by Radclyffe
The next pictures she took were just for us.
LIGHT
Destiny Moon
My hallway light burnt out so I was up on a ladder for twenty minutes trying to take out the old bulb, but I couldn’t get it. It was stuck. I remembered months ago when I watched Jen do it. Her technique with a different bulb in a different lamp in a different house she used to share with my friends on the east side was a true marvel. She used masking tape and somehow managed to twist the stubborn bulb out.
So I called Jen. I only wanted to hear the theory over the phone. I may be femme, but I know how to fix things and I like doing things myself. Besides that, my last girlfriend called me a princess and I resented it, and ever since we broke up, I’ve tried to do everything myself.
“I’ll come by later,” Jen said.
“No, no. You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“Well, then.” I gave her directions.
Who was I to stop her? I’d never stop someone like her from dropping by. And maybe I was secretly being a little helpless on the light bulb situation. It’s not that I was clueless. I mean, everyone knows righty-tighty-lefty-loosey, I just couldn’t get it to budge. And she really had been a whiz with the masking tape that other time.
Besides, she was new to the neighborhood and I was excited that we would be living closer together. There weren’t that many cute butches in my vicinity.
She showed up forty-five minutes later, conveniently, minutes after I’d put a quiche into the oven. I made the pastry from scratch and baked it first to make it crispy. Then I’d sautéed mushrooms, asparagus and edamame and blended my veggies with fluffy whipped eggs and asiago. It was going to be tasty.
I opened the door. “Jen,” I said, giving her a friendly hug.
“Sara.” She kissed my cheek affectionately, not that it meant anything. She was just being fashionable, I was sure. “Good to see you.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“So, where is this pesky bulb of yours?”
I pointed straight up. It was, in fact, right in the hallway just inside my entrée.
“I brought my secret weapon.” Reaching into the pocket of her leather jacket, she produced a roll of beige papery tape.
“Amazing.” I clapped my hands together. “Can I watch?”
“Uh…really?”
“Well, you left an impression. You were the first person I thought of when I couldn’t get it myself.”
She nodded, like she’d heard that before, like she was the town expert on tricky light bulbs. “I do have a knack.”
The old wooden ladder was already set up. She took off her jacket, which left her in the outfit she generally wore—a white T-shirt and jeans with black work boots. She really rocked that look. She climbed up step after creaky step and I promised I’d hold the ladder, which allowed me an excellent vantage point.
“So, how’s Cole?” she enquired.
“Good, I think.” I guessed she hadn’t heard the news. “We broke up.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“Thanks. It’s okay. We’d been heading that way for a while. How’s Tania?”
“That’s over.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We had a good few months, but then…”
“Yeah,” I said to fill the silence she left when she stopped mid-sentence. There’s really no need to explain the endings of things. “Sometimes you just know when the time comes.”
“Exactly.” Jen had taped the bulb and guided the strips of tape in a counterclockwise motion, like she was driving a car, turning left.
We were silent for a couple of minutes. I’d never invited Jen over before. This was the first time that it was just the two of us. I’d only ever seen her at parties or queer events when there were lots of people around. There was so much I didn’t know about her, and suddenly my heart raced and I felt my palms get sweaty. I felt naked, like she saw right through me, like I had somehow tricked her into coming over just so I could put the moves on her or something. It wasn’t true. Well, it wasn’t exactly not true, either. I had noticed her before. Of course I had. Everyone had. But I wasn’t trying to start something with her. I had thought she would just walk me through the masking tape trick over the phone and that would be that.
But here we were. Together. Not talking.
“Got it,” she said, breaking the silence.
I exhaled deeply as I realized that she hadn’t been talking because she’d been concentrating on the bulb. I was, as usual, being awkward primarily in my own head.
“Awesome,” I said. “You’re good.”
She smiled. “It was nothing.” She clambered down the rickety ladder.
“Would you like to stay for quiche?” I asked. “It’s in the oven right now.”
“Sure.” She passed me the old light bulb that had some tape on it now. “Let’s make sure it works.”
I flicked the switch. The light came on and for some reason I said, “Let there be light.”
To my surprise she said, “And there was light.”
“Whoa,” I said. “Lesbians quoting Genesis.”
“The beginning,” she said and her eyes widened as we gazed at each other. She laughed a shy, quiet laugh as she averted her eyes and looked to the floor. “You Christian?”
“Baptized,” I said. “That’s about it.” Then I wondered why she had asked. “You?”
“Baptist,” she said.
“Cool.” I nodded.
“Is it?”
“I guess,” I said, remembering that I’d read an article about the Baptist church and it wasn’t positive. “Want a beer?”
She looked at her watch. It was around three in the afternoon. “Sure. What the hell.” She chuckled. “I’m a sinner anyway.”
“Is that right?” I asked, winking.
“Hell, yeah. That’s right.”
“Oh, good.”
We sat out on the front steps in the warmth of the September late summer. The air was balmy with notes of hyacinth and lilac in the air and only the slightest hints of fall. Because of the way I was sitting, my dress came up far past my knees, like I was wearing a miniskirt.
When the oven buzzer sounded, I asked her to come in. She sat at my retro Formica table and watched me prepare salad while the quiche cooled. It’s always better to let it sit for a while.
I found it hard to concentrate on my arugula and watercress. My gaze kept wandering to her, fixating on the way she fit in so perfectly. When I stole glances, I noticed that she was looking at me, too.
She told me she had been kicked out of Bible camp one year for kissing a girl. Then the next year her parents were called for a consultation, and by the time she was in high school, her congregation treated her as though there was something wrong with her. Seemingly to lighten the tone of what she’d just told me, she said, “It’s okay. Years of therapy later, I can laugh about it and forgive.”
“That’s so important,” I said.
“As a kid, I thought I was going to be a preacher,” she said. “Like my dad.”
“Wow.” The song “Son of a Preacher Man” momentarily clouded my mind, and I imagined this gorgeous butch in front of me spreading the Lord’s word. Now, that might just get me to go to church on Sundays. “Do you still think about it?”
She laughed a hearty belly laugh that culminated in a more serious tone. “Well, sometimes. You think I should?”
“Sure. Why not?” I chopped some red pepper into fine strips. “I mean, if you’re a believer.”
“I believe in ‘judge not lest ye be judged’ and treating people like you want to be treated.”
“Pretty important,” I said. “Besides, I bet you could fill those pews like nobody’s business.”
“You think so?” She laughed shyly.
“I’d come.” I set the salad bowl down on the table and brought over the quiche. “And I never go to church. Ever.”
“Well, that’s mighty nice of y
ou to say. I think I’ll stick with being a courier. Guess I’d rather deliver packages than sermons.”
“Fair enough.”
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. And how she revealed her vulnerability to me. She thanked me for listening with an open heart and told me she’d never told anyone about her religious past before, not since she moved away from her childhood town. It only added to the overwhelming sense I got that I had somehow overlooked her in these past few years of casual acquaintance. 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 perfect woman. My dream. The more she told me, the more I felt sure that her being here was some kind of serendipitous event. Predestined. Fated.
I told her, “I don’t believe in accidents. Everything happens for a reason, like my light bulb being stuck.”
“It brought me here.”
I nodded.
“So we both sense what’s going on here, don’t we?” Her eyes met mine, and I felt like our gazes were dancing, like we’d never let each other go.
I said, “I’m not usually a fan of the old stereotypes about fast-moving lesbians. Honestly.”
“Same here.”
“Generally speaking, I can date casually for weeks or months. I’m not someone who falls in love and wants to move in together right away.”
“Generally speaking, you said.” She knew she was the exception.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
I couldn’t tell her that in my mind we already had children together. Maybe I’d tell her, eventually, that I saw us walking together hand in hand through life’s decades all the way to the end, but not yet. On our wedding day I would tell her.
Instead, I did something decidedly more proactive. More daring. Yeah, I respected her mind, her beliefs, her life journey. But damn. Something else was going on between us and it came from deep inside.
“Come with me,” I said, taking her hand.
“Anywhere,” she said. But when we climbed the stairs, she asked where I was taking her.
“My bedroom,” I said. “Or more specifically, my bed.”
“Oh my.”
“Let me tell you something,” I began, but I needed to correct myself. “Actually, let me show you. They were wrong. There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all. You are perfect.”
We entered my bedroom and I noticed she had tears in her eyes. “No one has called me perfect before.”
“Well, get used to it.” I turned on the bedside lamp. We’d talked so long that day had turned into night. The lamp had a very soft light. I lit the candles around my room.
She sat down on the edge of my bed. “I could definitely get used to you.”
I smiled.
“Sara,” she said, shaking her head from side to side as though she was in disbelief. “Sara, Sara.”
I twirled around in my dress, because somehow I knew she wanted to see the way the fabric moved in the dim candlelight. She watched me closely. Paid such close attention that I felt myself blushing on the inside.
At last I climbed on top of her, straddling her.
“Do you have any idea how sexy you are?” I asked her.
She gave me a coy smile, like she knew. She put her arms around me and pulled me closer.
Our faces were incredibly close, so close I could feel the heat emanating from her. The magnetism between our lips was intense. I closed my eyes, felt our mouths collide, felt myself melt into her, like chocolate left out in the sun. I wanted nothing more than to kiss her, deeply, as though only my silent lips could communicate the closeness I felt. Words failed me and only my body could show her how gorgeous I thought she was.
Jen’s hands slid stealthily up my dress. It was as though she too did not want to talk, did not want to get caught.
Quietly, we kissed and her fingers pried at the sides of my cotton panties. If this had been a date in my mind earlier, I’d have worn lace, but that would not have suited this moment. There were no accidents. As I pressed myself into her, I knew I would never be the same again.
I had seen the light.
RED VELVET CAKE
Tamsin Flowers
I love being gay, truly I do. But there’s just one element to it that ticks me off. How many gay people are there in the world? Millions, right? Estimates say one in ten of the population. Some people say more. Some people say less. I say, what the hell? I’m not a statistician but by my reckoning, it ain’t enough. I spend altogether too much time eyeing up girls, flirting with girls and falling for girls only to find out they don’t like girls or they think they do but actually they have a boyfriend. Sometimes it’s their fault. They eye me up and flirt with me. Right till we get to that first kiss moment—then they suddenly back off.
However, more often than not, it’s my own fault. Or I don’t see the signs. I ignore the signs. I plow on boldly, hoping against hope that they’ll look at me, come to their senses and dump their boy for a happily-ever-after with this girl. Sure. I’m the queen of self-delusion. This is my schtick: I’m a lesbian, I find Girl X hot, I wouldn’t find her hot if she was straight, ergo Girl X is a lesbian. For sure. Even if she doesn’t realize it yet. I’ve kidded myself along with this routine a dozen times and now I’m sitting here, in this coffee shop, and I’m about to do it again.
Girl X is a cute little number who, in this instance, goes by the name of Flo. She’s got short peroxide blond hair, a good sign, seven silver rings in one ear, a good sign, and she’s wearing Doc Martens, also a good sign. Not that I mean to pre-judge or anything. I just like looking at her.
Strictly speaking, it’s not my local coffee shop. There are two or three nearer to where I work, between the office and the bus stop. This one is a hundred yards beyond, in the wrong direction, but I came in here a couple of weeks back with Fin, because he rated the red velvet cake. Then I saw this girl. I had to come back, just to check if I was really taken with her and, as it turned out, I was.
I’ve got it bad. I’m at that stage where I could be mistaken for a stalker. I’m sitting as close by the counter as I can get, pretending I’m not staring when I am, and all the while trying to appear like my ears aren’t flapping at her every conversation. So far I’ve learned this about her: her second name is Petersen, her father gets drunk at business conferences, her mother drives a yellow car and her brother’s on the national men’s gymnastics squad. There hasn’t been any mention of boyfriend as far as I can make out and I haven’t managed to find out where she goes drinking. If she does. But if she doesn’t, she’s probably not my kind of girl after all.
I get up and order another coffee. I swear this particular dalliance is going to end in the great caffeine overdose disaster. Naturally, I’ve timed my trip to the counter to catch Flo on her own.
“Um, another coffee, please,” I say. My dry tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, making me stumble over the words.
She looks at me blankly. Bad sign.
“What coffee?” she says. She doesn’t remember my order yet? Bad sign.
“Black americano, please.”
I wonder if I ought to give up now and go back to perving at Sarah Shahi in my box set of Life. There’s no dodgy self-delusion involved in that particular crush. Just crystal-clear lust and my hand down my pants by halfway through every episode.
“I’ll bring it over,” she says, taking the money I hold out to her.
“Thanks.” Better sign.
I go back and sit down. Is this how it’s going to be forever? Long-distance stalking before I can get up the nerve to ask a girl if she’s queer and if she might like to go out with me? Actually, I can’t remember when I last asked a girl out. It’s always this little dance around, cir
cling closer and closer until either they knock me back or get fed up with waiting and ask me out. Or make a pass at me in the club toilets. Or cup my asscheek in their hand in a way that makes me melt inside. Yes, that did happen once—but it turned out we weren’t compatible in other ways.
Flo brings my coffee over to the table and sets it down.
“Thanks.” Me and my one-word vocabulary. Impressive.
Her phone rings and she digs it out of her apron pocket. A smile lights up her face as she looks at the screen. Gorgeous smile but it’s not for me. It’s for whoever’s at the other end of the line and that, for sure, is a bad sign.
“I finish at four,” she’s saying. “Yeah, see you later.”
I’m torturing myself over whether it’s a girl or a boy she’s talking to. As if it matters. If she’s talking to a lover, I might as well go and start warming up the DVD player now. But of course, I don’t. I text the office to say I’ve been held up at a meeting and then I settle in to see who turns up at four.
Two coffees and a serious case of the jitters later things go badly wrong. At five after four a guy comes in and Flo’s round the front of the counter like a lightning bolt and being swept up into his arms. There’s an exchange of kisses that I simply can’t bear to watch. I melt away back to the office.
“Why the long face?” says Fin, from his desk opposite mine.
I shrug. I don’t want to make a big deal of it. There’ll be another girl in another coffee shop next week. And the week after that. And I’ve got my box set friends, so I can’t see that I’d ever need to go back to Flo’s coffee shop. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a glutton for punishment. If I know a girl’s not interested, I back right off. In my experience, hanging around after a rebuff doesn’t do anyone any favors.
So now I’m busy forgetting all about Flo or Mo or whatever her damned name was. Moving on. There’s a girl I see on the bus regularly who I think is cute. And there’s a lifeguard I like to perv when I take my niece swimming once a week. I practice drowning in the bathtub and life’s a blast. I get a lot of work done.
