Put Me In a Skirt and Hurt Me: The Strictly Lesbian Adventures of Mistress Sophia

by Bryce, A. L.

  “I wanted to go to London and Paris and you were going to buy me a big fucking diamond ring and maybe even a car and I wasn’t going to have to work at fucking Starbuck’s the rest of my life!”

  “What?”

  “I ... we ... we ... ”

  “This is all about the stuff I could have bought you? Are you serious?”

  “It was about our life! How fun and exciting we could ... ” Porsche trailed off in wonder. Oh, shit, am I really that shallow? “I should fucking go.”

  “Porsche! What ... ”

  “You’re right. I’m a fucking awful twat who only cares about clothes and cars and flats in London and someone flying me to the fucking Eiffel Tower. I’m a complete waste.”

  “Porsche ... ”

  “I’m sorry. For barging in here, for ... everything.”

  “Wait. Look. Let me check my schedule and see if I can take an early lunch. We’ll go somewhere.”

  “See, there you are being a nice girl, even after you find out I’m a user-loser. Don’t do that! Don’t be nice to me. That would be the worst thing ever! Just ... let me get out of here with a shred of dignity.”

  Willow looked down at her hands then back up into Porsche’s eyes. The girl pulled out a balled-up Kleenex and wiped her eyes and nose. Her face was a mess of blotchy red and white. She blew, then got up and went quickly out of the office.

  Willow raised her shades, returned to her desk, then sat like a zombie for twenty minutes before her next client.

  Porsche kept her face down and walked as fast as she could to the bus stop. She got on the first bus that came, hoping it was heading toward her apartment, but not willing to stand in public waiting for her regular Number 7. Luckily, she was headed in the general direction of her place and was able to get off about four blocks away and scurry home. Once inside, she grabbed a new box of Kleenex out of the closet and a beer out of the fridge and sat on the couch, shell-shocked.

  I’m a depthless, hollow, superficial cunt! I’m a dud.

  She took a slug of beer and blew into a fresh tissue.

  Have I always been this way? Do I really love things more than people? I thought I loved Willow ... did I really just love her money? Is it so wrong to want to be taken to Paris and treated to pretty clothes and taken out to fancy restaurants?

  Fresh tears poured down her cheeks.

  I’d have done it for myself if I could have! I didn’t have the opportunities Willow had! I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth! I ... who am I trying to kid? I could have put myself through college. I could have made better choices. I could be working my ass off right now at Starbuck’s and get a manager position. I just don’t. I don’t even try.

  Huge amounts of self-pity tears cascaded out as Porsche slumped over in defeat. She sat up and took another slug of beer.

  My life is a fucking disaster. My sister paid my rent the last two months, my bills are astronomical, my car is about to die and will never pass the smog test, I’m hated at my job because I come in late, leave early, am surly to the customers. I eat crap, I don’t exercise. I make fun of everyone. I’m condescending, critical, and ignorant.

  No tears this time just a terse pull of beer. It was gone.

  Porsche grabbed her purse, rummaged for her cell phone, and dialed.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yes, thanks. Willow, I am so sorry about today and ... ”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, I do need to worry about it. I’m a crass classless fuck. But I don’t want to be. Not anymore. I want to be ... I want to be more like you. Concerned about me even when I used you. How do you do that?”

  “Porsche, you are not a crass classless fuck.”

  “Yes, I am. I know it. But, would you ... can you help me to not be? I mean, I don’t even know where to start. Can you give me nice lessons?”

  Willow laughed. “Oh, honey! You are nice. But, yes, I can ... I don’t know ... help you show your good side more.”

  “Sounds lame, I know, but yes, I have got to get my head together. Help me?”

  “If that’s what you really want.”

  “It’s definitely what I want. My life is a fucking shambles.”

  “First piece of advice, drop the fucking. It’s not pretty language for a nice girl like you.”

  Sophia sat in her blue mohair chair, enjoying a late afternoon glass of iced tea. The tea was a pleasant blend of youth berry and orange blossom. She’d found it at a trendy little teashop next to the Coach store. She’d been shopping for a new purse but didn’t find what she wanted. As she left the store, a young man had accosted her with a little plastic cup half filled with pink liquid. Usually, she walked past these sample-mongers without a word, but that day she’d been a little parched so she’d taken the cup and drank. It was delicious! She’d ended up spending over a hundred bucks on the two types of tea. At home, she brewed them separately—one took a two-minute steep, the other a five-minute steep—then combined them in one pitcher: Ambrosia.

  Sophia had a tablet on her lap and had begun writing down all the pros and cons of Mrs. Pea.

  Pro: She makes me feel like no one else makes me feel.

  Technically, Sophia was the “bottom” in most of her interactions with Tommy, but she still remained a powerful force to be reckoned with, pushing back against Tommy as hard as she got: demanding to be fucked, not quietly taking it. So, no, she wasn’t really subby with Tommy. But with Mrs. Pea? Yes. It was like she was Superman and Mrs. Pea carried around a hunk of kryptonite in that gorgeous purse of hers. The power just drained out of Sophia when she’d entered that bathroom. Was that a bad thing? She wasn’t sure. That’s what the list was about.

  Pro: She makes me feel like no one else makes me feel. And how was that? Wet. Completely dripping with desire. That feeling she’d had when she was sixteen and wanted to hump everything and anything and would go into the bathrooms at school and jam her hand up inside herself just to relieve some of the intense pressure of swirling teenage hormones.

  Con: I am powerless when I am with her.

  Now, was that true? She couldn’t remember clearly enough if she was powerless or if she’d let go of her power. Was there a difference? And was another encounter with Mrs. Pea going to harm her irrevocably or would she always be able to return to her good old domi self, albeit after some time had passed? Could she retain some of her power in Mrs. Pea’s presence or would that ruin the whole experience?

  She tapped the pen against the pad then threw both the pen and pad across the room onto the couch. She reclined back in her chair and took another sip of her delicious iced tea.

  I’ll have to see her again. That’s all there is to it. I can’t know until I know.

  She thought back to their phone conversation.

  “Hello, dear, I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home but I was just thinking about you ... ”

  It was Monday. Tuesday was the meeting. Would it be another hand-off of damp panties and see you later? Would Mrs. Pea have something else in mind? Would she take her home with her? More importantly, was Sophia ready to totally submit to Mrs. Pea and let her dictate the events of the evening?

  “Anything for you, Mrs. Pea!” she said breathily and took another sip of her tea. Hmmmm. Don’t like that so much. “How about, Get on your knees, bitch, and come and eat my underwear off me, you want to taste me so bad!” Woo hoo. That was more like it! But then she wouldn’t get so turned on, would she? Wasn’t it the way Mrs. Pea took complete control that made her wet her pants?

  “I don’t need to be in control all the time,” she said to the walls. “I could be a Willow for awhile.”

  Her tea finished, she got up and picked up her glass, the pad, and the pen and tidied up a bit. Then she went to her closet to find the perfect outfit for her meeting with Mrs. Pea.

  17

  SOPHIA LOOKED IN THE MIRROR and sighed. No. This wouldn’t do either. She glanced over at the pile of clothes on her bed, includin
g the new outfit she’d bought yesterday especially for her meeting with Mrs. Pea. Nothing looked right. Nothing was making her feel right. She rifled through the clothes in her closet once again, looking for the Holy Grail of perfect outfits.

  She was biting the inside of her cheek and turning left and right in her one vintage Chanel suit, when she glanced at the art deco clock on her nightstand.

  “No! No! It can’t be that late!”

  Sophia grabbed her black and white Louboutin stilettos and her purse. In her haste, the purse fell and the contents went flying. “Damn it!” Sophia bent down and began to gather up her thin leather wallet, keys, and lipstick. The cap popped off the lipstick and rolled under the couch out of reach. “Oh, for the love of ... Screw it.” She ran for the door.

  Once outside the building, she looked left and right for the doorman. He was nowhere to be found. She held her arm straight up in the air and waved her hand frantically at the passing cabs.

  “Come on! Come on, you bastards.”

  She stepped into the street.

  “I will stand in the middle of the freakin’ street if I have to ... Stop!”

  A taxi came to a screeching halt a foot from her. She yanked open the back door and leapt in. Her heart was racing. She gave the address then settled back to collect herself. A few moments passed before she realized they weren’t moving very fast.

  “If you take ... ”

  “Lady, please, I been driving taxi here for twenty years ... ”

  “Yes, but if you take ... ”

  “Lady, trust me, I know the best route to take.”

  “But ... ”

  “You want me to take Carleton—am I right? Well, Carleton is jammed right now because of the game. Whaddaya think all this fuckin’ traffic’s about? Relax. I’ll get you there.”

  Sophia looked at the bald head of the driver. She looked at the folds at the back of his neck, at his shirt collar, at his ears. She looked at her watch. There was still time, but just barely. He was right, she needed to relax.

  Finally, the cab pulled up in front of the bar. Sophia leapt out, throwing cash through the window, and sprinting in her four-inch heels for the door. She glanced for the millionth time at her watch: 5:32 P.M.

  Whew! She had made it!

  She entered Happy Betty’s and quickly glanced around. There were a few lesbians scattered around, watching the game on the bar’s TV—just as she entered a roar of approval went up as someone scored or fumbled or something—and a couple, deep in conversation, at one of the little tables. She had beaten Mrs. Pea there. Everything was going to be fine. She’d decided she was going to let Mrs. Pea take charge, but had promised herself to hold back just a little, just enough to remember who she was in this town. Like Mrs. Pea herself had said, she was known. She’d built a reputation. She wasn’t some newbie who could be completely ...

  Chance was approaching from the far end of the bar with a baby-blue envelope in her hand.

  “For you.”

  Sophia took the envelope. No ... no ... She opened it and pulled out a single slip of light blue stationary. On it were three words: Late. Too bad.

  Two minutes! She’d been two minutes late! No! This couldn’t be happening. She’d been gearing up for this meeting all week, going over it in her mind, replaying it like a scene she had to memorize. She’d thought of all the possibilities for how it could go—but not this. She hadn’t thought of this. And she knew, knew that, on the dot of 5:30, Mrs. Pea had handed Chance that envelope. Had maybe even hoped Sophia would be at least a second late so that she could leave. She knew, because she’d done it herself. Punishing the poor girl who hadn’t set her clock to Greenwich Mean Time. Punishing the girl who ... the girl whose taxi was caught in pre-game traffic.

  All right, hold it together. You are in Happy Betty’s. They know you here.

  Sophia crumpled the thin blue sheet in her hand and threw it on the bar, then she took a seat and ordered a martini. She made small talk with Chance about the game, the weather, and then, when she could, she got away from there and went back to her own place to weep with self-pity.

  Willow sat cross-legged on Porsche’s bed, a small mountain range of credit card statements, past-due utility bills, parking tickets, and collection agency letters littering the powder-blue comforter.

  “You have got to be kidding me!”

  “I ... it’s ... ”

  “How could you be this far in debt? What are all these charges?”

  “Well ... clothes for one. And shoes. And I bought you presents!”

  “I never would have accepted those things if I’d known you were living on credit cards! Oh, Porsche!”

  “Oh, come on! You have a big salary! You can go into fucking Barney’s and you don’t even need to look at the sale rack. You can go straight to the latest shit they’ve put out and get whatever you want!”

  “First of all, stop the swearing. We talked about that. Second, yes, I can pretty much buy whatever I want, but I don’t. I have a 401k and a portfolio—which is in the shitter right now, but which I hope will recover by the time I’m ready to retire ... and I earn that money. I work hard for it.”

  “And I don’t work hard? And you said ‘shitter’ by the way.”

  “Porsche, what do you want ... really want? If you want to be driving an Audi and wearing Chanel then you either need to find yourself one wealthy dyke or you need to come up with a plan for making that happen. And the wealthy dyke scenario usually comes with some pretty big strings. They’re either self-centered alkies, pathetic wipe-my-butt Prozac poppers, or self-absorbed pillow queens. Believe me, I’ve been down that road a few times.”

  Willow smiled, but Porsche kept scowling and picking at the seams of the pillow she was holding.

  “What am I supposed to do? I work at fu ... at Starbuck’s. I’m a barista for Christsakes!”

  “Do you want to go back to school? Do you want to work your way up to manager and then maybe get a gig at corporate?”

  “That rich bitch alkie thing doesn’t sound soooo bad ... ”

  “Porsche!”

  “Willow!”

  Willow paged through some of the credit card bills, still blown away by the amount of money Porsche owed. She was over thirty thousand dollars in debt.

  “How far behind on rent are you?”

  “Couple of months,” she lied, not wanting to admit her sister had been footing her rent.

  “Your car?”

  “I actually own that shitbucket.”

  “A Corolla is not a bad car.”

  “It’s a 1985 and I’m the fourth owner. If I get one more year out of her I’ll be lucky.”

  “Do you have any stocks or bonds?”

  Porsche burst out laughing and shook her head.

  “As your attorney, I feel I should inform you that bankruptcy may be your best bet.”

  18

  PORSCHE BURST OUT LAUGHING again until she saw Willow’s face and realized she wasn’t joking.

  “No!” she shouted, throwing the pillow as she rose. “I can’t do that! Losers file for bankruptcy! And besides, doesn’t that mean I can’t have any credit cards?”

  “I can go into the specifics with you later, but what it means is that your debt will be wiped clean and you can start over. I can help you create a budget and this is the hard part, you will have to stick to it. No more Marc Jacobs, no more Dior, no more Versace, no more ... ”

  “What am I supposed to do for clothes?”

  “There’s a stack of at least 30 pair of jeans in your closet! There are at least three Chanel purses ... ”

  “Excuse me! Fall, winter, and spring! I don’t even have a summer Chanel yet, although I have my eye on one down at ... ”

  “Porsche!”

  Porsche walked over to the window and stared out. What was she going to do if she couldn’t buy Prada anymore?

  Willow put the stack of papers down and walked over to her. She put her hands on Porsche’s shoulders and spun her
around.

  “So, which is it? Back to college or climb the Starbuck’s corporate ladder?”

  Porsche’s mind was a blank. She didn’t want either option, but she knew in her bones she was too lazy for school. “Corporate!” Her voice reeked with faked enthusiasm.

  “For cash for right now, you need to go through that goldmine of a closet of yours and pull out anything you don’t wear anymore. There’s a designer consignment store downtown that will take your stuff in a heartbeat! That’ll get you some cash for groceries, rent, and utilities. Then we can formulate a plan for your rise in the corporate world!”

  Porsche grinned from ear to ear. Fucking Willow! Now I’m her special project.

  “Into the closet with you!” Willow pushed Porsche toward the bedroom.

  Willow slid back the closet door while Porsche flung herself onto her bed, a flutter of papers flying through the air, and groaned.

  “Do we have to do it now?”

  “Come on, it’ll be fun. How about this?” Willow held up a sleeveless white Fendi dress.

  “Got that ON SALE at Barney’s. It was only ... I think $800. A steal! That baby goes for nearly $1700 new. Now, tell me that wasn’t a good buy.”

  Willow looked at Porsche with awe.

  “I gotta keep that one, hon.” Porsche rolled over and sat up on her knees watching Willow rummage in her closet, noticing the curve of Willow’s hips in her dark-blue jersey dress, and how Willow’s ass jiggled slightly as she rocked back and forth on her heels. Porsche nonchalantly moved her fingers between her legs and pressed.

  “OK, then, how about this one?” Willow turned around with a Maxmara pink pianoforte in her hands.

  Porsche bounced a little, her hand still pressed to her pussy, her face scrunched with consideration.

  “That dress has sentimental value.”

  “Porsche, you have to let go of some of these things. You have to make some money!”

  “You know, you look drop dead gorgeous in that dress. Speaking of dresses, why don’t you let that one go?”

  “What are you talking about!”

  “Come here.” Porsche scooted to the corner of the bed and reached out.