Stripped Down (30 page)

“But cigs make you sweat
more
,” Mei says.

“Not me.” I wish I wasn't so sarcastic.

“Do you want to get off the phone?”

“No. Why? Do you?” The thing is I kind of
do
. I'm on my last cigarette, but I still want to get her off. Otherwise, why bother calling?

“I want my girl to be spick and span before she has her snack,” I begin.

“I
am
clean. I took a bath.” Her voice goes up an octave. She captures the perfect mix of trepidation and defiance of the spoiled child who doesn't know she's spoiled.

“Hold out your hands. Let me look under your nails.” They have a bit of grime. And the bow in her hair has slid down, bangs falling in front of her eyes. “You're as disheveled as the poodle. What gave you the idea you'd eat your snack looking like that?”

Her favorite part's coming up. I hear her breathing change. I say, “Little Miss needs to be hosed off. You're filthy! You'll bring germs. Go to the porch and turn the spout on this instant.” I always wish I had a spigot on the roof to make the right sound effect.

“Yes, ma'am. Is that enough water?” She's become even more timid.

“Now stand still. Take off your dress and put it on the bench. This will be just a tad bit cold, all right?” I can't tell if my voice deepens, but I soothe her. She isn't being punished, just made to feel bad for lying.

“Eeeeeehhhhhhh,” she screeches. “It's cold! Turn it off! I'm washed now. I am.” Even after I turn off the hose, she
whimpers. “It's not fair. I'm dripping wet and freezing.” Her teeth chatter in feigned shivers.

“You may have your snack now. Do you want me to feed you the cookie so you don't get it soggy?”

“Yes, please. Can I have a peanut butter cream?”

“
May
you have a peanut butter cream,” I taunt. I'm sure she jerks when she hears her name's homonym, infused with all the governess authority I can muster. Her fingers are probably crowding in her cunt, but she's standing, so her arm aches. She's made herself wait to touch her clit until the first bite from the cookie.

“May I?”

“Of course you may. You are the
best
little girl.” I hold the cookie so she has to stretch her neck to bite it. She spills crumbles all over her chin. I use her undershirt to wipe it off.

“Goodness, it's delicious. Mmmmmm. Thank you, ma'am,” Mei manages to gasp. Now she's probably stumbled to her knees, bracing her arm against a wall so she can thrust into her hand as it earnestly fiddles. I can't believe the things she does without dropping the phone.

“That's a good girl.” I usually improvise at this point, which as often as not backfires. Tonight, I just pant and moan, giving her the idea my hand is doing something other than unraveling the vinyl strips on my rusty lawn chair. No matter how cheesy I sound, I always hear her whimpering on the line like a puppy who's heard her master's car in the garage.

“Thanks, Tea. That felt good.” Mei's back to her butchy, deep voice.

“What about taking Honey and Burdock to the dog park tomorrow?”

“Sure. I'll meet you there.” It's easy to get Mei to commit.
Well, to things involving me.

I obeyed Rule Number One: I was on the phone less than an hour, so I definitely hadn't cheated on my other lover.

 

When I embark on a visit to Adam in Boston, we're not on the best terms. They say if you're always fighting about little things, you don't want to see the big things. I don't mind admitting I won't hand-hold him through the so-called identity crisis he's having over dating a dyke that doesn't dig men.

I made the mistake of waiting too long to buy my ticket. Besides getting ripped off, I wasn't even guaranteed a seat. Adam wasn't pleased to hear the plan when he called me on my mobile, doubting that I truly wanted to see him. I was
going
, wasn't I?

“I'm ruled by Mercury. What do you expect?” I said. I hate when other people shine it on, but I do it all the time.

“That's right. I forgot to check if it's going retrograde before I called.” Adam's enamored of sarcasm, too.

“Look, I'll get there eventually, okay?” Our phone fights are never the kind that turn heads in airport terminals. They aren't so loud that they'll be followed by even louder makeup sex.

Our fighting is like one moment in normal people's fights, all drawn out and frozen. We have to say each other's name every minute to make sure we're still there. I'm doodling on the back of my itinerary so when the page is filled, I have a reason to hang up. The way he says “Tea” gently is a relief, and then they announce my flight.

 

The hotel is so plush. I feel scummy. When I arrive, someone
escorts
me to his room. In his presence now, I know we're
still fighting because we're polite like someone's listening. I haven't seen Adam in a month, so I study him for changes. He's wearing eyeliner, brown not black; it suits him. His fingernails are very short. His lace-up boots, sitting in the closet, have new red laces. I'm too stubborn to apologize and he has no reason to.

I start it innocently enough, with a long, swaying hug that shows him how much he missed me. I bury my nose in his neck. He's an inch shorter than I am, so it's easy. He smells like lotion: not a manufactured scent, like peach, but olive oil or lanolin or whatever they stick in unscented lotion. I hate being polite. I want to be second-marriage nonchalant. We only have two days.

I don't want to admit sex is always the same with him, but it is. Adam puts on music. We tongue kiss, 'cause we have little tongues that don't choke each other. We sort of dance. We grope under clothing. When I'm wet enough, he fucks me.

I think the glamorous hotel has put him in a strange mood. He smiles a lot while he watches himself touching my tits shyly, like he forgot how. I flew out here for a weekend of shy and forgetful?

He takes my hands and puts them on his chest, hesitantly. “
My
tits want some attention.”

I tweak his left nipple playfully, but lower my hand to his pants to feel if he's hard. “Your tits?! I want what's in here.” Tugging his fly, I pull his hips to me.

“You want what's in there? Nothing that great is in there.”

“It feels like something. Something that wants out.” I start unzipping his pants.

“What kind of dyke are you, Tea?” He pulls away and looks me in the eye.

“Uh, the kind of dyke that doesn't like that question! The kind of dyke that doesn't turn away hard cock when it's right in front of her.”

“Oh right, I forgot.” He rolls his eyes. “Then I'm gonna take a shower.” Adam shuts the door behind him. What the fuck is his problem? Does he really want to rehash all the bullshit of dykes loving cock, the semiotics of it, for the millionth time?

Hearing the water splashing convinces me he's really taking a shower and not just hiding out. I unlatch my suitcase on the bed. Rummaging through all the smut-related accoutrements I brought, I find a green mermaid dildo. Turning up the music louder to block his shower noise, I hop on the bed and go to it.

My face smashes to the pillow so that my glasses dig at my face while I hump a folded blanket. I replay the mornings when he woke me up by rubbing it against my thigh, when I was too sleepy to tell if it was attached or silicone. I roll the dildo between my hands until it warms up, then flip over and hold it against my cunt. As I jerk it, imagining what Adam would do if he caught me makes me wetter than the actual movements.

Everything surges around and I want it inside. I match a green condom to the mermaid's seaweed skin and encase her shimmering scales in pretty latex. Mushing her around, I smear the wet into my bristling hair and up around my clit to make my cunt open. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the smell of the hotel sheets, the romantic lighthouse paintings, the dirt under my fingernails. I feel desperate and don't mind a bit.

After flopping around a while, the mermaid flicks her fin against my huge clit like she's beckoning a sailor from her
rock perch. Then she combs out her hair with a piece of coral and flips her fin faster, showing him how she's so lonely with no one but squid and pelicans for company. When she thinks the sailor might follow her, she dives from the rock and plunges into the salty froth. In her native element, she slips through the heavy water that presses in on her from all sides, like she's been slicked up with oil. On and on she drives, her thick tail propelling her, with swirling hair following in tendrils.

If I angle the mermaid right, my cunt balloons, making room for her to dive deeper. My breath forces its way out through my nose, noisy from allergies. I leave my clit alone until I'm closer to coming. The mermaid's as deep as she can go, skimming her stomach along the sand, tickling the anemones and making them squeeze their pink mouths shut.

When I'm ready, and suspecting that Adam will discover me if I wait much longer, I grab my clit with my thumb and index finger like it's a tiny dick. I pull the hood up as far as it goes, until it stings, and then push the fleshy fold all the way back down. The first few jerks make me forget to keep fucking myself, and it hurts in the best way. My poor, tiny, purple dick, with such low confidence; it still likes being yanked. I tug to feel it lengthening and finally twitching. That sweet, ocean-current heat surges, and I come like a tiny sailboat getting crushed against the rocks.

Adam opens the door to the bathroom. I can see him in the mirror, but he ignores me. He comes out wearing a big, white towel around his waist, and surveys the room.

“Jesus, it smells like sex in here, Tea.”

“So?” I can't stand the way I sound like a teenager.

“I was going to apologize for what I said about you being, or not being, a real dyke.”

“Thanks.” I drop my used latex in the toilet. “Is that it? Are you over your fit?”

“I don't think I'm the one having a fit.” He sits on one of the stuffed chairs. “I think things are freaking you out that you don't want to talk about.”

“I
want
to talk about it.” Oh boy, here we go.

“Okay. We went to that benefit event…the one raising money for queer immigration…”

I put my hands on my hips, but drop them when I realize I look like my older sister. “You want a prize for giving money to queers, bucko?”

“That's not what I mean. Sasha's friend Kate was hitting on me, so Sasha said, ‘No dice.
She's
taken.' ”

“Sasha's a new-agey dork. She probably didn't want to embarrass Kate by telling her she got faked out by a little bit of eyeliner.”

“Well, the way I see it, Sasha and Kate get it.”

“Get what?” Sometimes I like annoying Adam by playing dumb.

“Will you
please
not… You're a smart cookie, Tea, so why don't you just accept it: I'm a dyke.” Adam stares at the fancy lamp on the side table, avoiding my eyes.

“Okay, and is this where I embrace you and tell you that I love you no matter what?” I try a laugh, but it doesn't come out so good.

“Fuck you, Tea. You'd pop me in the head if I said that. Don't give me that.”

Adam is right. I can't bigot my way out of it. I've been too loud-mouthed about transphobic lesbians to convince Adam that I qualified as one.

“You're a dyke.” I try not to say it like, “You're a toaster
oven,” but it comes out a little shaky. I sit on the bed and say it again with conviction, if not celebration. “You're a dyke.”

I'm not supposed to cry. I'm not supposed to act like Adam just told me of a terminal illness. I'm not supposed to make it all about me. How many times had I repeated that same advice to rooms full of selfish queers? I start crying anyway. Adam moves to the bed to comfort me, even though I don't deserve it. “Are you shocked?”

“You know I'm not shocked. You love horses and thick-soled boots. You love all my friends. I mean…” I hug Adam really tightly. I wanted to tell Adam that even though it isn't about me, it is about me—how I like the novelty of being the only dyke in our circle with a boy lover, how I like pushing people's essentialist buttons.

“So…I'm boring now, huh?” Adam asks.

“I'm not sure.” As crappy as I am at communication, I never lie. Instead I muster, “Adam, I am sincerely proud of you.” I thought Adam might shrug off my warmth as a joke. Instead, Adam stands up with arms held out.

“Will you do the honors?” Adam looks down at the towel hanging at waist level. I carefully loosen the tucked edge without undoing the whole thing and pull it up above her tits, under her arms. Then I tightly fold over the corner of that luxurious hotel towel and smooth it to her hips.

“Will
you
do the honors?” I offer my tear-streaked cheek to get a good smack upside the head, but instead she gives me a kiss.

GONE

ViolyntFemme

 

 

 

 

She's gone. I am sitting here alone, alone in the house, alone in the room, alone inside myself. I can still catch traces of her…a stray scent of perfume, one of her hairs on the floor, a coffee cup with her lipstick seemingly tattooed onto it. Jez? I call; half hoping, half expecting, and all needing an answer. None comes. I curl up on the bed, wrap myself in the scent of her and sleep.

 

She's here. I feel her tits against my back, her hot cunt against my ass. She is murmuring how much she has missed me, needed me and thought about me. Her hands come up around my breasts, kneading and pinching. I feel her teeth on my neck and earlobes; I twist my head back and our mouths meet in a clash
of lips, teeth, and tongues. One hand snakes down between my thighs, pressing against my clit, rubbing slow circles until I am humping it like some sort of naughty dog with its favorite pillow. Wordless cries escape my mouth as she enters me with her fingers. She rolls me onto my back, her fingers never leaving my cunt. With one hand on my breast, constantly tormenting my nipple, she uses the other one like a piston, fucking me into the bed, adding more of herself until her entire fist is in me. I am coming, bucking, and screaming her name. Jez! Jez!