Lots of women in the city made my gaydar ping. I would have liked to get to know them, but there was so much to see, I didn’t want to miss a thing. After visiting Covent Gardens for the street shows and Notting Hill for the outdoor market and to see where the movie of the same name was filmed, I was a bit let down about having to leave, but, as the schedule was rigid, I geared up for France.
Our coach was scheduled to board the Portsmouth Ferry to France on the 23rd of December. I got these fleeting pangs of loneliness—Christmas had that effect on Mama and me ever since Daddy died. Every year, Mama got that sad look in her eyes that I would just hate. I couldn’t stand anything I couldn’t fix. Sad turned to surly when she’d get angry at Daddy for leaving us. It was best that I left her alone to get over it, but I was worried sick that she was home alone.
We used to do Christmas right with all the trimmings, but that ended after Daddy took sick from the blood poisoning. He would have rather shot his own foot than admit to being ill. Had he allowed Mama to call Doc, he might still be alive. The year he died was the worse Christmas of my young life. At the tender age of ten, I became the “man of the house.” Mama and I did all right once we got over the shock, but Christmas was permanently ruined. A shame she couldn’t be here to see Europe for herself. She would have loved it. Everywhere I went, I took tons of photographs with my new instamatic camera with the built-in flashcube—that must have cost her a pretty penny—to show her when I got back.
When I heard, “All aboard, folks,” all worries were forgotten, though. I hopped on the bus like a child going to Disney World before I realized my obvious exuberance just wasn’t cool. I quickly posed disinterest despite being the complete opposite. That was me. Tough to the core, I liked to think.
The ferry was due to leave at 10:45 that night. The plan was for us to sleep aboard ship before docking in Caen around 7:30 the next morning. Our English tour guide bid us farewell after informing us we’d be equally pleased with our French tour guide, who would greet us there, and reminding us to book Christmas dinner ASAP. I scribbled my name on the roster on the way to choose a seat. There were a few empty rows, so I grabbed two seats to myself and spread out. I was not in a chatty mood and most of the people on the coach looked so straight, I wondered how they sat down.
I planned to sleep some after the bus took off, but with everyone in a festive mood, singing Christmas carols, serving Champagne in plastic cups and throwing popcorn at each other like a bunch of kids on a school trip, it was impossible to take a nap. I joined the rowdy group in one toast after another until the fizzy alcohol made my head spin. Beer and whiskey back home had never bothered me as badly. I wasn’t used to fancy drinks. When I closed my eyes, I felt like Dorothy in Auntie Em and Uncle Henry’s flying house on the way to Oz. But instead of thinking, “There’s no place like home,” I silently prayed, “Make it stop,” until I had finally dozed off.
I was in a deep sleep when loud static and garbled words startled me to semi-consciousness. I caught the tail end of the bus driver’s announcement over the loudspeaker, followed by a huge groan from the group. They were so selfish there wasn’t a thing they didn’t complain about. At times their behavior embarrassed me to be an American in England.
Pressing down on my temples with my thumbs to stop the figurative knife from making hamburger meat out of my brain, I squinted, hoping to block the light, and asked the nearest passenger for clarification of the message I missed. Apparently another coach had broken down and we had to pick up a few stranded travellers. We were en route to an out-of-the-way-stop to God-knows-where. I wouldn’t have minded the detour except that long-distance highway driving, on the wrong side of the road, in an overheated bus was gruelling. The hot air of passengers who were so full of themselves and not shy about showing it added to my distress. And to top it off, after I’d imbibed a ton of Champagne on an empty stomach without ample water, I was close to hurling. Throwing up in public would not have been cool at all.
As if I couldn’t feel worse, I had a wicked headache made more excruciating by the faintest light. God bless the lady who took pity on me when she handed over two prescription-strength-migraine-relief tablets, a large cup of water from her jug, and a few packages of Saltines. She claimed this “combo” had saved her many lost days due to severe suffering. After her profound act of kindness, I regretted placing my entire tour group into a thoughtless lump. Another sign that stereotypes weren’t restricted to the het world.
Just knowing I was on the road to recovery, made my head and stomach feel slightly better, but not great. Waiting for the pain pills to completely work their magic, I shut my eyes again, which helped a lot. I slept for an hour or so when the driver made a wide turn, knocking my head against the wet windowpane as he drove into a bus depot. He promised it was the last stop before Portsmouth over the loudspeaker. I wished he’d turn down the volume.
Even through fogged-up windows and with a headache that miraculously had faded as the kind lady said it would, I couldn’t miss the woman who narrowly escaped being flattened by our bus. I sat right up and quickly rubbed moisture off the window with the back of my sleeve to get a better look. After being smothered by breeders for much of the time, I detected a ray of hope. Having another lesbian aboard would spice things up. She could have been gay, but I was not totally sure. In a woollen skirt and thigh-high boots beneath a Shetland wool coat, she wore bright red lipstick and a colorful woollen cap with a pom-pom. I wouldn’t be caught dead in pom-poms, and lipstick was a waste. It’s not like I didn’t know lipstick lesbians existed, but where I came from, there wasn’t one. When the driver lifted the woman’s suitcase, I noticed a bunch of stickers, including the rainbow flag, before he stowed the bag beneath the bus. A pride rainbow might be an obvious clue, but it wasn’t foolproof. I learned that lesson the hard way, so I wouldn’t be making that mistake again. She could just be a gay pride sympathizer, for all I knew.
She climbed aboard and sauntered down the aisle like it was a damn runway, making it no secret she was checking me out. Clue number two was the eye contact and slight smile. Determined not to share my seat I purposefully turned and looked away. If that didn’t shout, “not interested,” then nothing would. She was too high class for me. I might be a sucker for stereotypes, but the last thing I wanted was some snooty femme giving me an earful for the duration of the trip.
She took the hint and settled in the seat across from mine. With her snack, a bag of chips and can of Coke, tucked in the seat pocket, she fished in her expensive-looking and probably genuine-leather bag and pulled out a hardcover book and flashlight. She started reading, and I was amazed—I’d never seen anyone turn the pages that quickly. Maybe she was the brainy type.
It wasn’t long before we were on the road again, the heater turned up high to blast us out. The femme woman made a big production out of removing her coat and folding it neatly in her lap before standing and stretching way up to place it on the rack above me, probably so I could smell her perfume. Her sweater hugged her curves, showing off nice, pert breasts, and from my vantage point, the underside of those perky numbers sure was fine. Maybe her scent was a bit sweet, but it was mixed with an earthy hint, and it kind of grew on me.
I stole a glance at her, and I thought I caught her wink at me. It was so fast, I couldn’t be sure. I waited, silently daring her to do it again when she closed her book and gazed into my eyes. “See something you like?”
Taken by surprise, I said the first thing on my mind. “I was looking at your book.”
She grinned with a sexy sideways glance, daring me to tell another lie. “Yeah, right.”
She was frisky. I knew a good way to calm her down.
Next thing I knew, she jumped up and stowed her bag on the overhead rack with her coat. Then, keeping her finger in the book to hold her place, she slithered into the seat next to mine, forcing me to sit up straight and make room. She read quietly like a prim schoolgirl daring me to pull her hair or shoot spitballs at her. I
was tempted. I grew curious to know the title of that book, but she concealed it on purpose.
While she was occupied, I summed her up. She was young, maybe twenty, and slim but with a little puppy fat. Her stark jet-black hair contradicted her dreamy soft brown eyes—kind of like serious business executive meets sweet seductress. She appeared just over five feet tall, falling short of me by six inches, I guessed. Not bad at all. Cute and compact on the outside, but I sensed there was a well-concealed commanding nature within. I could have some fun with her, but first she would have to learn her place.
Compared to the cold and blustery weather going on outdoors, the bus was getting warmer by the second with this chick sitting by my side. I had shucked my coat hours ago, but decided that I had to peel off another layer or sweat to death. I was glad I had thought to wear a T-shirt underneath or I’d have been stuck way overdressed.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“War and Peace,” she replied.
“You kidding me?”
“Yeah.”
When she didn’t elaborate, I took it to mean that she wasn’t interested. Things cooled off fast as a result of that chilly introduction to Miss Snooty Pants.
The bus crept along. After what seemed like an interminable wait on a long line approaching the tollbooths, we were finally aboard the ferry. I’d never been on a ferry, much less an English channel-cross ferry that was more like a cruise ship. The brochure boasted spacious staterooms, comfortable lounge seats, money-exchange counter, boutique gift shops, bars, disco, dining room, snack bar cafe, a video arcade and a whole host of other amenities to make the trip pleasurable and seem luxurious. There were spectacular views from the many open decks for passengers strong enough to withstand the winter chill. I dared anyone to experience a Midwest winter before complaining about the cold.
I downed all three packages of Saltines at the same time, happy they were dry and salty because it settled my stomach. I was brushing the crumbs off my chest when the kind lady offered me a sandwich. She claimed that once the nausea was gone, I needed a full stomach to avoid feeling sick all over again. With immense gratitude I shook her hand so hard I nearly pulled her arm out of the socket. I often forgot my own strength. I returned her smile as I ate up. Ham, lettuce, cucumber, onion and tomato on brown bread with butter and English mustard tasted surprisingly good for someone who would never think to eat ham with butter and salad. Sampling foreign foods was making me quite the connoisseur—if you get my French. English food might be bland according to popular belief, but the amazing English pub that served up traditional recipes and the best beer I’d ever had gave new meaning to Rabbit Pie. One bite and I soon forgot I was eating a distant relative of Bugs Bunny. Thinking about the incredible brews I sampled and surprised at my renewed hunger, I was glad I had francs in my pocket for whatever my heart desired and my stomach could stand. I hoped French cuisine was as good as they claimed. Thinking about food meant I was feeling much better.
When it was time to board the ferry, we were reminded to take our overnight bags before we left the bus because suitcases would have to remain stowed below.
Miss Snooty Pants next to me was already standing and deliberately sticking her ass in my face. I caught a glimpse of the book title, some shit about Women’s Lib. I figured she was a rioter, too. She was getting to me. I looked away and waited for her to go. Damn, who did she think she was, driving me nuts? She wouldn’t share the title of a stupid book, but she had no qualms about wiggling her backside in front of my face or standing above me on tiptoes so her skirt brushed my jeans and I could asphyxiate on her perfume. If I had my way, she was in for a big surprise.
As it turned out, I didn’t see Miss Snooty Pants while I was busy sharing a snack with the kind lady. She had told me, but I never could remember her name, only her kindness. Thanks to her I was totally cured and unable to show my profound appreciation, I bought her a bottle of Côtes du Rhône in the gift shop, duty free too, and ordered the Plateau de Fromages des Regions de France from the a la carte menu—translation: wine and cheese. Amazingly I could read some French, but speaking the language was another story I didn’t want to get into. After polishing off the plate of cheeses from the regions of France we then retired to the upper deck where the rowdy gang from our group was already assembled.
The nightclub festivities included music, but Christmas songs weren’t conducive to dancing, unless you were drunk. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and I’d have thought they would have gotten the celebration started by then. Maybe the subdued atmosphere, even for a noisy bunch of characters, was because we had to be back on the bus before daylight. I was already noticing a few pairings amongst the natives. It was a singles tour after all, but I doubted I’d find anyone there.
With nothing much happening upstairs, I was on the way to find the reserved lounge seat area included in our ticket, when I realized I’d moseyed into the berthing area instead. The hallway was narrow. I stopped to read the signs and decided to head back out to the money exchange desk and start over. I turned, for a split second thinking I should hit the bathroom to brush my teeth, when someone ploughed into me from behind.
“Hey, watch it,” I said, my fists clenched.
“You watch it. I know exactly where I’m going.”
“It’s you.” I narrowed my eyes at her and stood tall.
“Are you going to move sometime this year?”
“The year ends in about a week, so I’d venture a guess at yes. Ask me nicely and I’ll think about doing it sooner.”
“Fine.” I could tell she was trying to stay mad but failing miserably. The playfulness that she’d had in her eyes when we were on the bus returned until she sweetly added, “Excuse me, but would you kindly move your bodacious butt.”
“Bodacious?” I repeated.
“You might be the most annoying woman I’ve met on this trip, but I can still notice a fine butt when I see one. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my room is down that hall and I’d like to get there before we dock.”
“You’re not exactly painful to look at either.”
“Is that your idea of a compliment?” Her lips clamped shut, but her eyes were opened wide. She had really pretty eyes.
She nodded down the hall. I clearly wasn’t moving fast enough for her. As she tried to pass me, I backed against the wall to let her through. I held my hands up in surrender. Her tits grazed me, causing a chain reaction of events. She rolled her suitcase right over my boot. What a snotty bitch, but too cute to ignore. Before she could say another word, I pinned her ass to the wall with my hips pushed firmly against her belly, grabbed her face with my hands, and kissed her full on the lips, lipstick and all. This shut her right up. I was about to do it again too, but she slapped my face. I wasn’t expecting that, but it didn’t faze me. I guessed she had a change of heart, because she gathered the front of my t-shirt, twisting it in her fist, and pulled her suitcase and me along the lengthy narrow hallway.
We stopped in front of her room. She let go of her case, not my shirt, and opened the cabin door. Again, I grew dizzy from the smell of her sweet perfume. The warmth of her breath on my chin as she spoke enticed me further.
Her brown eyes, framed with lush lashes that could catch butterflies, softened. “I’m Billie.”
It could have gone one of two ways. I chose the way that didn’t dismiss her and promptly send her on her way. Our eyes held, it was nearly impossible to look anywhere else.
“Hello, Billie. I’m Roana, but folks call me Rue, because they rue the day they don’t worship the ground I walk on.” I laughed in response to her amused smirk. “I’m kidding. Not about the name, but feel free to worship me all you want.” I was full of cocky grins before offering her my hand. All conflict aside, we shook hands on our new dubious friendship.
“What do you say we dump our bags and head to the bar for a quick drink?” I suggested.
“Sounds doable. What room are you?”
“I don’t have a room.
” Our tour only included a reclining lounger. Mama’s generosity was enough without paying extra for upgrades like staterooms just for a little shut-eye. I’d slept in barns with the livestock. I didn’t need no fancy cabin. As it was, the assigned lounge seat was luxurious enough as there were plenty of benches aboard the ferry I could have used.
She interrupted my thoughts abruptly. “What do you mean you don’t have a room? Where will you sleep?”
“I was looking for my lounge seat when we bumped into each other.”
“We can leave your stuff in my room. This way.” She had a mighty take-charge attitude going on there.
Dumping our bags was quick and efficient. I followed her out of her room, then through a maze of doors like a rabbit chasing a carrot. The nightclub deck was duly decorated. The tree was trimmed, garland was everywhere, and even mistletoe hung from the ceiling. But again I noted it was surprisingly empty for Christmas season.
“Must be a bunch of old farts on board,” I commented at the lack of partiers. We ordered drinks, and she graciously accepted when I insisted on buying. She was such a girl. More girlie than ever after I learned she could talk the hind leg off of a donkey, without taking a breath.
“I’m spending one day in Normandy, and then I’m off,” she said, popping a handful of salted peanuts into her mouth.
“How come?”
“I’ve always wanted to see Paris and hit the sights. I teach World History and plan to visit every part of the globe I can. Including the Champs-Elysées and Place de la Concorde, where King Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, and many others were guillotined during the French revolution. Such a blood bath.”
“That’s awfully gory.”
Unwrap these Presents Page 17
