by Radclyffe
“Mmm-hmm.” I was drifting into a space I’d never known before. Lights from the Quai d’Anjou below and the quais across the Seine were reflected on the dark river, flickering like ancient torches as the water rippled past. Even the lights of modern Paris on the far bank took on a mellow glow that could have fit into any century.
“Hold that thought.” Hal backed away into the room. I scarcely heard the rustling of the shop bag or the running of water in the bathroom. Then she was back, soundlessly, a dark looming presence that might have been made of stone.
The night air drew me into its realm. I leaned out over the railing as far as my bonds would allow, my butt raised high. Then Hal had one arm around my waist, holding me steady, while her other hand probed into my inner spaces that she knew so well. Need swelled inside me, shuddered through my body, catching in my throat as strangled, guttural groans. My face twisted with the struggle not to make too much noise, my mouth gaped open and my head flailed back and forth.
A whimper escaped when her hand withdrew, and so did a short, sharp bleat as something new replaced it; smooth, lubed, not quite familiar, not any of Hal’s gear I’d felt before. I heard her heavy breathing, felt her thrusts and lost all sense of anything beyond the moment, anything beyond our bodies. A scream started forcing its way up through my chest and throat.
Just in time, Hal snapped open the bonds on my wrists, lifted me from behind and lurched with me across the plump back of the couch. With a rhythm accelerating like a Parisienne’s motorbike she finished me off, then found her own slower, deep pace, and her own release. I could still barely breathe, but I managed to twist my neck enough to see her contorted face at that moment. Yes, magnificently beautiful in her own feral way.
In the aftermath we curled together, laughing when she showed me the new gargoyle-faced dildo slick with my juices. “Those French don’t miss a trick when it comes to tourists,” I said.
Hal grew quiet. I thought she was dozing, but after a while she cleared her throat. “Those French…” Her voice was unusually gruff. She tried again. “They claim to be tops in the lover department, too, I’ve heard. But I’ve got the best deal in the whole world with you. The best lover…” She stroked my still-simmering pussy. “The prettiest boy…” She touched my cheek. “The best wife…And the wildest gargoyle in all of France.”
I remembered her face just minutes ago, and knew that the last part wasn’t true. Still, the wisest response seemed to be a kiss that moved eventually from her mouth along her throat, and lower, and lower, with more daring than I’d ever risked before; and eventual proof that the best lover part, at least, was absolutely certain.
GOING TO THE CHAPEL
Giselle Renarde
When Deva and Yvonne burst into the church half an hour late for their own wedding, their knees were streaked with mud. Yvonne’s gorgeous gown, the one she’d spent three months selecting, had grass stains all down the front. She’d paid more for that white dress than she’d paid for her first car, and look at it now—damaged beyond repair.
And Deva? Well, her retro turquoise suit hadn’t fared much better. The left jacket sleeve was muddied from the cuff to the elbow, and don’t even start about the pant legs!
They hadn’t planned it—honestly, they hadn’t—but when their families and friends all turned around to find them at the back of the church, surrounded by big bouquets of blue carnations, they both cried out, “It’s not what you think!”
“You’re not supposed to see the bride on the day of the wedding,” Yvonne teased.
Deva raised a churlish brow. “Neither are you.”
They locked gazes as mothers and aunts rushed around the apartment. The brides constituted a still point in the chaos. They weren’t giving in to their families’ anxiety. Why get worked up about a wedding?
Taking one step closer, Deva grabbed Yvonne’s hand. “Don’t you wish we could ditch everyone and just…you know…”
Yvonne glanced toward the bed and bit her lip, trying not to smile too widely. “Get your mind out of the gutter. You’ll shock your virgin bride.”
“Ha!” Deva wrapped both arms around Yvonne and held her close, whispering into her ear. “I can’t wait to get you home after the wedding.”
“Mmm…”
Deva’s hot breath warmed more than just Yvonne’s ear, and she’d have given anything to surrender then and there, but her mother’s voice rang out from the doorway. “Girls! It’s time to get to get a move on. You don’t want to be late for your own wedding.”
Yvonne stepped away from Deva, covering the blush in her cheeks with both hands. “We’re on our way.”
Deva’s mother appeared in the doorway behind Yvonne’s and said, “I don’t understand why you’re walking. Who walks to church on her wedding day?”
“That’s how we met.” Deva leaned against the dresser while Yvonne sat on the bed. “Or, not how we met, but how we got to know each other.”
“I only started going to that church because there was a rainbow flag on the sign,” Yvonne said. “I’ve never been a churchy person, but it’s hard to find a community when you move to a new place. I figured if they were queer-friendly it could be a start.”
Her mother smiled. “Yes, I don’t remember you wanting to go to church when you were little.”
Yvonne shrugged. “Everyone’s really nice at this one down the street. And it didn’t hurt that there was a built, butch Indian chick sitting in the front pew every week—legs spread, an elbow on either knee, too cool for school. Kept me coming back for more.”
“Deva!” said Yvonne’s soon-to-be mother-in-law. “You shouldn’t sit that way in church. Keep your knees together.”
Deva bowed her head, obviously trying not to laugh. “Yes, Mother.”
“We started walking home together when we realized we lived in the same apartment complex,” Yvonne went on. “And soon she started picking me up and walking me to church, too.”
“Yeah, and I just kept getting here earlier and earlier, until I was picking her up on Saturday night.”
When Deva chuckled, her mother smacked her hip, aiming for her bottom. “Bad girl. You don’t talk that way.”
“Sure I do,” Deva said, still laughing as her mother spanked her.
“If you weren’t as big as your brothers, I would take you over my knee.”
Yvonne and her mother cracked matching smiles as Deva and hers teased one another. And then Yvonne’s high-strung mom looked at her watch and said, “We really should leave for the church. It’s getting to be that time. Don’t want your guests thinking you’ve come down with a case of cold feet.”
“You guys head out,” Deva said, shuffling her mom and Yvonne’s toward the front door. “We’re gonna stroll hand in hand, just like we did when we first started walking together.”
“Aww,” said one of Deva’s aunts, who’d been hiding out in the living room. “There’s nothing like young love.”
Yvonne laughed. “We’re not exactly young.”
“Well, you were when you met,” the aunt said. “How long ago was that? Five years?”
“Almost,” Deva said, then winked at Yvonne. “Feels like yesterday.”
Yvonne nodded. “I know what you mean.”
It was like the honeymoon period never ended. They were still loopy in love, and so sizzling hot for each other they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. Hopefully the wedding wouldn’t change all that. But why would it? A marriage is only a commitment, and they were already committed to each other.
Nevertheless, as their mothers and aunts filtered out the door, a feeling of apprehension came over Yvonne. This was it. Today was the day. No going back.
“What’s wrong?” Deva asked when everyone else was gone.
“Hmm?” She plastered on a smile. “Nothing. I’m fine. How ’bout you?”
Deva cocked her head, not buying it. “Okay…”
There was something about Deva, like she could look into Yvonne’s eyes and s
ee right straight through to her soul. Made her nervous and fidgety as hell. She walked to the window, waiting to see their family members filter out the lobby door.
Deva took her from behind, wrapping both arms around her waist. “Tell me what you’re thinking, babe.”
Yvonne pressed her forehead to the window. “Nothing. Just…are you ready for this?”
“For what?”
She laughed. “Marriage. Me.”
Deva hugged her harder. “We already live together. If I couldn’t stand you, I think I’d know it by now.”
“I guess so…”
“Why?” Deva asked. “Are you having second thoughts?”
Yvonne watched her mother and Deva’s and all their aunts spill from the front door like an ocean wave. “No,” she said, decidedly. “I want to marry you.”
She turned around, and Deva kissed her, softly, on the lips. “I want to marry you, too.”
Why did that embarrass her so much? She felt an inexplicable blush coming on as she slipped away from the window, away from Deva. “My mom was right. We should get a move on or people will wonder.”
“I’m starting to wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
Deva shook her head. “Nothing.”
Yvonne grabbed her phone off the coffee table and shoved it down the side of her wedding dress.
Deva cracked up. “What are you doing?”
With a shrug, Yvonne said, “I’m not bringing a purse and you never know when you might need a phone. In case of emergencies. You know?”
This time, Deva shrugged. “I’m not bringing mine.”
“But you’ve got the house keys?”
Deva plucked them out of her pocket. “Sure you don’t want a quickie before we head to the chapel?”
“When have I ever wanted a quickie?” Yvonne laughed as she opened the door. “I want you all…night…long.”
When Deva raced at her, she leapt into the hall like a matador teasing a bull. They locked up and rode the elevator down to the ground floor. Their neighbors would think they were crazy—not that they actually knew many people in the neighborhood, aside from fellow churchgoers.
And Mr. Rosetti.
Yvonne groaned as they stepped into the lobby.
“What’s wrong?” Deva took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m worried about you.”
“No, it’s nothing. I just hope Mr. Rosetti isn’t out gardening when we walk by. He’s the last person I need to deal with today.”
Deva let out a sympathetic sigh. “Well, we’ll just ignore him if he is. What’s the worst he can do?”
“Recite scripture at us.” The automated lobby doors opened for them and they walked through, greeted by the gorgeous summer sun. “I’m so sick of people like him. Why can’t they just mind their own business? They act like every queer person in the world somehow threatens their sense of…I don’t even know what!”
Deva escorted her to the sidewalk. “Don’t get so worked up about it. Today’s your wedding day—nothing can spoil it.”
“Unless you run out on me.”
Deva laughed. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that.”
As they crossed the tree-lined street, sun dappled their finery and their flesh. Yvonne soaked up the warmth like a dozing kitten, at once calm and exhilarated by the prospect of saying “I do” in front of all their friends and family.
But once they’d set foot on the shady side of the street, apprehension snuck into her heart. She remembered the first time Deva had scooped up her hand and held it, the first time they’d walked home from church like that, together, as a unit. Yvonne remembered it so clearly because of the man in 129.
He’d eyed them from the garden as they walked by his house—those beady, dark eyes fixed on their fingers as they chatted and flirted. Yvonne still remembered how giddy she’d felt as she set her head on Deva’s shoulder for the first time, when suddenly a rumbling voice cut through their bliss.
“You! You gays—why don’t you stay downtown with the rest of the sinners? The suburbs are for good, god-fearing people. You’re the reason I had to find another church!”
Yvonne had whipped around to face him, too stunned to speak. Deva only said, “What?”
“That church at the end of the street—I went there from the time I moved into this house in 1973. And then you gays convince that woman minister to perform your sinful ceremonies and forced me out.”
“Sinful ceremonies?” Deva asked. “What ceremonies?”
“Gay marriage!” Mr. Rosetti threw his hands in the air, overemphasizing the simple words.
Yvonne laughed, even though she was shocked and taken aback. She laughed because she’d been picturing this “sinful” gay ceremony as some orgiastic devil worship. But marriage? He was walking about marriage?
“You think gay marriage is sinful?” Deva asked.
His eyes bugged out. “It goes against god!”
“How?” Deva’s chest puffed a bit, the way it always did when she got into a battle of words. “How can love possibly go against god? God is love.”
“Hippies,” he spat. “Hippie queers, drive me from my church—my church. Not yours.”
“Come on, Deva. Let’s just go.” Yvonne had yanked her by the arm, pulled her down the sidewalk as she railed against the homophobe at 129.
The first hurt felt just as fresh as every other insult he’d heaped on since. As they approached his house en route to their wedding, Yvonne’s heart clenched. Please, god, don’t let him be outside.
And he wasn’t.
Praise the Lord.
Wait a second…what was that? As they approached Mr. Rosetti’s garden, a shape in the dirt caught Yvonne’s eye. It started on the lawn and then stretched out across the marigolds. Oh no…it wasn’t, was it? Yes, it was. A body!
She tightened her grip on Deva’s hand, but Deva was two steps ahead, climbing up the rock garden and over the slight incline between the sidewalk and the lawn. “Mr. Rosetti? Are you okay?”
When Deva fell to her knees, Yvonne shrieked. “You’re gonna get your tux all dirty!”
Like Deva cared about clothes. “Come on, get up here. Help me roll him over.”
“Is he…dead?” Yvonne whispered the word, like she’d be inviting the Grim Reaper if she said it too loudly.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Would you just get up here and give me a hand?”
Yvonne inched two steps up the driveway without taking her eyes off Mr. Rosetti’s prone body. “But if he is dead, there’s no point getting all dirty trying to revive him.”
Deva’s eyes blazed. “Would you stop acting like a child, Yvonne? You’re a grown woman. Time to behave that way.”
By interrupting her wedding day to work on a homophobic corpse? What was the point? If Mr. Rosetti hated gay people so much, he probably wouldn’t want a pair of lesbians putting their hands all over him anyway.
But Yvonne could only hold out so long before her better judgment kicked in. She stepped from the driveway onto the lawn and her heels slumped into the soft ground. When she took another step, the shoes remained wedged in the dirt. “Damn it.”
“Help me roll him,” Deva said, her voice firm and commanding.
“How?” Yvonne didn’t want to touch the guy, but she also didn’t want to admit that to Deva.
“Just help his head along while I turn his body, okay?”
“Okay.” Yvonne wasn’t going to argue at this stage. She held her hands near his hair, but couldn’t bring herself to touch him—not until Deva heaved his shoulder. Then Yvonne worried that if she didn’t do anything, the old man’s neck might snap when Deva rolled him over.
“Good job,” Deva said, though Yvonne didn’t feel like she was doing anything.
She closed her eyes as her hands found his head. Somehow, when Deva turned him, he ended up with his head on her thigh. She screamed when she looked down to find his face covered in dirt.
“Brush that off,” Deva said.<
br />
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” Yvonne tried to escape, only to discover Deva had rolled the man onto her bulky wedding dress. “Dev, I’m stuck.”
“It’s okay, babe.” Deva grabbed the lace train of her veil and used it to brush soil from the old man’s skin.
“What are you doing?” Yvonne shrieked.
“In case we need to do CPR.”
Yvonne’s throat squeaked. “I’m not putting my mouth on his mouth.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to.” Deva place a hand on his chest and remained quiet for a moment. “He’s breathing.”
“Oh, thank god.”
“Mr. Rosetti?” Deva tapped his cheek, then smacked it. “Mr. Rosetti, can you hear me?”
“What’s wrong with him?” Yvonne asked.
“I don’t know. Get out your phone.”
“What for?”
“To call 911.”
“Oh.” Yvonne wanted to put up some argument, but she couldn’t think of any reason why she shouldn’t call—well, aside from the fact that they were late for their own wedding. She reached into her restrictive wedding gown and pulled out her phone. Her fingers fumbled as she punched in the number and waited for something to happen.
A woman’s voice came on the line and asked, “What is the nature of your emergency?”
Yvonne looked to Deva. “What do I say?”
“You know what to say,” Deva told her.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Our neighbor…we found him on the lawn. He’s not…well, he’s breathing, but he won’t wake up.”
“He’s unconscious?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”
“Is he awake?” the operator asked.
“No.”
“Does he smell like he’s been drinking?”
Yvonne sniffed him. “No, he smells like plants. He was working in the garden, looks like.”
The 911 operator asked where to send the ambulance and Yvette gave her Mr. Rosetti’s address. The operator then rolled out instructions that fell out of her brain the moment she’d repeated them to Deva. Do this, do that. Check this, check that. And then something stuck: “Reach into his mouth and make sure his tongue isn’t blocking his airway.”
