by Ana Good
Mary Lou, who lived up the road in East Hardwick, had promised Thumper she’d meet her in Stowe; that they’d have lunch together at the Ski Kitty diner. Thumper yelped when she saw Mary Lou’s cherry-red, short-bed Ford pickup tucked into a tight space in the parking lot adjacent to the diner.
The purple queermobile was rolling into that same parking lot when Thumper popped open the door and bolted full steam for the diner.
Wee Gee looked after Thumper. “Where the hell is rocket girl going?”
Seeing the truck, Dirk offered an answer. “Her girl, Mary Lou. That’s her truck over there.”
As Wee Gee studied the truck, the door on the driver’s side shot open. A short, stacked blonde with long, curly hair bounced out of the truck into Thumper’s outstretched arms.
“Looks like love!” gasped Wee Gee, happy to have stumbled onto a possible new plot line.
“I guess,” grumbled Dirk, who was still mad at her sister for shutting her out of her life.
Candice squeezed Dirk’s arm. “Have lunch with me?”
“Me and you?” Dirk offered a lopsided grin.
“Don’t get your hopes up, you big stud bunny,” Candice countered, catching the gleam in Dirk’s eye. “I said lunch. I meant lunch. None of that hanky-panky you do with the young girls. I’m not like that. I’m respectable. Mature. A professional lezzy. Understand?”
“Not really,” said Dirk with a shrug. “But, uh, I’ll take you up on that lunch thing ’cause it looks like Thumper is gonna be busy.”
As the other women tumbled out of the van and parted into pairs to explore the village of Stowe, Thumper and Mary Lou untangled from their hug and climbed into Mary Lou’s truck seeking privacy.
“You look awesome!” said Thumper, who was happier than she could have imagined to see Mary Lou again.
“Thanks, honey,” said Mary Lou. “You too! Your mom said you’re okay? Off the steroids?”
“Yeah, but Dirk —” Thumper hesitated.
“Your mom told me. No biggy.” Mary Lou adjusted the rearview mirror inside the truck before flicking out a tube of Pink Passion lipstick and freshening up her lips.
“Really?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m cool with it, if it’s what Dirk wants. Aren’t you?”
“I guess.” Thumper slumped in the seat of the truck and shut her eyes. The sun was bright outside on the freshly fallen snow and Thumper’s head hurt. She wanted to love her sister again, but she felt so betrayed. Why hadn’t her sister ever told her she wanted to be a boy? They shared everything.
Mary Lou scooted over and pressed herself close to Thumper’s lanky body. “Hey, it didn’t surprise you, did it?” She found Thumper’s hand and squeezed it tightly.
“What?”
“Your sister. I mean that Dirk wants to have that operation.”
“Kinda.” Thumper slid upright in the seat. “To tell the truth, it sorta freaks me out.”
“Oh come on! Didn’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“Your sister? How much she wanted to be a boy?”
“You saw that?”
“Uh, like, yeah! Since second grade when she made everyone call her Dirk instead of Dorothy.”
Thumper sniffled. “I thought it was, like, a nickname.”
“It’s a boy’s name. Dirk is a boy’s name. Didn’t you ever get that?”
Silence engulfed the truck cabin. Mary Lou keyed the ignition, turning the heat and radio back on. She fidgeted with the knob on the radio until she had a country and western station. The woman singer was belting out a song about soft kisses and hard hearts. “Miss me?” Mary Lou asked shyly.
Thumper opened her eyes and looked at Mary Lou. “Yeah, like, a lot.”
“You’re not acting like it,” said Mary Lou. “I mean, you’re way over there, like I have cooties or something.” Mary Lou pointed to the vast two inches of space between them on the perfectly restored, red leather seat. (Mary Lou was training to be an auto mechanic at the vo-tech school.)
Thumper took Mary Lou by one arm and pulled her across the seat until they were pressed tightly together.
“Goddamn it!” complained Mary Lou as she climbed into Thumper’s lap. “Kiss me already, you big old jock!”
48. Snow Job
None of the women had a game plan in terms of what to do with their newfound freedom. Nan Goldberg decided she’d hang out with Poppy and Wee Gee for the day. Wee Gee wanted to eat. Poppy was not particularly hungry. Nan, for her part, remained obsessed with the notion that her life partner, Birge Hathaway, might be snowing her big time. As luck would have it, Nan knew where Birge and Mirabelle were staying in Stowe. She hated to admit she was still jealous, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be prudent to drop in on Birge and Tinker Bell at their hotel, unannounced.
Nan was standing in front of the Snowbird Inn, Birge’s hotel, when an idea occurred to her. The inn was definitely something Birge would have selected for a romantic getaway: a sprawling Victorian mansion that had once been the home of a New England lumber baron. The mansion was painted pure white with three-story turrets guarding each wing. Since it was late December, the evergreens that lined the steps to the entrance were draped in snowy ropes and twinkling blue lights. The place was so romantic it made Nan want to gag.
The inn supported a five-star restaurant that specialized in nouveau New England cuisine — trout stuffed with cranberry and sweet potato chutney, that sort of yummy stuff. Nan read Wee Gee the menu posted in the restaurant window, causing the novelist to bolt full steam toward the door into the restaurant.
Poppy had little choice but to follow the two older women.
The restaurant was so crowded Nan could barely elbow her way to the tiny podium where the maître d’, a man wearing an expensive Italian suit, decided who would be admitted and who would be cast back out onto the icy streets to starve.
Nan, who was on a mission, was not about to leave her status to chance. While Wee Gee and Poppy hung back at the door, Nan boldly introduced herself to the maître d’, assuring him they had reservations. “Check under the name Franklin,” she said, as she palmed a fifty-dollar bill across the podium toward him.
“Oh yes. Here it is, Ms. Franklin,” said the man, who wasted no time ushering Nan and her friends to a quiet table in the corner. The table was close to the front picture window, which framed a lawn that rolled in a snowy blanket toward the street. Nan could see a veritable parade of skiers and holiday shoppers as they hustled down the street. Snow had begun to fall softly. The steeple of a white church jutted above the heads of the holiday shoppers. A covered bridge lay along the cobblestone street below.
“How’d you do that?” asked Wee Gee. “The line to get in here was longer than Pinocchio’s nose.”
Nan shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s eat, shall we?”
The three women had fun selecting a smorgasbord of New England delicacies: walnut appetizers roasted in a balsamic sauce, rolled pork loin stuffed with apple chutney, and ginger squash soup. And that was just the first course.
“It okay if you eat all this stuff?” Poppy whispered to Wee Gee.
“In moderation,” replied Wee Gee, who could feel herself slipping down the dark well of gluttony. This lunch would be the first real test of her ability to practice moderation when faced with a cornucopia. Locked inside Sugarbush, Wee Gee had been able to stay on an even keel because temptation was almost nonexistent, but the real world featured temptation on every street corner. Tucking a napkin into the collar of her blouse, Wee Gee hoped she was ready for the test.
Something on the sidewalk caught Nan’s eye, causing her to excuse herself, pretending she had to go to the toilet. “Go ahead. Start the main course without me. I saw a pay phone by the washroom. Need to make a few business calls to Manhattan.”
“Okay,” said Wee Gee, who didn’t want to be rude, but truth be told she’d never in her life held back from eating as a matter of manners. She knew full well w
here Nan was headed because she’d seen the same view as Nan out that window.
What she’d seen was Nan’s partner, Birge Hathaway, arm in arm with that leggy brunette she’d had the nerve to try and pass off as a “business associate” at the farmhouse that week.
When the waiter brought the first dish, a steaming plate of walnuts, Poppy suggested they wait for Nan to return.
“No way!” cried Wee Gee, who filled Poppy in. “I bet Nan is about to go ballistic. Doubt she’ll have an appetite now.”
“Her partner is off shagging a tart in public like that. That’s bloody awful!” groaned Poppy.
“That’s nothing but life all nasty and up in your nose, baby girl,” said Wee Gee as she bit into a juicy spoonful of walnuts. “Live long enough and you’ll get used to it.”
49. Tinker Bell Gets Her Wings
Nan stood impatiently at the registration counter of the Snowbird Inn, not the least bit shy about lying her face off to the counter girl. “Silly me. I left my room key card in the restaurant,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I’m with my partner, Birge Hathaway. She’s at a business meeting. Can you give me an extra card to our room? Please?”
The young girl at the counter, who was wearing what appeared to be a green felt elf’s hat, was only too happy to look up Birge Hathaway’s room number and swipe a new key card for Nan. She palmed the key card to Nan, calling her Mirabelle by mistake.
So, thought Nan, Birge and her assistant were registered in the same room. Not a good sign.
Fuck that old dyke and her little Tinkertwat, thought Nan as she strode down the hallway, toward the staircase that led to Birge’s private tower suite.
Birge was registered, of course, in the best room in the place: the Baron’s Suite in the east turret. Nan was out of breath by the time she’d climbed the three stories to the private lair. She stood at the antique, handcrafted, double sliding oak doors, uncertain she wanted to see what lay on the other side.
Lots of people’s spouses cheated on them. Most middle-aged straight women Nan knew accepted male cheating as normal behavior. They looked the other way, many secretly glad their husbands had taken up with someone else as it relieved them of sex, which after thirty years had become for many wives a fairly boring and unpleasant duty.
But Nan didn’t want a relationship like that. If she and Birge were truly going to share their lives, then they had to share a bed also. All or nothing. Not some half-assed attempt at a relationship, but the real thing. Tinker Bell would have to nest someplace else.
Taking a deep breath, Nan swiped the key card through the lock unit and retracted it quickly. She had to repeat the procedure twice, as the lock didn’t recognize the card on the first try. When the doors finally slid apart, Nan was pushing so hard she fell face first onto the richly carpeted floor.
Nan looked up to see Birge standing over a four-poster bed, adorned in nothing but a huge leather cock and balls. She had taken off her trifocal glasses and slicked back her short graying hair with some sort of gel.
Tinker Bell was dressed more elaborately. Like some sort of a leather-wrapped Christmas present. She was on her knees on the bed, her backside toward Birge. Her shapely ass was wrapped in a leather g-string. The string was held together by a tiny rhinestone star in the back, with matching rhinestone rings on each side. If she’d been wearing a bra, it was missing now.
Mostly what she wore was a look of surprise.
The three women stared at one another.
Birge spoke first, taking a step toward Nan, her cock bouncing. “Not what it looks like, honey.”
“Really?”
“Really,” said Mirabelle, who was off her knees, onto her feet, groveling toward Nan now. “This was all my idea.”
Nan wheeled to face Birge. “That true?”
Birge nodded.
“Then you’re a liar as well as a whore.”
“Nan!” objected Birge.
Nan held out one hand, warning Birge away. “Please. Put some clothes on. Do you have any idea how silly you look?”
Birge grabbed a terry-cloth robe from the wingback chair at the side of the bed. “Don’t get upset about this. Okay?” Birge said as she belted the robe awkwardly, and not very successfully, over her cock. “You’ve been out of this relationship a long time. You dumped me for a bottle of Nolet’s and a bag of limes a couple of years ago. What was I supposed to do?”
“What? This is my fault?” screamed Nan.
“Mostly,” murmured Birge.
Mirabelle had donned a robe and was hotfooting it to the bathroom. Nan blocked her. “Hold on there, little sister! Who do you think you are? Birge and I are married. Don’t you have any respect for that?”
Mirabelle shrugged. “Talk to her. Don’t blame me if you can’t keep your woman happy.”
Birge stepped in. “It was an accident. No one meant for it to happen, Nan.”
“An accident? What, her vagina just opened up one night and you tripped and fell in?”
Mirabelle took advantage of the stunned silence to slide into the bathroom and lock the door behind her.
Birge took Nan by the arm. “Calm down!” she urged, ushering her partner into the room.
“No!” cried Nan as she shook off Birge. “I will not calm down! You lied to me. To my face. We could have talked about this in therapy, but you lied. That’s sick. Here I am trying to come clean and you’re playing head games with me.”
“Damn it!” cried Birge. “I was lonely. You’ve been sloppy drunk most of the last two years. That’s not very sexy, you realize.”
“I realize that, but I am not drunk now.”
“How do I know that?”
Nan was stunned. She had no comeback. Was this all her fault? Had she pushed Birge to seek companionship elsewhere? A chill spread through her body. She felt faint.
Mirabelle emerged from the bathroom, dressed like a normal adult rather than some fist-banged, lesbo sex slave. “I’m going shopping,” she piped to Birge. “See you at dinner tonight, honey?”
Birge nodded, which sent Nan into a rage. A rage so hot and blinding she had to leave the room. She ran down the hall, knocking Mirabelle aside. She fled onto the snowy streets. The air was filled with the cheer of Christmas carolers dressed in Victorian-era costumes, making their way through the village.
Clutching her coat to her bosom, Nan broke into a run. She didn’t know where she was headed. Desperate to outrun her feelings, she stumbled as fast as she dared down the slippery cobblestone street toward the nearest tavern.
50. Ski Kitty
Candice and Dirk decided it would be fun to have lunch together in the Ski Kitty diner. The diner was the real thing: vintage New England with shiny dimpled-chrome walls and red leather bar stools and booths. The place was packed, mostly with the twenty-something ski and snowboarding crowd.
Dirk elbowed her way in, towing Candice behind her. More than one young ski kitty turned her head to stare at Dirk.
“Girls stare at you,” whispered Candice as they took a seat together in a booth by the bathroom.
“Yeah, I know.” Dirk sniffled as she studied the red-jacketed glossy menu.
“That happens to you often?”
“Pretty much. People can’t seem to decide if I’m a girl or a boy. Can’t say I blame them. I’ve had trouble there myself.” Dirk grinned.
“I think that’s very sexy.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Then how come we’re not making out?”
Candice laughed. “Because I told you, I’m not like that.”
Dirk slid her menu aside. “What are you like?”
“A little bit shy, at least about sex.”
“Come on!” goaded Dirk. “You’re like one super-hot chick. The girls may look at me but everyone looks at you.”
Candice blushed again. She was beginning to suspect hot flashes. She hadn’t been this hot all over for years. Not since Harley, her college roommate …
T
he waitress interrupted Candice’s thoughts with a request for an order. Dirk ordered cheeseburgers with cherry Cokes for the both of them.
Candice felt sixteen years old again. She wondered what her life would have been like twenty-five years ago if lesbianism had been as accepted as it was these days, at least in certain circles. She and her college roommate, Harley Smith, had accidently fallen in love. Away from home for the first time at the University of Tennessee, both women had been homesick that first semester. Harley was at the university on a swim scholarship. Candice was there on a national merit scholarship. Their first kiss had just sort of happened. One day after swim practice, Harley had come out of the shower naked into their tiny cramped dorm room. The light from the tall window had fallen across Harley’s slim hips, making her blonde, fluffy bush glisten with drops of water. Candice remembered watching, transfixed, as Harley, realizing she was being ogled, loped across the room to kiss her full on the lips.
What happened next had felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like God had touched them both.
Until Candice took Harley home for Christmas and the Reverend Daniel Antwerp got a good whiff of her.
Candice was pulled out of her reflection by the waitress who had returned with their cherry Cokes. The waitress made a point of leaning down in front of Dirk to give her a straw.
Both Dirk and Candice got an eyeful of cleavage.
Ignoring the waitress, Candice stripped the paper off her straw. She waited for the waitress to leave before speaking. “That waitress is coming on to you.”
“Yeah, I kinda noticed,” said Dirk as she tugged the end off her straw, then blew the paper at Candice’s nose.
My God, thought Candice, she and Dirk were dating. It was like a scene out of some quaint lesbo version of High School Musical. She half expected a balding high school principal to burst into the diner, forbidding them to ever see each other again.
Candice suddenly realized there was one last person she had to make amends to. As soon as she got out of rehab, she intended to look up Harley Smith. She had, she realized now, some apologizing to do for the way she had treated Harley all those years ago. As a part of her sexual reorientation treatment, Candice’s father and the counselors at that awful place had made her write a letter to Harley denouncing their love. She’d also been forced to go to the president’s office at the university and “turn in” Harley as a sexual invert. The university had a “morals clause” for scholarship students that made lesbian sexual misconduct grounds for immediate dismissal. Harley had been stripped of her swimming scholarship and kicked out of university, while Candice had gone on to be nominated by the faculty committee for medical school at Harvard.
