I don’t know which of us made the move to take it further. To progress beyond the stroking gliding caresses, to take it into a more physical realm, but Marianne’s skirt slid to the earth, my shorts lowered to join it. And then her fingers were underneath my cotton panties, feeling, exploring, pushing, and then a concentrated pressure on the side of my clit, the wonderful friction dance.
I swayed, closed my eyes, let her fingers push me to the edge, and swayed some more, the wine, the night, the darkness all combining to disorient me. So much so that when, on the outer edge of orgasm, I opened my eyes and saw stars, I didn’t know if it was the wide swath of the French night, or they were purely behind my eyes.
Marianne withdrew her fingers, and I shuddered at the loss. I kissed her again, let my own hand trail down her body, down to the thatch of curls between her legs. She shifted slightly, trying to balance her legs apart. I was taller than she, and the dynamics were wrong.
Behind her, the trailing arms of the vines stretched their way along the strings. Every so often there was a post, roughhewn and sturdy. We shuffled back, until Marianne rested against the post. She stretched her arms along the strings, spread her legs, and threw back her head. Such a picture of wantonness, of earthiness, of need. For a moment I just watched her, saw how the pale fingers of new growth tickled up between her fingers, how the shoots caught in her backswept hair, as if somehow she was becoming part of the living earth. The fancy was sudden, but I saw her merging into the ground, her toes turned to roots, gnarled and clinging, her fingers pale and green, slim filaments of vines, inching along the strings. It seemed as if a tendril of leaf curled inward over her thigh, but that was surely an illusion.
Dropping to my knees in the soft, yielding ground, I parted her with gentle fingers, moving the insidious green shoot to one side. Marianne’s head was now bent forward watching me, her hair falling over her face. Through the disarrayed curtain I saw her eyes; slitted, glittering with pleasure. She hissed in anticipation, and held my head there, as she swayed back and forth on her heels; back, so that the vines brushed over her skin, forward in intoxication, so that her toes dug, prehensile, into the dirt to keep her balance.
The air curled in moist salt eddies around my face, and her pubic hair tickled my nose. She tasted of the sea, but strangely sweet, different from me. And it was natural to kiss her, and swoop my tongue around and over her, gauging her response, until her breathing quickened and I thought she would come.
She did. Her upper body jerked, her pelvis pushing into my hands, her head thrown back to the stars as she arched in bowstring tautness up, up into the sky, a long lupine howl of satisfaction and completion. She slumped back down to earth with an abruptness that made me stagger back a pace, as her weight slumped forward. I rose, and turned her in my arms and we embraced. She slid her arms around my waist and we sighed into each other’s necks, soft exhalations of pleasure.
We slept together that night, sprawled over her big bed in a tangle of damp limbs. And later still, when the birds sang the oh-so-early French morning into existence, Marianne and I rose and silently shared a cup of strong dark coffee, drunk from bright, chipped pottery bowls. Her son staggered in rubbing his eyes, and she scooped him up onto her lap, murmuring to him in English.
We walked outside, she and I, with her son between us using our hands as a swing. We walked down to the end of the garden, to where the tangle of vines began. Far off, the muted sunlight reflected off the distant estuary, and the taste of salt was in the air. The vines trembled in the light breeze.
Marianne slung an arm around my waist. “It’s not so bad here, really,” she said.
Paisley Comes Back
Kyle Walker
The last time Sallie had seen Paisley was in tenth grade. That was the year Paisley’s family moved away. Sallie was bereft for months. She hadn’t realized until Paisley left just how much fun they had, how she’d enjoyed their late-night talks and overnights. High school just wasn’t the same after that.
Sallie was voted “Most Dependable” in their class. Paisley hung out with the art crowd: for middle-of-nowhere Schuyler, which had just gotten cable TV, they were wild. They were the kids who wore paint-streaked clothes, sassed the teachers, and cut class and smoked pot and cigarettes. They listened to weird music and the jocks sometimes tried to mess with them.
Even so, Paisley had ended up at Sallie’s house a couple nights a week to study or watch a movie. After her family left, they stayed in touch through letters, and later email. In college, Sallie found herself with less and less to say to Paisley, and sometimes didn’t hear from her for months. Now Paisley was in Boston, doing a master’s degree in art. Sallie was in New York City, and had just found out something very important about herself.
As she waited for Paisley’s bus to arrive, Sallie nursed a coffee and remembered things she’d conveniently pushed aside for a while. Their friendship had begun in eighth grade, when the junior high boys stopped pushing them down, and started asking to walk them home. The boys used to chase Paisley around the schoolyard, and she was the first one in their grade to go into the woods with them after school. One day, Billy Henson called her a slut at lunch, and she dumped her tray on his head. Billy tried to hit her, but Sallie stuck her foot out and tripped him. When the assistant principal asked what all the fuss was, Sallie told him that Billy started it. He got detention, and Paisley asked if she wanted to come over after school.
In Paisley’s rec room, they looked at some books Paisley took from her parents’ private stash: Fanny Hill, Delta of Venus, Once Is Not Enough. Paisley knew where the sex scenes were, and Sallie had never read anything like them. Her mother had given her a talk when she started her period the year before, and she’d heard there’d be a film the boys and girls would see separately when they got to ninth grade. But since she had no older siblings, and mostly hung around with a tame crowd, she’d never been able to find out what actually went on between men and women. And women and women, as it turned out.
“Isn’t it cool?” Paisley asked, as they looked through the books. “This is what we can do when we’re grown up!”
“People don’t really do this, do they?” Sallie asked, feeling uncomfortable, and something else. It was kind of like an itch, but more of a tickle. She felt Paisley’s breath on her, as the other girl leaned over to point out some particular detail.
“Of course they do! Maybe even your parents,” Paisley said.
“I’m…I’m not ready for this…” she told Paisley, shutting the book. Paisley took it, and the others, and put them back in their hiding place.
“Maybe not now, but one day we’re going to be old enough to do this stuff…and want to do it. I think it’s just a matter of getting used to it. Getting good at it.”
“I can’t imagine doing this with any of the boys we know,” Sallie told her. “I can’t imagine liking it.”
“That’s why you have to practice,” Paisley replied. “You have to learn how to do it right, enjoy it.”
“Is that why you go with so many boys?” Sallie asked. Paisley glowered at her.
“Do you think I’m a slut, too?” she snapped.
“No…but you have to be careful, or the girls will hate you and the boys won’t respect you.” To herself, Sallie had to admit that she admired Paisley’s take-no-prisoners approach. “I hate it when the kids say mean things to you. That’s why I tripped Billy.”
“And of course, they believed you when you stood up for me. Because you’re Sallie Girl Scout. I was so surprised….”
“You might try a little harder to fit in,” Sallie said. “People treat you better.”
“I don’t think I’m ever going to fit in. I just feel…different from the rest of you.” Paisley turned away, her arms folded. Sallie put her arm around Paisley.
“I bet you go the furthest of anyone in our class,” Sallie said. “One day you’ll be famous, and all of us here in Schuyler will say we knew you when…”
Pais
ley turned with a shy smile. “You really think so?”
“Why, you’re the best artist in school, and even though a lot of the kids pretend to ignore you, they all watch and see what you’re going to do next.” Sallie was one of them.
“I kiss the boys because I want to make love to a lot of people when I grow up,” Paisley announced. “What about you?”
“Um…” Sallie said. “I guess I’ll learn when I get a boyfriend. And I guess when I get married, I’ll do it with my husband.”
“What if you get a boyfriend who’s not a good kisser? You’ll have to show him!”
Paisley was right, Sallie realized.
“How can I learn?” she asked, worried.
“It’s easy,” Paisley assured her. “Just take it slow and soft….” She pulled Sallie into her arms. “Mmmm…follow my lead….” Just like dancing lessons, Sallie thought. Paisley’s lips were soft and at first she kissed lightly, just brushing Sallie’s face. Sallie felt her breath quicken. The feeling she’d had when she was reading the books came back. Paisley leaned her back on the couch, and they lay with their arms around each other.
“This is how Billy Henson kisses,” she said, slipping her tongue between Sallie’s lips. Sallie was surprised, but she liked it. Paisley kissed her slowly and expertly, letting her tongue wander into Sallie’s mouth, then pulling it out again. Sallie’s mouth opened, too, and soon their tongues met. It was wonderful, it was heaven. They kissed for a while, then Paisley drew Sallie’s head onto her chest. Sallie wanted to do more, but she had no idea what.
“Do the boys hold you like this?” she asked.
“No, they just wipe their mouths and go home,” Paisley said sadly. “They miss the nicest parts.”
“Do you let them touch you?” Sallie asked.
“Only over my blouse,” Paisley said. “They squeeze so hard, I don’t want their hands on my bare boob.”
“I wouldn’t squeeze hard,” Sallie said. Paisley looked at her and seemed to be considering. Then her mom called them up to dinner, and they both jumped a mile.
They were friends after that, and even though they hung out with completely different groups in high school, they never stopped seeing each other. Paisley still went out with a lot of boys, but she developed a steely persona that cut them loose when they got too rude, or too mushy. Sometimes, after a date, she’d go to Sallie’s house, and they’d talk about what was wrong with the boys Paisley dated, and Paisley would show Sallie what the boys tried to do.
Sallie didn’t have a boyfriend until junior year, after Paisley left. Evan was a very nice boy, and a decent kisser, but somehow she never got as excited with him as she had with Paisley.
Seven years later, far away from Schuyler, Sallie had finally realized why no boy could ever take her to those heights. Now, any minute, Paisley would be getting off the bus from Boston. Paisley had never mentioned a boyfriend in her sporadic communications over the years. She hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend either. What if she’d left her practice kissing behind, in Schuyler? What if she had some serious, sensitive artist beau who made up for the rough, ignorant small-town boys?
The bus pulled in, and Sallie scanned the passengers’ faces as they streamed into the Port Authority. Then someone who was light-years away from the high school sophomore Sallie had last seen, but definitely Paisley, burst through the door. She’d always had an abrupt energy, but now it was of laser intensity. Paisley’s gaze darted around the dingy concourse, her ice-blue eyes taking in everything. It was a few seconds before she spotted Sallie, who let out a quick sigh of admiration. Paisley wore her straight, dark-brown hair in a razor-cut bob, letting it fall long at an angle across her face, highlighted by a single bright red streak. She was still bird-thin and small. Sallie felt massive next to her.
Paisley wore an all-black outfit, including pointy black vinyl boots, under a coat with a velvet collar. Sallie noted that her nails were painted different colors. Then Paisley looked at her, and as their gazes locked, Sallie also knew that along with being cool, Paisley was also very hot. She grinned at the memory of all the practice kissing, and felt the same feelings course through her…and now she knew what they were.
Sallie wanted to run right up to her and show Paisley how well she’d learned to kiss, right there at the bus station. But she didn’t, because it would have taken even more courage than she had in her newfound supply of the stuff. What if Paisley took the next bus back to Boston? What if she gave Sallie that look of pity and disgust Sallie had once tossed over her own shoulder at the queers?
Still, they had to hug, didn’t they? And Sallie was gratified at how tightly Paisley held her, and how warm and soft her lips were as they shared a friendly peck. Paisley kept her hand on Sallie’s arm as they snaked their way through the crowds.
“Where do you want to go?” Sallie asked. “We can drop your stuff off at my place, but that’s a good hour away. I have passes to MoMA, if you want to do that first.”
“Let me catch up with you,” Paisley told her. “MoMA will still be there, and I haven’t had a good look at you yet.” So they went to the bowling alley at the Port Authority, and Sallie had a hot dog and Paisley, who was vegetarian, had fries, and they both had a beer, even if it was just past noon.
“This is cool, very retro,” Paisley said approvingly. Sallie nodded. She’d figured out that some old-fashioned things were retro, which was good; while others were just old-fashioned, which was bad; but she had a hard time telling the difference.
“How’s school?” she asked.
“I’m not one to brag…oh, who am I kidding? I’ve always tooted my own horn. It’s going pretty well,” Paisley said. “I’ve gotten some attention in the student art shows. I’m lucky. I have a mentor…one of my teachers. She’ll take care of me with fellowships and help me find teaching positions. Introduce me to gallery owners. She’s got pull, and that’s what you need to get ahead.”
“That’s so great!” Sallie told her. “I always said you’d be famous.”
“It’s…not what I expected,” Paisley said with a shrug. “I didn’t know how…complicated it is to establish yourself. But I’m sure it’ll all be worth it in the end.”
“Oh, you were always a hard worker,” Sallie agreed. “And I thought you were an excellent teacher,” she added. Their eyes met and Paisley let herself smile a little.
“That’s because I was passionate about what I was teaching,” she told Sallie. There was a moment when either of them could have said something, but they let it go by.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Sallie asked. Again, Paisley shrugged.
“Yeah…yeah,” she finally answered. “It’s a good thing… we’re happy,” she told Sallie. “It’s just a little overwhelming, sometimes. I’m really glad you invited me down this weekend. It feels weird telling you about it…but good. I mean, this isn’t high school anymore, and I’m not coming by after a date to complain.”
Sallie took Paisley’s hand, which was cold. She’d always had cold hands. Sallie rubbed it between her own two.
“Now I remember why I came by your house,” Paisley told her. “It’s a shame things didn’t turn out differently….” She put a little distance between herself and Sallie. “So, how’s—what’s-his-name? your fiancé?”
“We broke it off,” Sallie told her. Paisley perked up.
“Oh really?” she asked. “How come? Did you find someone you liked better?”
“Yes…,” Sallie said, feeling herself blushing.
“Come on! I want details,” Paisley told her. She put her hand on Sallie’s arm, and Sallie had to restrain herself from showing Paisley what had happened for her to lose interest in Larry. Paisley was wearing lipstick that matched the streak in her hair, and had a full, sensuous mouth. “Are you with someone now?” Paisley continued.
“Uh, no…,” Sallie muttered. “But it was an experience that made me realize that…Larry was definitely not the one.”
“So what does that mean?”
Paisley asked quietly.
“I guess it means I need more practice,” Sallie said, letting at least one shoe drop.
Paisley seemed to think about it for a minute. She laid her arm across the top of the banquette, almost but not quite touching Sallie’s shoulders.
“You know, I, uh, messed around with a lot of boys in high school,” Paisley said. Sallie gave her a “tell me something I don’t know” look. Paisley continued. “I didn’t really feel that…invested in it, but I felt like I had to do it.” Sallie waited. “As long as I had boys following me, and boys wanting to do me, and did some things with them, I was safe.”
“Well, except for possibly getting pregnant, and picking up a disease,” Sallie pointed out. Paisley gave her a “tell me something I don’t know” look.
“See, if I messed around with Billy Henson, or Matthew McGonnigle, then what I was doing with you didn’t count.” Sallie’s heart lurched. “If I kissed a boy, it didn’t matter if I kissed a girl. Boy, was I fucked.”
“In many ways,” Sallie agreed, and they laughed.
“I suppose I’m lucky I didn’t get knocked up; and I’m lucky I finally figured out that I didn’t have to fuck boys to prove I was normal,” Paisley told her. “So college had a purpose after all. What sucks, though, is how much more I wanted you than any of those boys, and I couldn’t have you.”
“Not then,” Sallie said. Paisley cocked her head, as though she hadn’t quite caught what Sallie said. She started to say something, then stopped. Such a look of longing passed over her that Sallie couldn’t help herself. She took Paisley’s face in her hands and gave her a long, sweet kiss that so loosened her hold on the present that for a minute she could almost smell Paisley’s basement rec room.
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