Best Lesbian Romance 2012

by Radclyffe

  “On the bed,” she yells, and it feels like the first time she has yelled at me. I feel little, like I’m in trouble, something close to cowering, suddenly aware of the long length between me and the ceiling, the magnitude of the bed. I move, scoot up, her voice taking me into subspace. Her hand comes down smartly, sharply, across my behind. Her spanking thuds through my pelvis and thighs. I draw up. The impact reverberates through my lips and cunt. I feel the sharp sting of it like chili peppers on my skin. I lose my breath. My lips engorge, and she fixes her eyes on them. They are engorged and pulsing. She runs her hands possessively across my red skin. I am trembling, and get goose bumps.

  She turns me over onto my back. Her hand travels down my thighs. She pushes my knees out, increment by increment. We are in slow motion. My labia swell. I am like cake in an oven, my pelvis, my clitoris, my G-spot, all rising, leavening, my cunt like egg batter, drippy and rich.

  With my legs spread in a rough diamond, she puts one hand along my neck and one hand on my cunt, cupping it, and pushes herself into me again. She slides in, teasing me, teasing me more, and then she drives her dick home, burying herself hilt, pommel, hunger, and need.

  My head rolls back and the length between my hips and shoulders lengthens. I am in love with the feeling of taking her in. I meet each push without resistance, with a flush that flowers in me, grows, and relaxes me wider. She is pushing her tongue into my mouth, whirling it. I fight the urge to gag, and open further, my mouth, my cunt the same channel. She is moving herself slowly but aggressively all the way into the gush between my legs, easing out and pushing in, coming again, gathering momentum, and pushing, falling against that place that fills me. I arch and push my G-spot down, my cunt, my hair, her breaths coming in quick succession. She hooks her arms under my shoulders and pushing, in a final cry, shudders. It’s my body now, racked, and racking, the cry crescendoing through me, tears rolling through my shoulders, down my cheeks, a crashing wave that crushes the bed frame and washes all the bedroom walls. Our bodies are wet with sweat and come.

  She pulls out of me and slips off the harness. I curl around and push my butt back into her. I hitch up into her hips and pull her arm around my waist. The hush of night becomes a rocking of the crickets. I pull the covers across us. I turn and cradle her head to my breast.

  In two hours, I will wake and hear her truck start, and the gravel of the road will kick up gently under her wheels. No light in the sky. When I awaken again, she’ll be on a plane, in the air, and I’ll have to fight my anger all over again. I’ll push the pillow between my thighs and another one over my eyes, and dream up yet another new set of seductions to sustain us.

  FLASH FREEZE

  Giselle Renarde

  They keep saying food prices are on the rise, but I never thought I’d feel the pinch so soon. Times like these, I miss my old job, my old life—a dog groomer’s wage doesn’t cover much more than the rent. I miss the little luxuries, like blueberries and Häagen-Dazs. After buying groceries for the week, the change in my pocket isn’t even enough to grab a coffee. Two quarters, one dime, and three pennies. I feel them freezing my thigh through the cotton membrane of my jeans pocket. There was a time, not long ago, when I could afford cappuccinos with whipped cream and caramel drizzle.

  My whole face is a big block of ice, even after I duck inside my threadbare scarf. Icicles form against my nose hairs where my breath freezes before it can escape. Pretty bloody sexy. I need new mittens too—I knitted these myself, and they’ve got big gaps where I slipped stitches. In all these years, I’ve never figured out how to fix my mistakes. Fixing mistakes requires more humility than I will ever, ever possess. But life goes on.

  God, what I wouldn’t give to hold something hot in my hands right now. The wind is howling, ghostly, cutting through my hat and burning my ears. There are three coffee shops between here and home, and I won’t be stopping at any of them. I cut down a residential street to avoid the temptation. The radio’s been saying gas prices are going up, too, every day in fact, but I don’t need to know that. I don’t own a car.

  Adjusting my reusable shopping bags on my shoulders, I watch my winter boots step across thick sheets of ice on the sidewalk. Careful, careful. Don’t want to fall. Yesterday it was like spring. It rained for hours and the fashionistas wore their eighty-dollar galoshes to avoid these puddles that, overnight, turned into ice fields. Flash freeze. Everything that was gushing and warm yesterday is frozen solid today. She’s unpredictable, that trickster Nature. Can’t count on anything when she’s in town.

  I look up as I cross the street, and my heart freezes too. The one part of me that isn’t affected by the weather does tend to clamp down in the face of subtler things. And Zarina has always been subtle.

  Fuck! I’m standing in the middle of the goddamn road, thanking God there’s no traffic on this street, and watching Zarina slide across the sidewalk like she’s got skate blades underneath her retro high-tops. In the eighties, she wasn’t even born yet. The thought weirds me out, but she acts so much older than her twenty-one years. Sometimes. And other times she behaves just like a child.

  I can’t let her see me.

  Rushing across the street, I do my damnedest to cut over to the next block. My feet are not cooperating, and I feel like a cartoon character, sliding and jumping, limbs flailing in every direction, oranges flying out of my bag and rolling down the sidewalk. Sooner or later it was bound to happen, and apparently today’s the day. My boots slide out from under me and I go down hard. My ass smacks the ice and my head the cold cement. All I can do is lie there staring up at the bare branches, black against a grey-blue sky. Maybe it’ll snow later.

  “Oh my God!” I hear her voice, but I don’t think she knows it’s me just yet. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

  I feel her footfalls as she runs up from behind me, tumbling to her knees at my side. She looks like a Persian princess, with the widest dairy-cow eyes I’ve ever seen, which only grow wider with recognition.

  “Lauren,” she says, gasping. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

  Her long black hair cascades over one shoulder. It’s one of the coldest days of the year and she isn’t wearing a hat. That almost makes me angry because I care for her so damn much. And that definitely makes me angry, because after what she did to me I don’t want to care for her at all.

  I moan, trying to ease myself up off the concrete, but my head feels just too heavy. I try to convey yes, I’m fine, but all that comes out is, “Ahhhh.”

  “Can you move?” she asks. There’s panic in her eyes. “I can call an ambulance.”

  “No,” I grunt, forcing myself up. Once I’m sitting, I feel too dizzy to function. I let my head fall into her lap, which is the only place it ever really wanted to be, anyway.

  “Lauren!” she shouts. “Oh my God, I’m calling nine-one-one.”

  Summoning every ounce of strength my barely conscious mind can generate, I sit up again and say, “No, I’m okay.” The cold wind slaps me in the face and I feel…not better, but at least a little less sleepy. I want to throw up, but I don’t let myself. Not in front of her.

  Slipping my arms out of my grocery bags, I force my legs to carry my weight, and they do, but like those of a newborn giraffe. Zarina stands too, and I let my body sink into hers, chest to chest, our skin separated only by her pea coat, my bomber jacket, and a whole lot of sweaters. Still, it’s the closest we’ve ever been. I hook my chin around her shoulder and suddenly there are tears streaming down my face, freezing against my cheeks. Their warmth fresh from my eyes hurts more than their frigidity once they ice over, and I don’t know why I’m crying but I can’t seem to stop.

  She says, “I think you have a concussion,” and I think, How would you know? What are you, a doctor? and then I feel guilty for being mean to her, even just in my head.

  “I think so too,” I reply, wishing my arms would wrap around her body like hers are wrapped around mine. My muscles won’t follow instructions. I’ve never felt
so helpless in all my life.

  Zarina picks up my grocery bags and flings them both over the same shoulder. Of course I think to offer my help, but I know I just can’t manage it. I’m not even sure I can walk.

  “You still live on Isabella?” she asks.

  She remembers where I live. “Yeah, the building on the corner.”

  But of course she remembers. We walked home together enough times after work. Work…ah, the halcyon office job days. Our little firm handled immigration, primarily, but also some family law and real estate to bring in the cash. Zarina started there with a co-op placement when she was still in high school and they hired her on as administrative assistant right after she graduated. Those were good years. I loved working there, until it all fell apart. And it all fell apart because of Zarina.

  I’m not exactly sure how we get from the street where her father lives back to my building, but she’s asking for my keys, so it must have happened somehow. I don’t feel cold anymore. Now I’m warm…too warm…and I’m afraid of what will happen when she leaves. She’s still lugging my groceries on one shoulder and lugging me on the other, my forehead resting against her woolly white scarf. She smells like springtime, and I wonder if that’s just my hope for a thaw as I follow her into the elevator.

  “What floor are you on?” she asks. She’s never actually been inside my apartment.

  “Sweet sixteen,” I mumble. It’s funnier in my head. I don’t tell her that I had to move to a different suite after I left my office job. I couldn’t afford a one-bedroom anymore, not in this part of town, and not washing dogs for a living. The new one is a bachelor, but the southern view is spectacular. You can see all the way to the lake.

  She drags me from the lift. I don’t know how I’m still standing. “Which one’s yours?”

  I lead her to the threshold, hoping she’ll come through with me. She opens my door and I laugh my ass off when all I smell is wet dog. Laundry’s been building up over the past week and I just couldn’t be bothered.

  “Nobody’s seen this apartment but you,” I tell her as I fall to my knees in the entryway. It feels so good to be home that I put my head down on the cream-coloured carpet and close my eyes. I’m floating now, with a light, fluffy cloud carpet under my face, and I sigh in relief.

  I hear Zarina whisper “Fuck” as she falls to her knees beside me for the second time today. I can’t figure out why she’s so upset when I’m soaring so high. She unzips my coat and unwraps my scarf. My boots come off, and my hat, my homemade mittens… she takes off everything but my leggings and my undershirt. I smell worse than a wet dog, but I get the sense she doesn’t care. She’s muttering, and I hear what she’s saying but nothing registers except her concern.

  She drags me by my armpits across the carpet, and when we get to my bed I say, “I can do it,” and crawl under the covers. Nothing in the world has ever felt this good. I close my eyes and smile, and I’m so damn happy I don’t even care that every time I start to drift off Zarina shouts, “Lauren,” and flicks me on the forehead. It feels like a game, and I laugh.

  My head is heavy like a brick and it drags me down into the past, back to the old days. I wasn’t in the closet, but I wasn’t out at work. I’d always compartmentalized my life anyway, so I didn’t feel like who I favoured romantically had any bearing on my job. There was a real estate agent, Phil, who brought us a lot of clients—a big part of my job as a paralegal was coordinating closings—and Phil was the kind of gay guy you could spot a mile away. His outness really put me at ease, because I’d never been good with guys. I know it sounds like a lesbian stereotype, but most men just rub me the wrong way. Even my boss Fazil bugged me when I first started working for him. Then, over time, I observed how he interacted with Phil. Nobody else seemed to notice, but I did, and I got more comfortable around him. We became friends, even. He was married, and he assured me he wasn’t interested in me “that way,” so I told him I was queer and I didn’t like him “that way” either. We became close friends. Intimate friends. And he admitted to me he was having an affair with Phil. He’d enjoyed trysts with men before, but now he was falling in love. Nobody else knew. It was our little secret.

  I’m not one to judge because, shit, I’ve been there and then some. When I was young and naïve, I fell in love with a married woman, so I knew where Fazil was coming from. For a while, I even thought she’d leave her husband for me. When I realized that was never going to happen, I was shattered. I put my heart in the deep freeze because that seemed the safest place for it. Maybe that’s why I focused so much of my energy on my job and why I didn’t feel like being out at work was relevant. It’s not like I was dating anyone. I’d shut my heart down. Until Zarina.

  It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, or funny, or clever, or quirky. She was one of those genuinely kind people you don’t often encounter, certainly not in a law office. Though I was ten years older than her, I felt young when she was around. We all did, I think. She brought us music and style. She woke us up. Everybody liked her. In fact, everybody seemed to like her the same way I did, and a year after coming on full-time, she started dating our very own partner-by-age-thirty-five, a guy named Dennis. He was okay, or so I thought, but I really thought there was something between Zarina and me, and my heart felt trampled once again when she chose him over me. Not that I ever made a move or offered any suggestion I was interested. In truth, of course, I was scared of being let down again. Nobody likes to get hurt.

  In the midst of my intense Zarina crush and the ensuing disappointment, I clung harder to Fazil for support. He had grown deeper in love with Phil, and there was no one else he could talk to about that relationship. On the days Zarina couldn’t walk me home because she was going out with Dennis, Fazil and I hung around at work, drinking in his office. Without him, I’d have drowned my sorrows alone, and I would have felt like the world’s biggest loser doing that. I loved him for the support he showed me. He was such a good friend.

  And then the rumour started. Fazil and I had chosen to hide our friendship, to a degree, because we knew how it would look, and he wasn’t ready to stand up at work and say, “I’m in love with another man.” As it turned out, that would have helped my case immensely.

  It’s strange to hear things about yourself and know they’re not true, but also know there’s no way real to dispute them. Fazil and Lauren are having an affair. That’s what everybody thought. I’d catch hints of whispers, titters, snarky comments coming from God-knows-where, and it made me so damn angry because who could I confront? How do you deal with something that’s floating in the air? Fazil was my boss, and suddenly I felt awkward just walking into his office because I knew all eyes were on us.

  “What are we going to do about this?” I asked him one day.

  Fazil looked at me pleadingly, but he didn’t say anything.

  I was reaching the end of my tether. “We have to do something. I get the feeling my job’s hanging by a thread, here. The partners keep finding fault in everything I do. It’s like they’re setting me up.”

  Fazil shook his head and then nodded for me to look out his door. Dennis strode across the expanse of the office, eyes dark, heading this way. Zarina stood behind her little desk, watching, on high alert. The second we made eye contact, she looked down into a file folder, guilty as sin, and that’s when I knew she had started the rumour. It was Zarina. The knife stuck in my back as I looked down at Fazil, who seemed so small in that moment. Scared.

  In about five seconds, something was going to crash, but I’d be damned if he came down with me.

  Pushing past Dennis, I stepped up on my wobbly office chair and stood on my desk in the office’s main space. Picking up my coffee cup and the spoon from my yogurt, I banged the one against the other like I was calling for a toast. This was it. I was throwing myself under the bus. “Attention, attention, I’d like to make an announcement. I just want everybody to know that, contrary to popular belief, I am in fact a big dyke. One hundred percent grade-
A lesbian, always have been, always will be, so all you assfaces who accused me of having an affair with my boss need to get your heads out of the toilet and start concentrating on your work. Whatever you’re paid, it’s too much if you spend your days gossiping about coworkers.”

  I was still going on about how “you could ruin people’s lives, and you don’t even give a fuck, do you?” when Dennis grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down from my desk. I landed with a less than graceful thud and let him drag me into his office, because I wasn’t done yet. If Zarina had started this rumour, surely he had his part. They were a couple, after all.

  “Enough of this,” he said when the door was closed. I wouldn’t sit down. I felt like a high school kid in the principal’s office. If only I’d had a wad of gum to stick under his desk. “Look, you’re right about office gossip, but pretending to be something you’re not is pretty low. Just end it with Fazil and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

  There were a lot of things I expected Dennis might say, but that was definitely not on the list. I was speechless, at first. I really didn’t know how to respond. “You think…I’m lying?”

  He was so slick and easy as he tossed himself into the leather chair on the other side of his desk. “Come on, Lauren, I know you’re not gay.”

  That word sounded bizarre. “I didn’t say I was gay, I said I was a lesbian.”

  With a smug smile painted across his lips, he shook his head. “Look, I have no problem with gay people. Phil, you know, the real estate guy? He’s gay and I think he’s great, but you can’t pretend to be gay to wriggle your way out of an accusation.”

  I made a sound like, “Whaaaa?” but Dennis couldn’t seem to cut the shit.

  “I know lots of lesbians,” he claimed, looking me up and down. “They don’t look like you.”