by Monica Nolan
Outstanding praise for Lois Lenz, Lesbian Secretary!
“Unabashedly campy and titillating, Nolan’s debut novel is a tale of 1950s lesbian career girls loose in the big city….”
—Publishers Weekly
“Nolan squeezes her kicky premise for plenty of juice, leaving the pulp in Lois Lenz, Lesbian Secretary deliciously intact.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Monica Nolan’s first novel, Lois Lenz, Lesbian Secretary, is a delicious contemporary homage to queer pulp novels…”
—Bay Times
“In her second book, Monica Nolan gives us what we really want—a campy pulp filled with gratuitous lesbian sex, communism, reefer madness and ruthless dictation…”
—Curve magazine
And praise for The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories!
“Cleverly merging two genres that are a perfect match, but somehow have never met, The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories is a hilarious cross-breeding of the lesbian pulp novel and the horse-girl fantasia. Authors Alisa Surkis and Monica Nolan clearly know their stuff, sending up a century of girl-loves-horse and girl-loves-girl stories with pitch-perfect language, pacing and plots.”
—Bitch magazine
“You know how the old adage goes: You can’t judge a book by its cover. Well, The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories is an exception to the rule. The collection’s tawdry tales of equine-loving les-bos are as vibrant, juicy, and pulpy as the sexy cover illustration. The stories are wildly entertaining…saddle up for this fun ride.”
—Out
“The book can be loved for what it is—eight vintage stories of ladies, lust and the pretty ponies they love. It’s kind of like Black Beauty for big girls.”
—Portland Mercury
“If, like me, you have a section of bookshelf devoted entirely to books you purchased solely for the sake of their glorious titles, you will undoubtedly be delighted to add to it the wonderfully named The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories. You might, too—as I did—actually enjoy the stories. Part of the fun of picking one’s way through this book comes not just from anticipating which particular genre the authors will take on next, but also from discovering how they’ve worked an equine theme into possibly unlikely settings.”
—Sarah Waters, The Erotic Review
Books by Monica Nolan
THE BIG BOOK OF LESBIAN HORSE STORIES
(with Alisa Surkis)
LOIS LENZ, LESBIAN SECRETARY
BOBBY BLANCHARD, LESBIAN GYM TEACHER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Bobby Blanchard, Lesbian Gym Teacher
MONICA NOLAN
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
For Julie Ann,
who wanted a nice little love story
Bobby Blanchard, Lesbian Gym Teacher
Contents
Chapter One: Welcome to Metamora!
Chapter Two: Miss Watkins Weighs In
Chapter Three: Sherry in the Faculty Lounge
Chapter Four: A Picnic with Elaine
Chapter Five: Peasant Dance
Chapter Six: Tryouts at the Athletic Field
Chapter Seven: The Problem Student
Chapter Eight: A Talk with Angle
Chapter Nine: A Visit to Enid
Chapter Ten: At the Flame Inn
Chapter Eleven: Home Game
Chapter Twelve: Bay City
Chapter Thirteen: The Art Lesson
Chapter Fourteen: The Missing Locket
Chapter Fifteen: Student-Teacher Conference
Chapter Sixteen: The Blown Fuse
Chapter Seventeen: Kent Tower
Chapter Eighteen: In the Locker Room
Chapter Nineteen: On a Tear
Chapter Twenty: An Unexpected Encounter
Chapter Twenty-one: Breakdown
Chapter Twenty-two: The Confrontation
Chapter Twenty-three: Peasant Dance, Again
Chapter Twenty-four: The Sick Room
Chapter Twenty-five: Miss Craybill’s Confession
Chapter Twenty-six: The Dance in Dorset
Chapter Twenty-seven: A Visit to the Chem Lab
Chapter Twenty-eight: More Discoveries
Chapter Twenty-nine: The Old Ivy
Chapter Thirty: Cocoa in the Common Room
Chapter Thirty-one: In the Gymnasium
Chapter Thirty-two: Milk Run
Chapter Thirty-three: Old Girls
Chapter Thirty-four: The Big Game
Chapter Thirty-five: Winners and Losers
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Welcome to Metamora!
The young co-ed slipped her hand into Bobby’s and the quick, simple gesture unleashed an avalanche of desire inside Bobby, nearly rocking the older girl off her feet. “Follow me,” her new friend whispered, leading Bobby off the hockey field and into the woods. Her hair, the pale blond of buttermilk, gleamed in the dappled light. Bobby could hear the cries of her teammates as they drove the ball toward the goal. She looked down at her gym tunic. Should she go back and finish the game? But her desire was stronger than her sportsmanship, and she followed the younger student deeper into the dark forest.
What was her name? It bothered Bobby that she couldn’t remember. The girl stopped suddenly, and pulled Bobby to her. Bobby’s senses were swamped with her softness, her sweet perfume. Even as she kissed her hungrily, she noticed that the girl wasn’t blond really—her hair was auburn. Has she always been a redhead? Bobby wondered, and I just never noticed? Her uneasiness grew. “What position do you play?” she asked, but the girl stepped back saying only, “This way.”
It was too dark now to see clearly, and Bobby moved forward carefully. The girl was far ahead, disappearing behind a tree. Bobby took a step, and suddenly the ground gave way beneath her feet. In a split second of sickened shock, she knew she’d lost her footing and had gone off the edge, and now she was plummeting into the void, falling, falling to her certain death.
“Adena!” called a voice. Bobby Blanchard woke with a start, still dizzy from her vivid dream. The afternoon sun slanted through the train window next to her as the Muskrat River Local glided slowly to a stop in front of a tiny brick station.
“All out for Adena,” the conductor called again.
Bobby wiped her clammy palms on her tweed skirt and gathered her purse, jacket, and the issue of Field Hockey Today she’d fallen asleep over. Darn those nightmares! Would she ever be able to doze off without that dream rising from her subconscious to pounce on her? The doctor at the hospital had told her such recurring nightmares weren’t uncommon after an accident like hers. Of course, she had only told him about the falling part, not the way they always started, with a pretty girl whose face she couldn’t see. What on earth did that mean?
“Let me get that, ma’am.” The conductor hastened down the aisle as he saw Bobby reach up to the luggage rack, but she swung her big plaid suitcase down easily. “Never mind.” She smiled. Her shoulder hardly twinged now—at least her body had recovered, if her subconscious hadn’t.
“This too?” The conductor took down a long, skinny package, wrapped in layers of brown paper and string, and looked at it quizzically. “Some kind of musical instrument?”
“No, it’s a hockey stick.” Bobby snatched it from him. “For field hockey.”
Her lucky stick, a parting gift from Madge, the assistant coach her freshman year. Why, this very stick had scored the winning goal in the 1962 Women’s National Field Hockey Championship just last fall—a record third straight victory for the Elliott College Spitfires. Would it win her success in her new career?
&
nbsp; Holding the stick in one hand and the suitcase in her other, Bobby descended from the train, almost tripping in the unaccustomed confines of her narrow skirt. Recovering her balance, she glanced about her as the two other disembarking passengers hurried away.
Tall and rangy, her wavy chestnut hair trimmed short, her face tanned and windburned from years of playing outdoors, the ex–field hockey player looked older than her twenty-three years. Green-gray eyes above high cheekbones, narrowed thoughtfully as she surveyed Adena’s main street. A drugstore, a five-and-dime, a movie theater, and a sporting goods store. Quite a change after Bay City! And she wouldn’t even be living in the town, but up on the bluff along the river.
Bobby shrugged her shoulders against the too-tight tweed jacket. The doctor had advised rest and quiet—that was one of the reasons she’d taken this job. But how much quiet could she take?
“Miss Blanchard? Roberta Blanchard?”
Bobby turned. A smiling young woman in blue gingham pedal pushers was getting out of a paneled station wagon.
“That’s me—but call me Bobby, Bobby with a ‘y.’” Bobby went through life correcting the misguided people who insisted on calling her “Bobbi.”
The two women shook hands. “Glad to meet you, Bobby. I’m Mona Gilvang, Metamora’s housekeeper. We’ve corresponded.”
Gosh! Bobby couldn’t help running her eyes over her attractive chauffeur. She certainly hadn’t imagined that the businesslike letters signed “Mrs. Gilvang” had been written by someone so young and good-looking. Wisps of dark red hair escaped from the confines of Mona Gilvang’s chignon and curled attractively around a heart-shaped face, fresh as any schoolgirl’s. Yet her lush, if petite, figure marked her as mature with a capital M. Where was Mr. Gilvang? Bobby wondered.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” the housekeeper apologized, picking up Bobby’s heavy suitcase before Bobby could stop her. She led the way to the station wagon, already crowded with bags and packages. “These last few days before term starts are always so frantic.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Gilvang,” said Bobby, taking the bag from her and efficiently tucking it between a box of groceries and a coil of garden hose. She slammed the tailgate closed. “I just got off the train.” She paused by the passenger door, which had the words “Metamora Academy for Young Ladies” painted on it in black script. I’m a gym teacher at a girls’ boarding school, she told herself for the tenth time. It still didn’t seem real.
“Call me Mona.” The housekeeper was already in the driver’s seat, and Bobby hastened to slide into the passenger’s side. “Excuse the mess,” Mona chattered as she started the engine. “We get most things delivered, but some of the staff act as if they’re marooned on a desert island, and anyone going to town is regarded as a sort of rescue party.” They were driving along Main Street now. The housekeeper drove expertly, speeding a little. “I had to get cream of tartar for the cook, the new Math Mistress wanted a book they’d ordered for her at the Book Nook—I told her next time she should have me order it—that’s Bryce Bowles’s tennis racket back there, newly restrung, and a certain someone desperately wanted milk of magnesia—I won’t say who!” She laughed gaily.
“Oh, there’s a new Math Mistress too?” Out of the bewildering stream of chatter, Bobby seized on this reassuring bit of information. She wouldn’t be the only newcomer.
“Yes, she arrived Monday,” Mona added, as if sensing Bobby’s nervousness. “I know the both of you will feel right at home at Metamora. The staff is very friendly.”
“Oh, sure,” agreed Bobby dubiously. “And I guess you’re used to teachers coming and going.”
“What do you mean?” Mona swerved a little as she shot Bobby a sharp glance.
“Well—like Miss Fayne,” Bobby pointed out. Her predecessor had left her teaching career behind for a June wedding.
“Oh, her.” Mona was dismissive. “She was an exception. Our teachers tend to stay on at the Academy. Miss Froelich, our former Math Mistress, is more typical—she died on the job.”
“Oh!” said Bobby, startled.
“She was close to retiring anyway,” Mona reassured her. “Miss Butler, her replacement, is just out of college, like you. She arrived yesterday. A very striking girl—quite a change from Miss Froelich!”
With one hand on the wheel, Mona fished a cigarette out of her breast pocket. Automatically, Bobby struck a match, one handed, from the supply she always carried. Mona leaned over a little and cupped Bobby’s hand in hers while she drew the smoke into her lungs.
“Thanks—I didn’t know you athletic types smoked.”
“Oh, I don’t smoke, I just—just generally carry matches,” Bobby stammered. She changed the subject, asking, “And your husband—does he work at Metamora too?”
Mona exhaled a cloud of smoke before she replied, “I’m a widow. My husband died several years ago.”
“Gee, that’s tough,” Bobby murmured. She wondered if this tragedy had forced Mona into employment at Metamora.
“Oh, I’ve quite recovered from my loss,” Mona said blithely. “The merry widow, that’s me.”
Or was it possible that the pretty housekeeper had her own reasons for choosing the all-female atmosphere of the exclusive school? Bobby had heard about married women who harbored hankerings for female companionship, although she’d never actually known such a creature.
Until lately, the hockey player reminded herself grimly. This past summer it seemed like wedding invitations or engagement announcements arrived almost weekly from the girls Bobby had gotten especially friendly with at Elliott College. Sometimes she got a panicky feeling that the supply of young, nubile girls, which had seemed inexhaustible during her college days when a fresh batch arrived every fall, was inexplicably drying up.
I latched on to Elaine just in time, Bobby mused. The young candy striper she’d met at the hospital this summer was as nubile as any Elliott College frosh.
“Oh dear, I meant to give you a tour of Adena—have you ever been to Adena?” Mona’s voice recalled Bobby to the present. They were driving through the outskirts of town, the gabled Victorian houses and modern ranch-style homes rapidly giving way to farmland, fields of ripening corn, the occasional silo. Mona twisted around and glanced back at the disappearing town. “Well, that was Adena. The Bijou changes movies once a week, and the Flame Inn has what it calls a ‘ladies’ lounge.’ It’s a nice respite when you’ve overdosed on adolescent girls. And Bay City is only an hour away by train.”
Mona turned left at a deserted crossroads and the road began to climb into the woods. The fields of corn disappeared, and pine trees took their place.
“What are the students like?” Bobby asked. “Any star athletes I should know about?”
“I guess Miss Craybill didn’t mention that Metamora girls aren’t a very athletic bunch, although maybe that was Miss Fayne’s fault. They mostly think of themselves as artistic or literary, and lately spiritualism’s been the fad.”
“Spiritualism?” Bobby was puzzled.
“Oh, séances, contacting the spirit world, exorcising ghosts, things like that.” Mona maneuvered the station wagon up the twisting road as she spoke. The automobile wove its way through a dense forest of gloomy pines that blocked the afternoon sun. Like the forest in my dream, Bobby realized, trying to suppress a prickle of irrational fear.
“…And we even had to remove Madame Blavatsky’s works from the school library.” Mona was still talking about Metamora’s fey fad. “I suppose it’s inevitable, given the school’s location.”
“‘An idyllic spot overlooking the wide blue waters of the Muskrat River.’” Bobby quoted the school brochure, which she’d studied thoroughly. “It doesn’t sound very otherworldly.”
Mona smiled. “You’re forgetting the Mesquakie Massacre. The girls prefer to think of the campus as a haunted spot, soaked in the blood of innocent settlers, killed by savage Indians back in 1823. Lately they’ve become quite obsessed by the idea that the campus is
cursed, I suppose because—” She broke off and shrugged. “Well, adolescent girls have morbid imaginations and a tendency toward the dramatic. What can you do? We were probably just as bad when we were their age.”
“I guess,” murmured Bobby politely.
Thinking back on her own high school years, Bobby couldn’t remember any morbid tendencies. Basketball, golf, softball, tennis, badminton, baseball, football, pond hockey, swimming, track, and, of course, field hockey; pursuing those activities had kept her too busy for the hobbies of other girls her age. But now she was faced with a whole school full of “average teens,” the kind of girl who pined over the latest crooner and spent her allowance on lipsticks instead of a leather baseball mitt. Bobby knew the rules of every game from archery to tetherball and could recite the five points of perfect posture, but what did she really know about adolescent girls? How did a gym teacher go about “molding young minds,” as the professor of her Child Development class had put it?
The woods had begun to thin, and the road to level out. Now there were birch trees, with silvery leaves, scattered among the stately pines. The blue sky was visible again. At a fork in the road, a sign pointing left read MESQUAKIE POINT STATE PARK.
“That’s where the settlement was.” Mona gestured as she turned right. “And undoubtedly where the massacre happened. But it does no good to tell the girls that. Last term Linda Kerwin brought a ouija board back to school after Christmas vacation, and she and her friends worked themselves into a perfect frenzy, convinced they’d made contact with a pioneer girl their own age. Supposedly she told them she’d been tortured and, er, ravished by the Indians. Some of the staff thought Linda needed a psychiatrist, but I was mostly impressed that they’d spelled all the gruesome details out, letter by letter! And Miss Otis said Linda had no ability to concentrate!” Mona laughed so infectiously that Bobby joined in.
