Always Her (Lesbian Romance) Page 3

  Much later, we lay side by side on the bed, too hot to snuggle.

  “Nine out of ten, Montgomery.” I turned my head.

  “What was missing?”

  “Umm…” She pretended to be thinking. “Nipple clamps?”

  “Come on, you didn’t seem to be complaining about what I was doing to them.” Her nipples were now deep pink, and still erect from my attentions.

  “I’m kidding. It was perfect, as always.” Her eyes softened as they met mine, the pupils dilating.

  I knew where Christie’s snark came from. She was scared I was going to hurt her. I was scared too. Her lips hadn’t said the words, but she was in love with me. For my part, I liked her a lot; she was great company, really smart, and we had awesome sex together. But I hadn’t yet felt the warmth in my heart that I knew was love, and I didn’t know if I ever would. Six months in and it hadn’t happened, which kind of made me think it was a sign. Part of my problem was that I didn’t fully trust her. She, like most of the girls I’d been with at college, categorized herself as queer. They had tattoos, stretched earlobes, red-lipstick, and activist politics. And, I was sure, most of them would eventually have husbands. I couldn’t help feeling like I was her accessory, paraded on her arm around college as evidence of her hipness. When I saw passion reflected in her eyes, I didn’t know if she was seeing me, or membership of an exclusive cool club. Queer didn’t mean much to me on a personal level. I was tomboyish, yes. I hadn’t worn a skirt since early childhood, and had never worn make-up. But butch was as far away from me as femme. I wasn’t trans, or genderqueer or a boi. I’d had a pretty easy time with my identity. Sure, there’d been a few insults coming my way at high school – if dyke is your idea of an insult – but on the whole, both girls and boys accepted me. Most of my college friends were lesbians, mainly because we’d met through sport, or LGBT groups, and it was nice to have people to talk about girls with, without turning yourself into a circus sideshow. But it wasn’t a big deal. I had plenty of straight friends too. I wasn’t a homosexual separatist, like many of the just-out-the-closets.

  So Christie was always snarky, and I soaked it up, as penance for not being able to give her what she wanted from me.

  My stomach gave a ferocious growl.

  “Yikes, someone needs feeding!” Christie said, stroking it as if it was a pet.

  “Let’s go out for brunch,” I said. I caught the discomfort in her eyes. “My treat, to celebrate finishing my longest paper of the year!”

  “Ok.” She smiled, relieved.

  “Are you working tonight?”

  “Yup.”

  “I wish our schedules would match up more often,” I said.

  “Me too. I also wish we didn’t have to work all day and all night.”

  “Some day it’ll happen. When we’re fully-grown. And it’s not so bad when we get to take whole afternoons off, is it?”

  “It’s not,” she said, squeezing my fingers in hers.

  I emailed my paper to my professor, and showered and dressed, while Christie lounged naked on my bed, her body arranged just so.

  “If you lie around like that, we’re going to end up not going anywhere,” I said, throwing her a glance as I fixed my hair in the mirror. She smiled at me lazily.

  “That’s not such a bad idea.”

  “Sadly my stomach doesn’t agree.”

  Out on the sidewalk, I took her hand immediately. One of the reasons why I went to college here was because it’s a good school to study Literature, but another major reason was that it’s gay friendly. In fact, it has one of the highest ratios per capita in the US. After being at high school where there weren’t many of us, I wanted to be able to live my life as freely as everyone else. Four years of living here had eroded the novelty value of being able to hold my girlfriend’s hand in the street, but it still felt nice to be walking outside on a golden, 75 degree afternoon, hand-in-hand with a really cute girl. Christie played with my fingers, lacing them in hers, and making mischievous comments the whole way to the diner. She had matched her polka-dot shirt with a short, pleated leather skirt, ankle socks and cherry-red brogues. Plenty of admiring glances turned in her direction, mainly from the kind of guys who subscribed to the Suicide Girl site. Their interest made me smug and anxious in equal measure. Smug that I had what they wanted, and anxious that they’d get it in the end. Christie mentioned her ex-girlfriends here and there. Stories about things she and Carolyn had done together, the vacation she’d been on with Adriana. But she was cagey about referencing ex-boyfriends. I knew it was out of deference to my feelings, but sometimes, not knowing makes things worse.

  Norma Jean’s was full, and mainly with students. We stood in line for 15 minutes before a waitress on rollerskates found a booth for us. Settling back on bouncy, teal-colored vinyl, we rifled through the menus, choosing two organic, locally-sourced cheeseburgers, and two coconut smoothies.

  “What’s new, pussycat?” I said, after the waitress had zipped past, depositing our smoothies on the table without coming to a stop.

  “Well.” Christie stirred her smoothie, looking like she had something to say, and was trying to figure out how to say it.

  “My parents are coming next weekend. Do you want to meet them?” My stomach dropped.

  “Isn’t your father a preacher or something?” I managed to say.

  “He’s a Baptist minister.”

  “And I thought you hadn’t come out of the closet yet?”

  “I haven’t.” Christie was shamefaced for a moment. “I’m planning to tell them this weekend.” I sat back and let out a slow breath.

  “With me as a prop?”

  “No! That’s not what I want at all.” She stared down at the table. I’d hurt her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I want to come out to them because I’ve found someone that I really like. If I was single, I wouldn’t bother.” The eyes that met mine were the color of antifreeze, and seconds away from tears. I reached out my hand for hers and held it across the table.

  “I’m really happy you feel that way about me, Christie. And I feel really bad that I’ve hurt your feelings. It’s just that – aren’t your parents going to freak when you tell them?” Christie pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wiped a single tear from her eye.

  “I don’t expect them to react too well, at first. But when they meet you, and see how awesome you are, they’ll gradually get used to it.” I stared at her, a little dumbfounded at her naivety.

  “I’m not too knowledgeable about religious denominations, but don’t Baptists preach specifically anti-gay stuff?”

  “They do. I admit, my father has. But he’s just been indoctrinated. I know he loves me, and he’ll ultimately put my happiness first.” I nodded. She said it with such fierce conviction that I almost believed her.

  “I’ve never met parents before, Christie. So it would be nice if my first time didn’t end with your father giving me a broken nose.” She laughed.

  “He’s not that kind of guy at all. He’s really sweet. You’ll see!”

  “I can’t promise I’ll be there,” I said at last. “I need some time to think it over. Is that ok?” She didn’t look happy, but she nodded into her smoothie, her long eyelashes fluttering against her cheekbones.

  “You don’t understand what it’s like, with your hippy parents, who’ve always been so accepting of you,” she said, looking at me again, her eyes flashing. “I’ve been rehearsing the moment when I’d tell them ever since I was 16.”

  “You’re right, I don’t understand what it’s like to have to deal with the anxiety of wondering how my parents will react, if they’ll reject me. And I’m very glad I haven’t had to deal with that. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t imagine your relationship with your parents, going by what you’ve told me at least. And I feel that this is something that you have to introduce them to as slowly as possible.”

  Our food arrived. The waitress could have got a job spinning plates
at a circus if she ever found herself out of work. I paused while I took a bite, and savored absolute burger perfection. The patty was cooked medium, they used actual blue cheese instead of sauce, the bacon was insanely crispy, and the tomato was bright red and full of flavor. “I mean, I’m guessing your parents have no inkling that you’re gay?” She shook her head.

  “No, but they dealt with my goth phase, and they’ve got used to my piercings.” I looked at the stud that went through her lower lip. Her lips were full enough that the hole wouldn’t be obvious if she removed the piercing.

  “Hair grows and holes close, but gay is forever,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Whatever.” She sank her teeth into her burger. I watched her eat, wondering if this was all part of an extended teenage rebellion.

  “I’ll think about it, I promise,” I told her.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon together. I had more work to do, but I decided to give myself the day off. Christie was probably supposed to be working as well, but she insisted she wasn’t, and it was none of my business to nag her about it. Instead, we lazed around the town, window-shopping around the many vintage stores and quirky boutiques, and stopping for coffee here and there. At six, I walked her to her job. She worked at one of those hipster rock bars, carefully upholstered to look like it hasn’t been refurbished for the last 30 years. The black walls were decorated with plastic flower wreaths, spelling out phrases such as Ace of Spades, along with Dia de Muertos paraphernalia. But the pièce de résistance was a huge neon cross suspended over the bar. I winced at the sight of it. It was straight out of Carrie – the original version – and I’d always assumed that most religious fanatics kept one in their house. I kissed Christie goodbye at the door, once, then twice more as one of the other bartenders scowled at me. Just like the place, he was a wannabe, in a bandana and a band t-shirt with the sleeves cut off.

  “Coming over later?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said, and left her with a final kiss.

  I went home and got changed, before heading over to Tatiana and Jess’ place for drinks and dinner. As I arrived, the sight of Alyssa, another friend of ours, sitting close to the window put a bounce in my step. Tati and Jess were busy in the kitchen, cooking something that involved a lot of garlic and banging of pots, so Alyssa and I kept ourselves out of the way in the den. We lounged on their supremely comfy sofas in the cozy red room, and chatted non-stop, catching up on each others’ lives. Alyssa became increasingly mellow as she finished one joint and started on another. I shook my head as she offered it to me.

  “I don’t smoke before dinner. The last thing I need is to make my appetite bigger than it is already!”

  “Come on, Jack, I don’t think you’re in any danger of putting weight on!” she said, reaching out a bare foot and poking me in the ribs.

  “Hey! Things change into your mid-twenties, you know!”

  “Dude, you’re 22. That’s classified as early twenties.”

  “You’re only saying that because you’re 24.”

  “Whatever.” She held the joint out again. I took a single puff to appease her, and immediately swallowed down a coughing fit.

  “And that’s why I never smoke your joints,” I said hoarsely.

  “Sorry!” she said, not seeming sorry at all. She was tiny, curled into the sofa, knees drawn up to her chest, all long platinum bangs and huge brown eyes. She was wearing a cream crochet dress and three strings of pearls, tied in a knot at the end. I thought, not for the first time, how much she looked like a young Gwen Stefani. We’d had a thing in my first year, and it had ended well, without any bad feeling on either side. I’d thought maybe several times since then, and so had she, but never at the same time, one or the other of us always tangled up with somebody else. Recently though, I’d heard on the grapevine that she’d started working as an escort to pay her way through college. I looked sideways at her, needing to broach the subject. Her eyes were almost closed, and she seemed to be lost in the music.

  “Alyssa?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s work?” She snapped wide-awake.

  “So you’ve heard,” she said flatly. She pulled herself up, so that she was sitting up straight, and her eyes opened a little wider, the whites pink-tinged. “It’s not what everyone thinks. Yes, I’m working for an escort agency, but I’m not doing anything. You can just accompany people – and by people, I mean lonely old men – to events, or you can go and have dinner with them and shit.”

  “And they don’t expect any more from you?”

  “No, they get the service they pay for. I get paid less – a lot less – than the girls doing full service, but it’s still really good money.” I frowned.

  “And what if they get seduced by your charms, forget what they paid for, and crack onto you at the end of the night?”

  “Then I fend them off. They’re pretty harmless. Some of them are, like, really old. They’re usually divorced older guys who need a date for the night.”

  “And you don’t have any physical contact with them at all?”

  “No.”

  “This just doesn’t sit well with me, Alyssa,” I said.

  “Well, it’s a good job it’s not you who’s doing it,” she snapped. Despite her growing irritation, I couldn’t let it drop.

  “What about that escort who got murdered last year, out by the beach?”

  “She was in a guy’s car, so she was obviously doing a lot more than escorting.”

  “You don’t get into guys’ cars?”

  “Of course not.” She reached out for a tin on the coffee table, opened it and started putting another joint together. “Jack, you’re in danger of sounding a little sanctimonious. I mean, I’m happy for you that you’ve landed that awesome, well-paying job at DeeBee’s, but the rest of us aren’t so lucky. I’m broke. Flat broke. Trailer trash broke. And I’d rather spend a dull Friday night pretending to enjoy some guy’s company than pull double shifts working my ass off in a restaurant.” I grimaced. Sometimes I had the delicacy of a truck driver.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take the moral high ground. I just worry about you.” I leaned forward and squeezed her knee. Alyssa lit her joint and held the smoke in her lungs for a long time.

  “I’m not over it yet,” she said. “And you’re lucky I’m baked, or you’d really hear about it.” She fixed her eyes on me. “How could you think I’d go doing things with guys, no matter how broke I was. How could you think that of me?” I dropped my head.

  “You’re right. It was a terrible conclusion to jump to.” I looked at her again. “You’re the gayest person I know.”

  “Thanks,” she said, a shade less hostile.

  “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but please, just be careful.” She nodded. She put the joint down in the ashtray, and stood up with difficulty.

  “I’m just going to see if those guys need any help in the kitchen.” She tottered over to the kitchen door, pushed the door open, and clung to the doorjamb as she spoke to them. Slipping through the door, she closed it behind her, and I leaned back on the sofa running my hands through my hair, listening to the clattering and raucous conversation from the kitchen.

  “That went well, Montgomery,” I muttered to myself. She was right; I was pretty sure that I earned more than all of my friends, and some of them worked way harder than me. It wasn’t something I felt good about, but it was the fault of the system, that so many of us had financial worries distracting us during our university years. I was sickened that Alyssa, who was such a genuine person, had to resort to being fake and making sleazy old guys think she liked them. She was fiercely intelligent, and I tried and failed to imagine her participating in bimboey, ass-licking chat. She also had a fragility, which you wouldn’t notice when you first met her, but was unignorable when you knew her well. It sounds incredibly cheesy to say she had an artist’s soul, but that’s what she was like. Her pillow talk was all lines from poetry. I thought I was well
read, but she was on another level. She’d get a spark of inspiration from somewhere, and come out with a line from a poem in her sweet, silvery voice, and it would remind her of something else, and she’d be onto another one, and another. It was all I could do to keep up with her, with some lines familiar to me, others I’d never heard of. And I’d never been bored, lying there on the bed in her room in her rundown student house, looking up at her dream weaver, listening to her making these old poems sparkle.

  There was a final crash, and dinner was ready. Tatiana and Jess hurtled out of the kitchen with a cauldron of chili con carne, bowls of rice and grated cheese. We ate on our laps in the den. Jess sat cross-legged on the floor. She was slender and olive skinned, with huge black eyes and long braids. Tatiana sat on a beanbag, her long legs folded underneath her like a cat. She had a new haircut – a geometric bob with short bangs that would’ve looked severe on most people, but, with her Eurasian features and her full, sensuous lips, she carried it off convincingly. Alyssa sat diagonally opposite me, glowering from a distance.