by Ann McMan
“Kiss my ass.”
“I’d love to, Cinderella,” Cricket replied. “But in your case, that would be an all day job, and we only have the room until eleven-thirty.”
The big bull dyke boiled over. “Fuck you, Loretta Swit!”
She grabbed a bagel loaded with cream cheese off the plate in front of her and let it fly in a fast-pitch throw that would’ve put Dot Richardson to shame. The white-topped disc sailed across the room with pinpoint accuracy and nailed Cricket squarely between the eyes. There was a collective gasp in the hall as the thing hung there, briefly frozen in time, before it slid down Cricket’s face.
Cricket caught the bagel in her hand when it dropped from her chin.
She licked some of the cream cheese off her lips. “Chives,” she said, hefting the half-eaten thing up and down. “Everybody knows that I. Hate. Chives.”
Cricket exploded off the stage like a heat-seeking red projectile and crashed through half-a-dozen rows of attendees to reach her target.
“Incoming!” she roared as she slammed, full-throttle, into her assailant. “This’ll shut you up, bitch!” She smashed the bagel into the woman’s face and smeared the cream cheese all over her.
“Fight!” someone screamed.
“Get this crazy cunt off me,” the woman beneath Cricket hollered.
Two bystanders tried without success to pull Cricket away.
“I will not be insulted,” she screamed.
“They’re attacking the moderator,” someone yelled. “Let’s get ’em, girls.”
The two-dozen women who had been upended in Cricket’s charge slapped and shoved at one another as they tried to untangle themselves from the heap of arms and legs they ended up in.
“Get your damn chair off my foot.”
“Get your damn foot out of my crotch.”
“Get your damn crotch out of my face.”
“Get your damn hands off my boobs.”
“Oh, my bad.”
“Jesus, Viv . . .”
“Sorry.”
The Honoring-Your-Marriage-Vows-In–Accordance-With-Biblical-Principles zealot still had possession of the microphone.
“Infidels,” she droned on. “Lilith’s. Jezebels. Turn from your sick and unnatural paths.”
“Somebody cut her goddamn mike!” Barb Davis had fought her way to the front of the room. “And for god’s sake, get Barbara Walters out of here.” She looked around. “Where are those fucking security guards?”
She cast about for Shawn and Kate, but they were nowhere to be seen. “God fucking damn it. Now we’ve lost our headliners, too.”
She saw Quinn Glatfelter standing next to one of the accordion walls used to divide the space into smaller venues. She was wrangling five women at the same time. They were hissing and spitting like Copperheads. It was hard to tell whether or not this activity was related to the riot—with Quinn, you never really knew for sure.
“Quinn,” she yelled over the din. “Quinn!”
Quinn heard her and looked her way.
“Drop the bimbos and come get Barbara Walters out of here.”
Quinn looked confused.
Barb pointed furiously toward the riser where Barbara Walters and her cameraman huddled with Linda Evans and Gwen Carlisle. They all seemed to be arguing about something. Gwen kept grabbing the arm of Barbara’s cameraman, trying to get him to film something at the back of the room, and Linda was shaking her head in obvious disagreement. Barbara Walters just looked . . . like Barbara Walters. Poised, fascinated, and in complete control.
The cameraman just kept rolling. The red light on top of his Sony swung back and forth across the room like a neon metronome.
All Barb cared about was getting the celebrity news anchor and talk show host out of there before she got clocked by a flying chair. She’d signed a damage waiver when they rented the hotel space, and this effing brawl was going to bankrupt CLIT-Con’s coffers for years to come—probably forever. She couldn’t risk a personal injury lawsuit on top of it.
Quinn finally understood what Barb was asking her to do. When she recognized the famous T.V. personality, she nodded and gave Barb a big, toothy smile. With a flick of both wrists, she sent all five of her hostages sprawling. In seconds, she’d plowed her way across the room and stopped at the foot of the riser where Linda and Gwen were vying to direct the cameraman. She saw Quinn say something to Barbara Walters, who just looked intrigued. Then Quinn grabbed Walters by the waist and tossed her over her massive shoulder in a ludicrous parody of a fireman’s carry.
Barb just closed her eyes and looked away. There was no way this could get any worse.
Six anemic-looking hotel security guards with bad acne and baggy polyester pants were finally picking their way down what was left of the center aisle toward Barb.
Wrong, she thought. It just got worse.
“We’re gonna need some backup,” one of them called out.
“You think?” Barb replied.
“Chair!” They all ducked. A bright yellow bag chair—one of the deluxe models with two cup-holders and a canopy—flew overhead.
“Dude? Where’d that come from?” the youngest of them asked. He looked like Wally Cleaver.
“Jesus Christ.” Barb sighed and walked to a pile of upended chairs. She carefully selected one, righted it, sat down, crossed her legs, fished her Zippo out of her shirt pocket, and proceeded to light up a smoke. The melee raged all around her. She shook her head. “This is like fucking Dodge City on a Saturday night.”
Well, she thought, as she took another long drag off her cigarette, at least they got Tammy Faye Bakker off the microphone. She looked around. But where is that fucking music coming from?
She shrugged and settled back into her chair at the center of the maelstrom, smoking her Camel and listening to the hotel’s lovely Muzak rendition of “The Girl From Ipanema.”
Shawn and Kate bolted off the stage right after Cricket decided to use it as a launch pad and huddled behind a cluster of potted palms.
“What’s happening now?” Kate asked.
A chair sailed by and crashed into a table loaded with glasses and pitchers of ice water.
“Shit!” Shawn tugged her closer. “I think this is what’s called a good, old-fashioned brawl.”
Kate ducked as a container of yogurt flew through the palm fronds above her head and landed with a splat on the floor behind them. “Does it occur to you that we never got a chance to answer a single question?”
“Yeah. It seems pretty clear that they didn’t really need us for this shindig.”
“Who knew?”
“I’m actually pretty relieved.”
“You mean because we didn’t have to disembowel each other on stage in front of fifteen hundred of our peers?”
“Shit!” Shawn clawed at something that had just dropped from the air and landed on her head. “What the fuck is this?” She pulled it off and held it up.
It was a bra. A very commodious bra.
Kate lifted up one of the cups. It was the size of a soup tureen. “Well. In case of a water evacuation, we could always use this as a lifeboat.”
Shawn was mesmerized. “I think I’m in love.”
Kate grabbed the garment out of her hands and tossed it back into the air. “One preoccupation at a time.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Do you have any ideas about how we can get the hell out of here?” Kate asked.
Shawn nodded. “I think there might be an exit over there behind the . . .”
“Behind the what?” Kate asked.
Shawn didn’t answer. She was staring off into space with her mouth hanging open. Kate snapped her fingers. Twice. “Hello? Anybody home?”
Shawn looked at her. “Oh, you so won’t believe this.”
“What?”
“Look at what’s headed our way.” Shawn pointed at something over Kate’s shoulder.
Kate twisted herself around so she could see what Shawn was talking about.
�
�Oh. My. God.”
“Yeah.”
“Please tell me she’s not carrying who I think she’s carrying.”
Quinn Glatfelter was headed their way, and she had a woman slung over her shoulder like a hundred-pound sack of cornmeal.
“Is that Barbara Walters?” Shawn whispered.
Kate just nodded.
“Oh, god,” Shawn said. “There goes that mainstream publishing contract.”
Kate closed her eyes. It was too horrible to watch.
“There goes that GMA gig,” she added.
Quinn was making a beeline for a service exit. She was nearly out of the room when she saw something that made her stop abruptly and turn around, her back to Shawn and Kate. Barbara Walters just hung there, calmly, with every hair still in place. She seemed almost relaxed—as if the fact that she was hanging upside down against the back of a BDSM butch biker was nothing out of the ordinary.
Quinn took two steps sideways and removed something that was dangling from a wall sconce, then she turned back around and continued on her way toward the service exit.
“What the hell did she pick up?” Shawn asked.
Kate squinted her eyes. “Oh, god.”
“What?”
Kate looked at her. “It’s that damn dog collar.”
Shawn looked at her in horror. She looked back at the pair as they headed for the service door. Barbara Walters had pushed herself out away from Quinn’s back and seemed to be studying something written on her t-shirt.
“Oh,” Barbara Walters observed, as Quinn carried her past Shawn and Kate. “You use Astroglide?”
Two seconds later, the entire place erupted into an ear-splitting chorus of whistles and bullhorns.
The San Diego Police had arrived, and this party was coming to an end.
“That had to be a first date for the record books.”
It was dark and quiet, and the only light in the room was coming from someplace down the hall.
Shawn leaned her forehead against Kate’s. “I know.”
“Never let it be said that you don’t know how to show a lady a good time.”
“I try my best.”
Kate yawned. “I’m really beat.”
“It’s been quite a day.”
Kate smiled. “It’s been quite a damn year.”
“Well,” Shawn tried to pull her closer, “tie a knot and hang on, cause I don’t think it’s over yet.”
“When are you going back to Charlotte?”
“Tuesday. After Gwen and I meet with Simon & Schuster in New York.”
Kate shook her head. “I still can’t believe that happened—especially after the riot.”
“Well, to quote my mentor: ‘I don’t care what they say about me as long as they spell my name right.’”
“Barbara Streisand?”
“Nope.”
“P.T. Barnum?”
“Nuh uh.”
“Lady Gaga?”
“Not even close.”
“Charlie the Tuna?”
Shawn drew back and looked at her in disbelief. “Charlie the Tuna? Seriously?”
Kate shrugged. “Okay. I give up.”
“George M. Cohan.”
“George M. Cohan? The annoying song and dance man?”
“That’s the one.”
“The Yankee Doodle Dandy guy?”
Shawn nodded.
“Oh, god.” Kate threw back her head. “You really are a nerd, aren’t you?”
“Yep. Think you can handle it? I mean, now that you’re going to be this hot, T.V. star?”
Kate rolled her eyes. “I’m not hot, and I’m certainly not going to be a T.V. star.”
“That’s not what they’re saying about you on TMZ.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Viv told me that TMZ was sniffing around to get you to appear on an episode of Women Behind Bars.”
“Viv told you this?”
Shawn nodded. “She also said that Barbara Walters was going to host it.”
Kate shook her head. “Where does this woman get her information? She’s got a faster network than Verizon.”
“Still,” Shawn said, “Barbara Walters ended up being a pretty class act.”
“You can say that again. I never expected ABC to follow through with that weekend gig after what happened at the Con.”
“Are you kidding? That video her cameraman shot went viral in about two seconds. ABC has had its highest ratings week in years.”
“True.”
“And having Ba-Ba wear a ‘FREE THE C.L.I.T. CONS!’ t-shirt on World News Tonight didn’t hurt, either.”
Shawn laughed. “Barb Davis said they’d sold enough of those to cover all of the damages to the hotel.”
“I know. They even had enough coin left to purchase the rights to the riot video from ABC. It’s already number one at the iTunes store.”
Shawn laughed. “So. Is GMA gonna let you film your weekend segments in Atlanta?”
Kate gave Shawn a slow, sexy smile. “And anyplace else I might happen to be.”
“Oh, really?” Shawn kissed her.
“Um hmmm. Anything going on in Charlotte that might be worth looking into?”
There was a loud metallic bang, and the dark room suddenly filled up with bright yellow light.
Moans and groans and cries of “What the fuck?” and “Turn off the goddamn lights,” rose up around them. The big barred door at the front of their cell rolled back and locked into place with a thud so resounding it made the floor shake.
“Rise and shine, ladies,” a big voice bellowed. “Come on . . . come on. Wake up.” A nightstick rapped on the undersides of metal-framed cots. “Let’s get it in gear, girls. You’re outta here.”
“Final-fucking-ly.”
“Now you want us to leave? Why the hell didn’t you let us go thirty-six damn hours ago?”
“I thought checkout time was at ten-thirty?”
“Shut up, Viv.”
“Fuck you, Towanda. And get your stinky feet off my cot.”
“Where’s my damn bolo tie?”
“Anybody up for hitting that iHop we passed on the van ride when they brought us in here? I’m Jonesing for some pancakes.”
“Stow the commentary.” The big-bosomed matron was losing patience. “Just get your pampered dyke asses up and outta here. The WNBA is in town tonight, and we’re gonna need this space.”
“Hey?” Darien Black stood up and pulled on her leather jacket. “How’d we make bail?”
“Yeah,” Viv chimed in. “That D.A. said we’d be cooling our heels in here for at least seventy-two hours.”
“Right,” Darien added. “The other twenty-eight brawlers who got arrested were charged and released in six damn hours.”
The matron snorted. “You didn’t make bail, honey, you just got lucky.”
Kate and Shawn looked at each other.
“Lucky?” Shawn asked. “How, exactly, did we get lucky?”
“Let’s just say that one of your girlfriends held the key.” The matron laughed at her own joke. “The church key, if you get my drift.”
Kate looked around the lockup. “Anybody seen V. Jay-Jay?”
“I’m over here,” came a voice from outside the cell.
A baker’s dozen of the world’s bestselling lesbian authors turned in unison to look at V. Jay-Jay Singh, who calmly sauntered into their cell, sipping on a frosty Modelo.
“Where the hell have you been?” Towanda demanded.
“Now, now. Don’t go looking a gift horse in the mouth, Wanda.”
“Oh, good god . . .” Viv raised her eyes to the dingy ceiling. “Don’t tell me that you got us out?”
V. Jay-Jay smiled sweetly at her. “You wanna tell them, Mavis?”
The big matron rolled her eyes.
“Every Friday night, the boys upstairs play poker. Every third Friday night, they play poker with the night shift crews from four other precincts.”
Shawn k
new where this was going. “Let me guess . . . this is the third Friday?”
Mavis nodded. “Yep. And the only thing them boys like more than playing cards is drinking beer. Lots and lots of beer.”
“In bottles?” Kate asked.
Mavis shook her head. “Not usually. But tonight, Sgt. Koslovsky had six cases of designer shit in bottles left over from his daughter’s wedding. There was just one problem.”
“Oh, god.” Kate closed her eyes.
“No opener?” Shawn asked.
“Until she showed up.” Mavis pointed at V. Jay-Jay with her nightstick. “Crazy ass rug munchers.”
“Ladies?” V. Jay-Jay lifted her leg and brought her foot down hard on the seat of a nearby wooden chair. A shower of metal bottle caps rained down on the floor. “Welcome to freedom.”
Later that night, over coffee, cheese blintzes, and short stacks of pancakes, Vivien K. O’Reilly remarked that this was the first time V. Jay-Jay Singh ever got thirteen women off at the same time.
Thus was born the immortal legend.
The sisterhood clinked coffee mugs, knowing that future generations of lesbian authors would forever refer to them as “The CLIT-Con 13.”
FALLING FROM GRACE
Going to a party was the last thing she felt like doing.
Well. Maybe having her fingernails pulled out one by one with rusty pliers would actually be the lastthing. But going to a party—any kind of party—had to be next in line right after that.
And a fucking costume party?
Even worse.
Who in the hell besides Annette Funicello threw a costume party to celebrate their sixtieth birthday?
Rizzo, that’s who. Born on Halloween, and perpetually enamored of All Things Dead, Rizzo was famous for her macabre masked balls. And this year, she promised to make it one for the record books.
Yippee.
Grace sighed and looked out the tiny window next to her seat. She hadn’t been anyplace in months. And this damn trip was costing her a fortune. But Rizzo was her best friend, and she had been planning this shindig for nearly a year. Long before Grace’s relationship with Denise hit the skids.
Hit the skids? Hell. Roared off a goddamn cliff was more like it. You had to hand it to Denise. She didn’t fuck around. When she decided that it was over, it was over. Capital O.
