piece!—And touching her all over was anyhow such a pleasure, worshipping her belly with both hands, stroking it like a swimmer, then dipping her forefingers down into the hot wet groove whose labia were still swollen with excitement—because, you see, the lesbian loved her! the lesbian desired her!—and spreading her fingertips wide to part the folds around her lover’s clitoris, lightly, rapidly whirling it round and round and round while her tongue danced in the lesbian’s mouth, she licked the back of her teeth, longing to get bitten off and swallowed—and as she panted inside the lesbian’s mouth, her arms rushed up and down that adorable back, to preserve, remember and glorify its smooth firmness; desperate with joy she gripped the lesbian’s perfect buttocks and pulled them apart . . .
Then it was Sandra’s turn, followed (indiscreetly) by the straight man’s, Erin’s, Starfire’s (and, yes, it was so good that whenever she began to kiss the lesbian she tasted something indescribable at the back of her throat!), Victoria’s, mine and, most importantly, Judy’s; and then, lying on her back with her knees up and fluid coldly trickling from her vagina, the transwoman’s head heavy and loudly snoring on her shoulder, the lesbian felt herself beginning to come down from the yellow serum, only a little at first, as if she had been lying effortlessly underwater and now the water had drained away from her forehead, which began to feel cool even as her mind began to chill; the transwoman snored sweetly on, and very lightly, the lesbian, still determined to do the best by comforting us, stroked her hair.
Now a bit of the warm underwater sensation had departed Neva’s heart. She was sorry to feel it go.
Her naked shoulders were cold; she wished to pull up the covers, but that would have woken the transwoman. Goosepimples beset her upper arms.
Finally the transwoman’s eyelids trembled. The lesbian kissed her lustily on the mouth.—I love so you much . . . said her friend, to which the lesbian replied: And I love you!—They were both in the mood again. Rolling over, the lesbian got into her strap-on and penetrated her friend, who groaned and grunted with pleasure while the lesbian moaned sincerely or maybe just politely; how could Judy tell?—Never forget your feelings, the old woman on the island had warned, and Neva tried to live up to this, but when Aphrodite bestows herself upon us defectives, why should she reveal whatever it is that she feels? Better that we don’t know! (If I had to guess, I’d suppose that Neva—not Aphrodite!—felt, as ever, guilty toward all these people who adored her.)
Judy lay snoring and drooling. Remembering what she used to do on the island, the lesbian licked up her drool. Then she rose and began to make dinner.
I’ll keep you company, said the sleepy transwoman.
Honey, you just relax. I’ll come and get you when it’s ready, okay?
I feel so lazy . . . Neva, you spoil me!
The lesbian kissed her forehead. Before the sausages were done, the transwoman wandered into the kitchen, naked but for a pair of socks.—She said: My heart feels all fluttery!
I’m sorry. Did I give you too much of a dose?
No, I like this feeling . . . I really like it—
Do you want to do it again next time?
Whatever we do is good. I love you.
I love you, too.
I love you so much!
Thank you, Judy. Would you like a beer?
What the hell . . . Why not? Oh, my heart feels . . . feels fuckin’ good. Neva?
Yes, honey?
Neva, I, I’m so happy, I want to scowl and stamp my feet like Martina Navratilova! And then kiss you all over!
And take advice from Xenia?
Why the fuck not? And be your bitch while you’re my bitch, and then . . . What was I saying? I feel strange; I need to lie down.
Her hostess tucked her into bed, knowing that sooner or later Judy’s abandonment fixation, like Shantelle’s, must crystallize out as resentment, which would express itself in grudge-statements drearily repeated with escalating anger, which Neva’s most submissive apologies could only temporarily appease, and that at the price of a sick bruised feeling around her heart which could not but retain in itself any aggression or even abuse; her heart bled for us because it had to bleed anyhow.
An hour later the lesbian, alone, lay in bed and began to shiver. She opened the closet and found the old grey chamois shirt she used to wear on the island. As soon as she finished buttoning it over her heart, she felt better. Reentering the sweaty sheets, she stared up at the ceiling. Her buttocks were sore. What had she and the transwoman been doing down there? She pulled the bedspread up around her neck to sing the song of names: E-beth, Reba, Belle and Lucia . . .—By the window the radiator whispered.
Her cell phone chimed, then sent the call to voicemail. It was the transwoman saying: I just bought some new high heels and I’m walking around the room to see if they’re too tight. Please, Neva, can I come over and model them for you?
6
Her mother mostly knew not to touch her, but after the fourth or fifth glass of wine, when everyone else had left the table, and the lesbian sat patiently across from her while she slowly chewed her salad, she might suddenly grasp her wrist with a cold and bony hand.
Because she had appeared without notice, the neighbor Mrs. Immler was also there.
The lesbian rose to help Mrs. Immler with the dishes.
Can’t you sit until I’m finished? her mother said angrily. I’ve barely begun my salad.
I’ve been sitting and sitting, replied the lesbian—the most she ever talked back to her mother, and as soon as she said it she felt guilty. All the same, she rose, leaving her mother sitting all alone at the big table, and went into the kitchen where Mrs. Immler was putting away the food.
The lesbian began to tear off a sheet of aluminum foil in which to wrap the fingerling potatoes.
No, Karen, said Mrs. Immler. You’ll just mess it up. When will you ever grow up? After all these years you still look like a child. Why can’t you go back and keep your mother company?
This last she seemed to say extra loudly, for the mother’s benefit.
Then why don’t you sit with us, and then we’ll all clean up together?
No, said Mrs. Immler, and who am I to say that Neva was or was not then illuminated by the miracle of shame, which reveals us to ourselves so that we may look within our flesh and see the sad skeletons of our origins?
And then after a long time she and her mother were sitting alone by the fire.
Her mother poured herself another glass of wine. She said: I just feel so cozy here.
The lesbian stared into the flames.
Isn’t it cozy here?
It sure is.
Karen, why are you annoyed with Mrs. Immler?
Who told you I was?
Oh, I don’t know. But I gather you’re very annoyed with her.
No. I’m not upset at her at all.
Well, I’ve been told that you were. I don’t know.
They sat in silence.
I just love this fire, said her mo
ther, pouring herself more wine. Don’t you just love it?
It’s very nice.
They were sitting side by side. Her mother reached out and gripped the lesbian’s hand. The lesbian kept breathing as evenly as she could.
The lesbian presently said: Mom, I have a lot of friends in San Francisco, and some of them are needy, but they all love me and I try to love them back. But sometimes I feel tired. Do you have any advice for me?
No, said her mother.
I’ve been thinking about going away . . .
I’m not surprised, Karen, because that’s what you do.
Mom, I don’t feel well. What should I do?
Her mother closed her eyes. The lesbian waited for her to say something. Finally the lesbian said: Well, Mom, you must be getting tired.
Oh, no. I’m not tired at all. Are you?
Not very.
It’s really really nice by this fire, said her mother. But why are you annoyed at Mrs. Immler?
Can I get you anything, Mom?
Not a thing, said the mother, tightening her grip on the lesbian’s wrist.
The lesbian sat still for as long as she could. Then she said: I think I’ll go upstairs for awhile.
Oh, so soon?
I think I’ll go lie down.
I didn’t realize you were so tired.
I’ll see you in awhile, Mom.
It’s so lovely by this fire.
7
We were all wasting our lives at the Y Bar; just then Samantha (in red, with waves of flowers in her red hair) surprised herself by experiencing sexual feelings for Judy, who now looked almost svelte, but easily set them aside in consideration that Judy would want too much; meanwhile Shantelle was instructing Sandra: Bitch, you may be drop dead gorgeous, but, bitch, I’m tellin’ you; you need to eat some niggah food, get you some hips, ’cause a man likes a bitch with parts he can grab onto, while Xenia held forth over her Old German Lager: The thing about young people today is that nobody is willing to commit to gender anymore, I feel like it’s war on femininity. The world of the longhaired butch is a dying breed. When did it become illegal to be a high femme? I feel so old school with my fucking tits and my long hair . . .—Judy stopped listening. She felt sad and dirty, as if she had recently gone away from Neva or were coming down from ecstasy or both, and began thinking back on last time, when Neva had called a ride for her, which was probably intended in love but might have been a sign that Neva was tired of her; her understanding was that she could stay until seven p.m., but Neva had called the ride service at 6:20 or maybe 6:40; and then, since Judy felt too blue to go straight home, she took herself out to Fatty’s Pizza, and when she asked the counter girl: May I sit over here? the reply was: No, sit over there, and Judy felt insulted. Admitting the possibility that her jangled state had a straightforwardly biochemical cause, she still could not help but feel sad. Had Neva grown tired of her, she must have been a bad guest—disgusting as usual. Perhaps she should phone Neva to apologize, and explain again how much she loved her, but what if that worsened the situation? Or she could thank her one more time, just in case . . .
The counter girl kept bringing out everybody else’s pizza. The man who had ordered after Judy was already eating his. She listened to her belly gurgle. After half an hour, she began to feel quite wretched. Well, she was expert at that.
The place was dark. Why had she been forbidden from sitting by the window, where she could at least have watched the happy hurryings of others? The customers ate in silence. Judy stared down at her cell phone as if she were expecting a call—from Neva, for instance. At last the counter girl slammed down a lukewarm pizza before her. Well, thought Judy, it’s what I deserve.
8
And the lesbian, who knew by heart exactly what we wanted, now began to alter the menu, to keep us (so the retired policeman theorized) in that state of ecstatic dependent spontaneity. This meant that our schedules changed.
I came in to the Y Bar fresh from Neva’s mouth, enriched by that steady, strong and wide-awake sense of beautifully passing time, of a present moment that I truly felt and lived in as it and I moved endlessly forward together, so that I was not spending and certainly not losing time, but travelling with it, rightly and appropriately, through the noon-bright eternity that someday, but not this moment, would change from infinite to finite. Turning neither back nor forward, I lived as it seemed that I always should have done, without anxiety or grief, quietly, joyfully resolute to keep journeying. Needing no food or water, although my tongue licked at my dry lips, free in my painless being, seeking nothing, I sat down while Francine silently poured out my poison.
Judy and Sandra sat side by side sweating and shivering; for Sandra it felt like the bad old days when the straight man used to ejaculate inside her when she was ovulating, after which he would make her take the morning after pill, whose hormones induced desperate weepiness; of course barren Judy lacked that memory-baseline. Economical Francine sold them a single pill for their headaches, so they had to split it; fortunately, we were accomplished at that. I perceived or more likely hallucinated the swelling sweet affectionate chattiness of these two women whom only now was I coming to know; even as the transwoman imagined herself made famous by a headline that said JUDY’S HEARTBREAK, accompanied by a photograph of her looking heroic and sad and wearing metallic eye shadow—but then her head hurt. She said: Sandra, I’m so stupid, I mean, really really stupid!
Don’t say that, honey, and the other woman patted her hand.
But I really don’t know anything! Neva said . . .
She said what?
Oh, who the fuck cares? I’d kill myself to please her, but there’s no fuckin’ way, and it makes me feel . . . Tell me a story, Sandra. Please! Another story about how it is to be a woman.
But you are one.
I wish . . .
Excuse me; I need to call Neva. Oh, my mother’s texting but I won’t answer in case Neva might be calling.
What do you need to call Neva for? I want to call her, too!
Actually someone’s calling me. I don’t know who it is. I was hoping it was Neva. No, it’s still not ringing. Sorry, Judy, but I’m really not—
Please. Because I hurt inside. I’m no good. I’m disgusting.
What’s with you today? Gosh, it’s chilly in here!
Just take my mind off . . . I mean, tell me how it is—
Are you sick?
Oh, no no no! Are you?
I . . . What were you asking? Oh. How it is to be a woman? First you tell me something.
I’m disgusting. That’s all.
Judy—
Now what about you?
Well, I just think about the way that men describe sex and the way women describe sex. For men it’s a hardening and for women it’s a softening.
The transwoman brightly interrupted: And when a man goes down on you . . .
I don’t know what the physical desire is for a man to do it! They tell me, but I don’t understand it. But as far as going down on a man, I do it and I don’t really mind it. Whether it’s a boyfriend or whether it’s Neva, I feel like, well, I love you and I want to like explore your body. Excuse me, Judy, but I don’t feel well.
You look terrible. I feel terrible. Why don’t you come back to my place and, you know, get warm?
That’s a nice offer, but—
Don’t you like me?
I need to pull the covers over me and . . . I’ve really got to go right now. Sorry. I love you, Judy—
I love you, too. Please don’t go . . .
Feeling desolate, the transwoman went to see the retired policeman, who showed her forensic microphotographs to teach her about the greater acidity, more numerous bacteria and increased frequency of microscopic scales in menstrual blood; while Sandra went home and called Neva, who actually answered. She sounded tired.
I’m sorry! said Sandra. I didn’t mean to bother you—
Honey, what’s wrong?
Of course I still want in my heart for you to be the mother of our baby, but I understand all the inherent difficulty and sadness that might create . . .
You know I love you, said the lesbian.
Please can I come over? Just for five minutes to kiss you?
Okay, said the lesbian.
And Sandra came running. Neva was in her nightgown. Sandra said: Tell me another thing you’ve never told me before. Then I’ll go, I promise.
I’ll tell you something. Will you memorize it and teach it to Judy?
It’s for her?
The Lucky Star Page 49