by Radclyffe
BEST
LESBIAN ROMANCE
OF THE YEAR
VOLUME ONE
BEST
LESBIAN ROMANCE
OF THE YEAR
VOLUME ONE
Edited by
RADCLYFFE
Copyright © 2015 by Radclyffe.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 375 Hudson Street, Twelfth Floor, New York, New York, 10014.
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink
Cover photograph: iStockphoto
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
First Edition.
Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-087-2
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-102-2
“Cooling Down, Heating Up” © Dena Hankins, Love Burns Bright: A Lifetime of Lesbian Romance, Cleis Press, 2013; “A Royal Engagement” © Nell Stark Amor and More: Love Everafter, Bold Strokes Books, 2013; “Gargoyle Lovers” © Sacchi Green, xoxo: Sweet and Sexy Romance, Cleis Press, 2013; “Forever Yours, Eileen” © Rebekah Weatherspoon Love Burns Bright: A Lifetime of Lesbian Romance, Cleis Press, 2013; “Beautiful” © Teresa Noelle Roberts, The Big Book of Submission: 69 Kinky Tales, Cleis Press, 2014; “Bad Girls and Sweet Kisses” © Radclyffe, Amor and More: Love Everafter, Bold Strokes Books, 2013.
CONTENTS
Introduction
Some Nudity Required • AXA LEE
Light • DESTINY MOON
Red Velvet Cake • TAMSIN FLOWERS
Unexpected Bliss • GUN BROOKE
Waterfall • LT MASTERS
Love Dance • MERINA CANYON
Like a Breath of Ocean Blue • ELIZABETH BLACK
Wiggle-Wiggle-Womp • D. JACKSON LEIGH
Long Drive • L.C. SPOERING
Dance Fever • KARA A. MCLEOD
Cooling Down, Heating Up • DENA HANKINS
Little Bit of Ivory • JL MERROW
A Royal Engagement • NELL STARK
Gargoyle Lovers • SACCHI GREEN
Going to the Chapel • GISELLE RENARDE
Forever Yours, Eileen • REBEKAH WEATHERSPOON
Beautiful • TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS
Bad Girls and Sweet Kisses • RADCLYFFE
About the Authors
About the Editor
INTRODUCTION
Audre Lorde has said, “There are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt.”1 Romance fiction, like every literary form, has identifiable elements that are intrinsic to the genre and without which a work would not be considered a romance. The simplest definition of a romance is that put forth by the Romance Writers of America, an organization that has defined the romance as “a work of fiction containing a central love story that results in an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending.”2 While this broad categorization helps distinguish between works focused on a developing love relationship (i.e., romances) and ones that do not, the elements of the genre itself are not defined. Pamela Regis’s A Natural History of the Romance Novel studies a number of classic romances and finds that certain themes are identifiable in each one. This was the first work to critically analyze and enumerate the essential elements of a romance, which as defined by Regis, include Society Defined, The Meeting, The Barrier, The Attraction, The Declaration, Point of Ritual Death, The Recognition and The Betrothal.3 What is important to understand in considering these elements is that the romance reader recognizes the elements of the romantic journey unconsciously, searches for these elements and is not satisfied if they are absent. The short form is by necessity a distillation of the romantic journey present in a romance novel, and what I find fascinating is that short stories with a romance theme often represent one or more of these essential elements, presenting to the reader a recognizable, satisfying aspect of the romantic journey.
Some stories focus on the initial meeting, those first moments of enchantment, excitement, and connection that occur when we meet, by chance or design, and discover, as in Axa Lee’s “Some Nudity Required,” someone totally unexpected:
Audra glanced up from her note taking, giving me an inscrutable look. She was beautiful, but not in a classic way. Much of it, I thought, came from the energy she vibrated. Her nose was too long and slightly hooked, and her teeth weren’t completely white or straight. Her appeal lay in her vivaciousness, that inexplicable something that some people have and I didn’t. There was a certain spark in her, an intelligence in her eyes, laugh lines around her mouth, that said “look at me.”
She didn’t try not to be noticed.
Often following close upon the meeting is the awareness of attraction—it may develop slowly or be instantaneous, but stories focused on the developing and irresistible attraction, as in Destiny Moon’s “Light,” are another step in the journey to romantic fulfillment.
Two hours later, I felt like I’d known her my whole life. It’s incredible how whole she felt to me, how deep and multifaceted. There was so much more to her than what was visible on the surface…I’d seen her around. I’d noticed the way she held the door open for Tania, how she doted on her, how sweet she seemed. But I didn’t really notice, didn’t really see.
Until now. Now all I could do was see. She was right here in front of me…
The journey itself is not necessarily linear or the same for every work of fiction, just as it is not the same for individuals in real life. Not every couple faces challenging obstacles to being together, but when we read love stories, we are seeking the affirmation that love gives us strength and hope and courage, and the ability to overcome old fears, heal old wounds and sometimes enlighten prejudices and change the hearts and minds of those who might seek to keep us apart. Conflict resolution is another element of the romance genre that we see played out in stories like Kara A. McLeod’s “Dance Fever,” in which two women with a past take the first steps toward a new future:
She wanted us to leave. Together.
I gaped at her. Her blatant desire confused me. Even when we’d been a couple, she’d never wanted anyone to see us leaving a party together. We’d always had to leave separately with at least thirty minutes between our departure times, regardless of the fact that we were going to end up spending the night in each other’s arms. I hesitated, not wanting to make the wrong assumption.
Allison smiled at me again, probably reading my uncertainty loud and clear, and extended a hand to me. Tentatively, I reached out and took it. One night wouldn’t be enough, but it might be a new beginning.
Of course, not every love story ends happily, but the power of romantic fiction lies in the creation of emotional bonds between characters that are strong enough and authentic enough to convince the reader that for these characters in these circumstances, love will prevail and continue. The declaration and commitment we look for in our romances remind us that the human heart is capable of tremendous resilience and courage, and that love can truly last a lifetime. Several of the eighteen short stories in this collection celebrate this commitment with a wedding—the public affirmation of trust and promise that, indeed, seals the love story with a kiss. All the elements critical to the romantic journey can be found in these short stories, each new, each unique and each recognizable, calling on emotions common to every human heart. I hope you enjoy these stories as they take you on another romantic journey.
Radclyffe
&nbs
p; 2015
Endnotes
1Audre Lorde. BrainyQuote.com, Xplore Inc., 2014. brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/a/audrelorde124563.html, accessed June 2, 2014.
2rwa.org/p/cm/ld/fid=578, accessed June 2, 2014.
3Pamela Regis. A Natural History of the Romance Novel. University of Pennsylvania Press (2011).
SOME NUDITY REQUIRED
Axa Lee
She said she wanted to watch me—that was it.
If I’d had a landline, I’d have been wrapping and unwrapping the phone cord around my hand. Instead I paced through the apartment, picking things up and attempting to tidy the clutter before setting them back where they’d been, pressing my cell phone hard against my ear. I dislike talking on the phone, but the ad said no texts, and I didn’t want to miss or misunderstand anything.
“Would Tuesday at two work for you?”
“Tuesday? Um, sure. I have a class, but it’s in the morning.” Unlike most college students, I loved 8 A.M. English.
My geek girl is showing, I know.
“All right, great.” That distracted, overly enthusiastic tone of voice made it sound like she was writing something down. Or maybe she really was that enthusiastic. I guess no one would strip and pose for nude photographs with an angry, brooding person. “Well, I’ll see you then.” Her professional smile practically glowed through the phone.
We hung up and panic set in.
I’m not an exhibitionist. I’m not even an extrovert. I’m a nerdy, quiet, librarian type who gets feedback from professors that says, “Participate more in class discussion; EXCELLENT ESSAYS!!” So responding to an ad in the college paper for “Female Model, any body type, thesis project, some nudity required. Paying. Contact Audra,” was not just out of character for me, but almost out of ken.
“You’ll never do that,” Erika said.
I tugged the newspaper back across the table, glaring at it rather than at her.
“How do you know?” I sounded sullen.
In the background, the cappuccino and coffee machines spat and steamed.
Erika liked to meet in public, saying it didn’t look suspicious since most academics have a caffeine addiction. I told myself that at least if she wouldn’t acknowledge me, she wasn’t hiding me. After all, the best student in class had a right to meet with her TA outside of hours, right? It didn’t mean that everyone knew we were sleeping together.
She didn’t look up from the papers she was grading.
“I see students come through here year after year. Girls like you, they become museum curators or librarians, not models.”
Erika looked like an English professor—thick black-rimmed glasses, wash-and-wear haircut, fitted button-down shirt, funky but not too funky jewelry. If she was a man, she’d have worn tweed and had a little mustache and goatee. Erika was very good at being what people expected. The problem was she expected the same behavior from her partner. And while I was by no means a rebel, that didn’t mean I always wanted to conform.
“I’m already a librarian,” I said, but she didn’t hear me. Erika loved to hear herself talk. That was why she made a great academic. She’d been unofficially advising me on where to apply to grad school, but lately I’d been floundering. Something didn’t feel right and I couldn’t put my finger on what. But when I saw the ad for a model, I couldn’t explain it; I just suddenly wanted very much to call Audra (what a great name!). I wanted to prove to myself that I could do something risky and out-of-character, like model nude, before college was over.
The question was, could I?
I showed up at Audra’s apartment a little before two. I’m the type who’s pathologically early. I lingered outside for all of forty-five seconds before becoming convinced everyone on the street was staring and suspicious (no one noticed me, they never do) and went up to knock. The woman who answered was shorter than me, maybe five or ten years older, and had white, spiky hair. She was fit and totally rocked a blocky pair of black and pink nerd girl glasses.
“I’m working on a graduate exhibition for my MFA,” Audra said, after ushering me inside and moving swiftly through the necessary small talk. “I want to work with a model, chronicle something about her.” She studied me, as a painter studies a canvas. “Can you tell me more about yourself?”
She gestured to one of the kitchen bar stools and filled each of us a glass of water. Normally I’d be too shy to accept beverages at someone’s house, but my mouth had grown very dry.
And as my mouth grew dry, my pussy grew wet.
I crossed my legs, feeling the moisture soak my panties. Normally I’m very controlled. I try to be appropriate. But Audra’s verve just got me, very suddenly and very inexplicably.
How would I get through a nude photo shoot with her when I couldn’t even tell her my major without creaming? Shakespeare’s shoes, what was I getting into?
“Um, not much to tell really.” I spoke carefully, more carefully than usual. Outgoing, dynamic people intimidate me, precisely because I’m not one. “I’m an English major, senior, honors, so I’ll be working on my senior project, probably something to do with twentieth-century poets.” I glossed over that. “And applying to grad schools. I work at the library.”
“Do you have a partner?” Audra glanced up from her note taking, giving me an inscrutable look. She was beautiful, but not in a classic way. Much of it, I thought, came from the energy she vibrated. Her nose was too long and slightly hooked, and her teeth weren’t completely white or straight. Her appeal lay in her vivaciousness, that inexplicable something that some people have and I didn’t. There was a certain spark in her, an intelligence in her eyes, laugh lines around her mouth, that said “look at me.”
She didn’t try not to be noticed.
I’d almost forgotten the question.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. Inside, I winced. I hated admitting Erika into the realm of this vibrant, attractive woman. “Sort of. She’s a bit of an asshole.”
Audra chuckled and patted my arm. “Aren’t we all, luv?”
She was smiling at me. Her touch lingered, longer, perhaps, than socially necessary. I didn’t like for people to touch me, but found I didn’t mind that she did. And when Audra drew away and was up moving again—she seemed perpetually in motion—where her hand had lingered on my arm still tingled.
Audra was in the next room, a living room of sorts that was open to the kitchen. I followed her there as she tugged furniture and oversized white blocks here and there and then stood back to examine the positioning before tweaking something this way or that.
“Do you have a particular poet in mind for your thesis?” She frowned, changed her mind and started pushing everything out of the way again.
“Elizabeth Bishop?”
She glanced at me over her shoulder, smirking a little. “Are you asking or telling me?”
I smiled. “Both, maybe.”
Audra stood back, hands on hips, Wonder Woman pose, eyeing her handiwork.
“That line about crumbs and coffee…” She snapped her fingers, trying to jog her memory. “I can’t remember all of it, something about a window and misplaced miracle?”
I quoted the line.
“That’s it!” she said. “I love that line. You must know a ton of Bishop poems. Which are your favorites?”
It was impossible not to feel comfortable with this woman. She had a knack for chatter, a way of making you feel comfortable.
“I actually like a quote from her letters the best—the one she wrote to Robert Lowell. That image of a sandpiper, always running, always looking for something along coastlines had haunted me for years. She’s so…I don’t know, appropriate? I love that about her. No matter what melodramatic bullshit he throws at her, she keeps her wits about her.”
“Sometimes isn’t acting on love more important than being appropriate?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. If they’d gotten together they’d have made each other miserable. It’s much better that she kept her head and didn�
��t get swept up in his…”
“Romanticism?”
“Shenanigans.”
“That’s a fusty word for a college girl.”
I shrugged.
Audra smiled, but ceded the point to me. Then she grew more serious, observing me steadily. “I like you,” she said.
A thrill shot straight through my clenching pelvis.
“I’d like to work with you. There’s amazing potential in you as a subject…” She bit her lip as she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve never been photographed before?”
I barked a laugh and spoke, too loudly. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“A sustained project like this isn’t just about the photographer. It’s a journey for the subject as well. You’ve seen my work.” She gestured to the select photos of black-and-white nudes hanging on the walls. “So this will be incredibly intimate. My goal with a subject like you isn’t just to create a portfolio of my own work, but to uncover something in you. Like an archeologist.” She smiled. “Art is supposed to teach us something about ourselves, after all. I’d like to make sure you feel comfortable with what we’re going to do, how the process works. Because if you don’t feel comfortable, it’s not going to be fun for you and we want that. And it’ll show on camera. We don’t want that.” She clapped her hands together once, smiling fiendishly. “Now, strip.”
I sat on a futon mattress Audra had dragged from her bedroom and remade on the living room floor. We’d tried several poses with the blocks and furniture, but neither of us had seemed particularly at ease, even after Audra encouraged me to slip out of my jeans and said she’d do her best to hide my face.
“Celebrities might get away with sex tapes, but that might be awkward for an English major when the grad program director Googles you at Berkeley.”
“Who knows,” I said, “if it makes me stand out maybe it’ll get me tenured.” Milton knew, my thesis wouldn’t get the job done.
