by Litte, Jane
The broom fell away as Priya backed Luisa up against the shelves, against the pillowy, welcoming warmth of balls of chunky merino yarn.
Priya cupped Luisa’s neck with one hand while the other pushed under her shirt hem and curved around her bruised waist. Luisa hissed into the kiss, her teeth sudden and sharp on Priya’s tongue, before she relaxed and pushed into the touch.
They moved well together; they had right from the start. Priya was a few inches taller, and Luisa seemed to like looking up at her, leaning back, opening up for her touches. In turn, Priya reveled in the chance to touch this girl, twist her arms up over her head and hold her there, teasing her breasts. It never took long before Lu wheezed and pleaded, face flushed dark as liver, eyes glittering, sweat spangling her collarbone, desperately twisting, trying to find more contact.
Priya’s ex, Amy, didn’t like being what she called “pushed around.” It was both a political and emotional principle and point of honor for her that they were equal in all things, from their joint checking account to the number of orgasms they each had, as well as time spent on each one.
Luisa, however, did not seem to think of what they did as bullying. She gasped and grinned, whatever Priya did, pushing into her touch and asking for more. She could take a lot of teasing, nipples pinched and tugged, her mound and thighs lightly stroked and fondled until goose bumps broke out all over her body, until her breath caught in her throat and she grew so wet and desperate that she could be entered in a single slow thrust.
“Harder,” Lu would say whenever Priya hesitated. And she did hesitate, especially in the early days, half-drunk on the sheer fact that it was okay to do this, half-nauseated by her own need to do more. “Please, harder. More.”
That permission, phrased as a request, was precisely what Priya needed. Her acceptance, her eager need for this was astounding. Just hearing the rattle of her breath and feeling her damp, flushed skin was enough to make Priya ache. She had to clamp down, clench, and release, ride her own need like something half-painful.
Tonight, as Luisa trembled before her, the traffic outside threw long, angular bright shadows across the ceiling, down the shelves of yarn, and illuminated her hands. Luisa’s rosewood skin was blanched momentarily, then flushed again, darkness returning as Priya ran her teeth along the curve of her hip.
Luisa pushed her hand into Priya’s hair, clutched her tight, and thrust up her hips. Priya outlined the jut of Luisa’s pelvic bone with her tongue, then her teeth, before biting down and sucking hard. Luisa moaned.
She whimpered when Priya pulled away, but bit it off when Priya hushed her. When Priya returned from the counter, Luisa reached for her with blind, searching hands.
Priya stood out of reach until Luisa had quieted and stilled. Then, with the care of a master calligrapher, she drew the tip of one needle around Luisa’s nipple, down the swell of her small breast, to the bite-mark. The sound Luisa made was nearly indescribable. It was greedy and choked, a moan and plea rutting together.
“Shhh,” Priya said, not expecting Luisa to comply. She pinched the bite mark, then circled the needle over the tender skin.
Luisa banged her head against the shelf. She bit down on her lip, her chest heaving. Her knees started to buckle but she locked her stance.
Priya teased her for as long as she liked. She drew art nouveau swirls and curlicues, best suited to a Tiffany lamp, over Lu’s warm, pliable skin. She strummed the stiletto point against one nipple, then the other, until they were both peaked painfully hard, the breast’s skin puckered and goosepimpled.
She scratched runes and swept signatures across Luisa’s taut skin, turned her around, and did the same across her lower back, down the swell of her hips, until Luisa sank to her knees, a sob muffled against her arm.
She trembled and shook when Priya knelt behind her, a length of cotton yarn from the bargain bin in her hands. For a moment when Priya tugged at Luisa’s arms, nothing happened, but then they rose over her head and Priya looped the yarn around Luisa’s bony wrists, then eased her down onto the floor.
“Had enough?” she asked, straddling Luisa’s thighs.
Luisa struggled to raise her head and meet Priya’s eyes. The sharp curve of her smile was a dare and an acknowledgement. “Never.”
The curls between her legs were slick to the touch. She shuddered, hard, and let out a wracking sigh when Priya slipped her hand through them and curled her thumb around the shaft of Luisa’s clit.
“How about now?”
Luisa thrust up to meet the touch, canting her hips. Priya’s index finger slid down between her inner lips to circle her hole. “More,” Luisa said, the word half-gargled, “you’re so good—”
Perhaps Priya should not have been so aroused by praise, but it felt so good, to no longer be bound by the “rules,” to make someone, especially someone as hot, as wild, as Luisa feel this good. To be trusted like this was intoxicating. Two fingers inside her, she twisted and thrust. Luisa moaned in response, struggled to sit up, and reached for Priya. They kissed again, teeth clacking and tongues pulsing, as Lu fucked herself on Priya’s hand, desperately asking for more, needing all of Priya to be in her, to answer and resolve the howling Priya had created. Two fingers, then three, then four, tightly wrapped on each other and crushed on all sides: they struggled to move, to reach ever deeper, as Luisa came, wet and cascading over Priya’s wrist, down her arm.
Priya’s body hurt all the way through, like her muscles were barbed wire wound around her bones. Luisa clung to her, wobbling, butting her face against Priya’s throat. Priya let her head fall back as Luisa licked down her neck, sucked on the knobs of her clavicle, then nibbled across the rise of her breasts. There was a moment, and then another, where Priya’s pulse thundered between her legs, wrenched her nearly double. Luisa grinned and grazed Priya’s mound, then her lips, with her knuckles.
Luisa pinched her clit between her index finger and thumb, and Priya snapped upright. Priya clenched and thrust against Luisa’s palm, seeking sharp edges of calluses and rocky bumps of knuckle. She rubbed herself nearly raw, compelled by the need for release so deep it seemed to be squeezing her lungs and closing up her throat. Luisa bit her shoulder, mouthed the sharp pain, and bit again, pressing ever closer as Priya came. The waves and rattling throbs drowned out all the pent-up tension, soothed away the ache of desire, and she wanted nothing more than to open herself back up to Luisa’s teeth and fists, and do it all over again.
Sex wasn’t supposed to be like this. Shame hurt as much as any bite, and somehow, perversely, felt just as good. Priya gasped for air, riding the rippling aftershocks, and tried not to question herself.
She succeeded, but not for long.
WHEN Priya left the library around lunchtime, she had to stop abruptly when a skateboard flew across her path and tumbled off the curb. Only two days had passed since Stitch and Bitch; she was not due to see Luisa for another three or four days.
“Hey,” Luisa said. Her voice was bright, feigning surprise. “Fancy meeting you here!”
Priya shifted her weight. “What’re you doing here?”
Luisa shrugged. Her legs dangled against the low stone wall on which she sat, like a tramp riding a train. She looked out of place on campus, a little too dark, a little too wild and messy, amid the ivy-covered walls and quiet footpaths. As soon as she thought that, Priya cursed herself for it. By the same token, she too would be considered too dark.
She could not take out her own worries and discomfort on Lu. It wasn’t fair.
“Sorry,” Priya said, “I’m just . . . distracted.”
“It’s okay. I—” Luisa started. At the same time, Priya continued, “What are you doing here?”
They both stopped, then opened their mouths to speak again. Finally, waving off objections, Luisa mimed zipping shut her lips and motioned Priya to go on.
“Surprised to see you here, that’s all,” Priya said, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Is everything all right?”
Luisa slid off the wall and hopped from foot to foot. “Everything’s great! I wanted to show you something.”
Priya didn’t like the sound of that. Luisa’s enthusiasm was always contagious, but it was also immoderate, occasionally dangerous. Carefully, the words heavy in her mouth, she asked, “What did you want to show me?”
Bending at the waist, Luisa yanked up her shirt and pointed at her bare hip.
There, where the other night Priya had left a line of hickies and scratches, was a much more permanent mark. A dark-inked tattoo, shiny ink on swollen, painfully red skin, captured Priya’s marks, made them indelible.
Luisa straightened up. “Isn’t it awesome?”
“It’s—” Priya didn’t know what to say. She felt horrified and baffled all at the same time. “It’s permanent.”
“Yeah!” Luisa nodded rapidly, beaming a grin and crinkled eyes. She was so beautiful, if reckless. “Pretty much the whole point.”
Gradually, the longer that Priya simply stood there, mouth open, frozen into silence and worry, Luisa’s good mood dimmed. It wavered, then flickered, and finally, just winked out. She folded her arms across her chest. “What did I do now?”
She made it sound as if Priya were always taking her to task. That wasn’t the case. Maybe it was at times, but she was so heedless, so impulsive, that someone had to say something, haul her back from the brink.
“Nothing,” Priya replied. “Do what you want.”
“I wanted to do it for us,” Luisa said. She wasn’t looking up and she sounded sullen.
That was Priya’s cue to make nice. She should apologize, she should reach out, cheer up Luisa.
She didn’t exactly have the time, however, not with midterms rapidly approaching and her next shift at the grocery store starting all the way across town in less than half an hour. “For us?” she said. “What does that even mean?”
Luisa blinked up at her. There were sparkling tears on her lashes, and she looked heartbroken. Priya wasn’t a monster; the sight made her chest feel like it had caved in.
“Us,” Luisa said. Her voice rose to make it a question. “Us?”
Priya took in a breath, then another, reminding herself to keep the big picture in view. She really liked Lu; they connected on many levels, and the sex was fantastic, but she was nearly still a kid. Whatever age her ID said, she acted like a teenaged boy. She wasted her money on tattoos and six-packs of beer and punk concerts.
“There’s no us,” Priya said. It was the truth, wasn’t it? “We just fool around.”
For a long time, Luisa said nothing. She looked very small, round-shouldered, and slight, dwarfed by her glorious riot of hair and baggy T-shirt. “If that’s what you think—”
She did not finish. Priya saw her swallow, watched the sharp line of her jaw as she turned away and dropped her skateboard to the sidewalk, and still, she could neither move nor speak.
AT the end of that week, Luisa went down to North Carolina to film lines for a video part for her sneaker sponsor. She stayed in Charlotte when the shoot was over. Her tattoo scabbed over, then the scabs fell off. It itched all the time and she scratched it hard enough to make it scab again.
She wished that she skated the regular orientation. Then maybe she could fall and just scrape the damn thing off.
“Big talk,” she could almost hear Charlie say.
He was right, of course. She didn’t want to lose the tattoo. She didn’t know what she wanted to lose.
PRIYA scored a B+ on one of her midterms, and an A- on her seminar short paper. She took over the group presentation, not quite trusting the others in her group to carry their weight. She picked up two extra shifts at the grocery store and maintained her regular schedule at the yarn shop.
Three Stitch and Bitches passed, and there was no sign of Luisa. Priya told herself that it was probably for the best. Luisa was so flighty and flaky that she made Amy—an actress and dancer, of all things—seem sensible and down to earth. She was the last sort of person that Priya needed in her life. She was charismatic, sure, and funny and sweet, but she was hardly going anywhere. Indeed, she seemed perfectly content to coast through life on her skateboard. Her life was much more organized, calm, and well ordered now that Luisa had disappeared. The calm reminded her of nothing so much as the lifting of a migraine or the effects of Novocain: the pain, or Luisa, might still be somewhere out there, but she could no longer feel a thing.
Ignorance was, it appeared, numbness. Not bliss. That fact was tolerable, but not exactly optimal.
LUISA returned to Toronto when the leaves were dead and gone. Black branches scoured the gray sky, and snow swirled in the air without ever alighting. She skated indoors most of the time now, rising earlier in order to get the most out of the ramps before kids got off school.
The afternoon of the first snowstorm, when the city was abuzz with hype about expected snowfall, Charlie hipchecked her as they left the ramp and headed to the diner for lunch.
“Where’s my toque, Venceremos? I’m going to die of frostbite and it’ll all be your fault. I can’t wait much longer.”
It was a small comment, the first time any of the guys had mentioned her knitting and crocheting since she came back from North Carolina, but it stopped Luisa cold.
“You’re right,” she told him, and hung a sharp left to get to the subway station.
“I am?” Charlie stood on the corner, arms out, yelling after her. “What did I say?”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t need to.
The first thick, wet flakes were gathering thickly on the sidewalks when she left the subway station and dashed for the yarn shop. Half the businesses on this stretch had already closed early; the dusk was blue and gray, the color of old newspapers and older bruises. She slipped and stumbled in her worn canvas sneakers, trying to hurry, hoping she could catch Priya.
Priya was uptight and bossy and every other dark, angry thing Luisa had mentally called her over the past month. But she was also intense and melancholy and she kissed like an angel but made Luisa feel so good that only a devil could be responsible.
She had no idea what she was going to say. The likeliest scenario was that Priya would order her out of the shop, never to darken her doorstep again.
But she had to try. She was a woman who could practice the same tre flip for two weeks, all day, every day, all night too, and fall on her ass each and every time until, finally, she landed it. And then she practiced it some more, kept at it, stubborn and bloody-minded, until the motion was as easy and familiar as walking up stairs. As knitting a scarf, as kissing a girl.
As she pushed open the shop door, a gust of frigid wind blew her inside. Luisa slipped in the puddle on the tiled floor and collapsed against the door.
Priya and Toni were standing at the counter, a pile of invoices between them.
Luisa untangled her long red scarf from around her neck and held it out as she walked up to the counter. The wool was soaked with her sweat and the snow; it was the first thing she had knit for herself, and there were holes where she had looped the yarn too many times, and knots where she’d lost stitches. She lay the sad, damp thing on the counter, arranging it into the approximate shape of a heart.
“It hurts without you,” she told Priya, and did not look at Toni. She had to get this out. “I don’t want it to hurt.”
Priya’s eyes were dark, her mouth pursed. She looked a little thin, hollow-cheeked, like her clothes were a size too big. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I—”
“I want it to hurt with you,” Luisa said, and wrapped the scarf around one of Priya’s hands. “Does that make sense?”
Toni muffled a noise against her fist and left them alone.
Priya still hadn’t said anything beyond “I’m sorry.” Outside the big plate-glass window, the snow sleeted down.
“Don’t be sorry,” Luisa said, and tugged her hands until Priya leaned over the counter, their foreheads almost touching. “Just say yes.”
“I made you some socks,” Priya said at last. Her breath was warm on Luisa’s cold cheeks, her lips very soft. She laughed a little, self-consciously, and Luisa kissed her.
“I’m sorry,” she said a little later as she led Luisa up the narrow stairs to her apartment.
Laughing, Luisa slapped her ass. “Make it up to me. Make it hurt really good.”
A.L. Simonds came of age in Manhattan’s East Village and now makes her considerably more sedate home in central Canada. An information professional, she spends her days wrangling electronic records, while her nights are devoted to dreaming about a punk rock revolution, yelling about pop culture, knitting too many socks, and writing speculative romances. She is currently at work on an original lesbian superhero tale.
BACHELORETTE PARTY
JESSICA CLARE
“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” recited Haven, leaning across the seat and clinking her champagne glass against Ashley’s. “Are you ready for a night of fun on the town?”
“Yes?” Ashley said in a dubious voice.
“That doesn’t sound like a woman heading to her bachelorette party.”
Ash clutched the glass even tighter and stared out the window of the limo. It was hard to mask the thoughtful look on her face. “It’s just . . . weird. That’s all.”
“Last night of freedom?” Haven teased, grabbing the champagne bottle out of the bucket of ice that sat between them and pouring herself a refill. “I didn’t take you for the type to have cold feet.”
“I don’t have cold feet,” Ash protested, giving Haven a disapproving look from over her wire-rimmed glasses. “I love Josh very, very much. I can’t wait to be his wife.”
“Buuuut?” Haven added, tipping the champagne bottle and refilling Ashley’s glass. “There’s always a big fat ‘but’ in these kinds of conversations.”
