Girl with a Woman

Recalling the dream, I 'm in chest-height water. A hot-tub. Shaded, swirling mists of a light vapor surround, twist and rise. Thin slices of late-morning sun filter across ferns into a claustrophobic, glass-ceiling and wood-lined, intimate space. The ferns drip on beige, Tuscan tiles.

I'm with a woman.

Perhaps a neighbor? Who is she? During a smoking tike-torch welcome-to-the-neighborhood BBQ for myself and my partner, someone invited me to visit. Perhaps it is her? As she handed me her phone number, I recall her, stressing, “When our husbands are gone.”

Not a husband, my partner and I, to save on expenses, while we complete university programs, are house sitting. Sydney's inner-city hamlet, Roseville, is known for gender-various beings; 'pandrogynous' the real estate broker said. Neighborhood myths or anarchic spirits, if true, wife swapping, mate swapping, swingers, and afternoon trysts enliven the seasons.

My back to her, I'm seated, naked, on the woman's lap. Firmly – so I will not float – a strong left arm embraces below my ribs. A firm hand cups my right breast. Glancing down, I see she wears a wide, gold-band wedding-ring. No diamonds. Her nails are polished. Pearl.

Twisting to look, I see shoulder-length blond hair. Eyes of colbalt blue. Larger, half again my size, a bountiful, well-proportioned figure emerges above her waist. She is a paragon of whatever it is that keeps age at bay. Our eyes lock. She smiles.

Inside I am sinking through layers of existence. Although warmed by her body and stimulated by churning currents, because of her voluptuously rounded breasts, I am diminished, inadequate, unworthy. These worsening thoughts started earlier when she walked into the guestroom.

I am about to change into my bathers. Looking in the mirror, I frown at my tiny tits. No knock, she enters wearing heels and nothing more – except a watch – saying, as she reaches, "Would you like to remove it?" She grins. In stilettos, she is tall, a woman in possession with herself.

Turning, I stretch to remove the leather-banded time-piece – a Gucci. Diamonds mark the hours.

Leaving my bathers draped over the back of an Asian-style, silken chair, grasping my fingers in her right hand, she leads me out of the guestroom to the hot-tub chamber.

I don't object as her right hand massages my tummy. This soothes.

Earlier, holding my arm as I stepped into the water, her eyes scanning, she told me – rather brightly – I remind her of herself when she was sixteen and understands my desires.

Composed, almost motherly, I sense her reserve, her patience, her restraint. Yet, my heart is all a flutter, gooey, as I am longing for her to reach lower and finger me. My body cries with desire to please her. I am ready for anything. Yet, I am embarrassed because I haven't trimmed down there for weeks.

I peer again into her eyes. With lips parted slightly, she appears thoughtful, impassive. I want to stand before her, let her kiss, lick and twist my pointy brown nipples. As though a rare, beautiful, disquieted bird, I want to linger. I want her to spread my legs as though wings. I want for her to take me. I wait.

***

The scene changes. The sun above. I am looking down. A wide, unpolished brass ring surrounds the seething waters. I see the blond woman lifting a girl so like me. Breasts pressed together, she seats the girl on the edge. She steps back, kneels below her, tips her head to one side, and, looking up, smiles with benign grace. Looking again at the slender, pale, boyish-girl, the woman moves forward, finger tips grasping the girl's thin shoulders.

I see the girl's throat muscles tighten. She swallows. Again, I see myself.

With legs still dangling in the water, the woman tips the willing girl back. She reaches for a pillow, places it under the girl's head. Leaning over, holding the side of of the girl's head, like a mother and a daughter, she brushes a wet kiss to the girl's left cheek.

Kneeling again, the woman easily lifts the girl's thin, smooth legs, one over each of her broad shoulders. Her hands sweep her blond hair back as she kisses the warm and smooth inside of each thigh. Each kiss a 'thank you,' an acknowledgment, for visiting when her husband is away.

Looking on the scene, I feel joy and fear, fear as in a murky sea, yet paradoxically unafraid; even a dark current may cast me ashore on a wide, sunny beach. I have inside-out, extraordinary, confused thinking.

With my partner, and blokes before, I am the dominant one, taking the initiatives, pushing them on their backs, teasing with my mouth, then cow-girl above....

I know I look younger than my age, but sixteen!

Who is this older woman? I feel submissive yet confident. Legs held tenderly, arms folded behind my head, I relax. I stare at the glass ceiling. I have no mind left. The tension ebbs away as I wake flushed, raw, a hand between my legs. My hand.

***

Mid-morning already. The sun, over the nearest roof, stings my sight and illuminates a half-cup of coffee. While pouring a second cup, I yield to an impulsive need. I'm feeling transitory, primitive, scampering images from my dream fester until I dial: “Yes. As soon as ... Relax in ... Of course... May I change in your guestroom?”

Replacing the phone, I am uncertain how to begin or how to proceed, how to find the truth of new desire ... a consciousness, an anguished self-consciousness....

The decision has made its way. My surrender.

Pouring a fresh coffee, seeing the woman of my dream will not expect me for another thirty minutes, I am reminded of high school orchestra practices, of the dress rehearsal the day before the opera. The dream: ... the dress rehearsal. Today: ... the opera, the full performance. I gulp.

Adding more milk, I spoon the surface. Crossing my vision, images of the full performance, like a porn-video, reflect off the creamy swirl. I feel a breathless tension in the reality of wanting to play both roles. In that warm spot, I begin to burn.

In her home I learn the wealthy woman – the woman of grace and ease – the wife of the cool-as-steel banker, who travels on business most days each week, is bored of arranging charity auctions, the moguls, the mock celebrities, the over-dressed, cocktail sheaths and jeweled belts worn by those looking forever bemused. Too many caterers, perfumers and security goons.

She wants hearts alone to communicate. No need for words when the chemistry is right. No words while the heart, even lust speak. Unconscious mind and the conscious convey the adventure of need in this, a Jack and Jill hamlet of compulsory happiness where propriety is on display.

Scoffing at my wailing about my never-unfolding AA breasts, she – in sympathy – tells of herself (in the same way) escaping the early adolescence of girls when nasty, needling, drawing blood in pain-taking ways.

My heart embraces her kindred expressions.

Then in the midst of ferns, beside the tumbling waters, a dish of ripe figs, white asparagus and prosciutto are nibbled. Frankincense blooms the air as her fingers trail with a lightness of touch.... She, as if Queen, and me as wood-nymph, princess-swan, writhing and twisting in delight as the seven-am alarm rings. “Ah” I sigh, realizing, unveiling, a dream in a dream.

***

Reliving the dreams, adding Mexican Kahlua to my morning brew, in my purse, finding the phone number, I dial:

She is warm, welcoming. We speak at length: “Yes, he is away for three days. Of course, this is a good time for a visit ... So your partner is away too ... How nice ... Darling, before you arrive, I'll warm the Jacuzzi ... A guestroom? There's a double bed? ... Planning to stay? ... Is that why you ask? ... Of course, you may. We'll go shopping.”

I hung up, after having a mutually-dazed telephone-laugh with her. That was when I answered her question: “Just how do you plan to use the guest-bed-room?”

I answered: “As a beginning of my dream – both of them.”

***

Needing to be ready for the performance, I decided on a comfortable, yet sexy look, close-fit jeans, white-tee, no bra, black thong, and, yes, flowers. Flowers? Innocent white or passionate red? Feeling like a virgin, from my garden, I chose white.

Lip gloss and a touch of mascara, my bathers in a beach-bag and flowers in hand, I face a ten-am sun, stroll past four mansion-size properties before pressing the button at No 121.

A click is followed by, “Darling girl, is it you?”

“Yes, it is.”

I take a deep breath, then another. The gate buzzes – needing lubrication – it squeaks. Slides open.

In her housecoat, she waves from an upstairs veranda. She blows a welcoming kiss.

As we hug and cheeks brush, I am aware she wears little, or perhaps nothing, under the silk housecoat. She steps back, swirls, saying, “Do you like it? My husband purchased it. Hong Kong. It is so divine, I wear nothing more.”

#

Girls no longer: Arlene and Jane

Arlene's lover's wife held out her hand, hesitant and trembling. “Jane, but, of course, you know.”

Arlene, said, “Arlene.”

“So. Can we take a table in the back?”

“Why not?”

As Jane leads, walking past several occupied tables, she tucks her car keys into her bag, snapping it closed. Without saying anything, Jane turns, and, as their eyes meet, there is a glancing gesture toward two chairs at a vacant corner table. Taking the farthest chair, knees bending, stooping with delicacy, Jane places the bag under the table. Adjusting the chair, she sits on its edge, looks up at the taller woman.

Arlene takes the chair opposite, sits and leans back, folding her arms defiant. She hopes Martin's wife wouldn't cry. She can handle anger and hostility, not crying.

They look at each other.

Arlene's sharp high-bridged nose, her lips prim over not unsightly protuberant, smallish teeth, contrasts with Jane's round, softer features. Only their eyes are the same color — nearly: Jane's the lighter blue, less set-off from the light blond and straight, page-boy hair; Arlene's a deep blue, penetrating, the tone of her fine, black hair, naturally curled and pulled-back. Neither wear earrings.

When Jane reaches for the water, not asking, but pouring for herself and for Arlene, Arlene sees Jane's ring, same simple gold as Martin's, the ring — at her request — he drops ceremonially into the bowl on the hallway table, replacing it when he leaves. She hears the clink and dizzy spin of it.

Jane asked on the phone, “Is this Arlene?”

“Yes,” Arlene replied. “And who...?”

The voice went on, “Are you Marty's girlfriend?”

“Who is asking?” said Arlene. She called him 'Martin.' Even though she knew, she repeated, “Who is this?”

“The wife he lives with. Jane. His wife. Okay?”

“Oh ... So? ... I see.”

“Good. You know,” repeating, “I'm Jane, his wife ... I'm sure you know me.”

Jane had said 'please' several times on the phone: “Please meet me. Please.”

“Why?” Arlene had said, and repeated.

There are some things I need to know.” Adding, pensively, after Jane heard no response, “Maybe you too?”

“Me too. What?”

“We should meet. Talk. Please.”

Hearing, “Maybe,” Jane suggested a time, named an arty cafe, not far from Arlene's flat. Later that very day. She would be there. She would wait.

Arlene rang Martin. He was out of town. He must have known. She paced the front room of her flat. It was not until the last moment: Arlene walked to the cafe and stood across the road.

Jane sat, facing away from the street, behind the plate glass window near the door. Even now she is a shadow-woman, an unfocused figure lain across Arlene's life since she had met him. And while she knew things about Jane she didn't need to know, Arlene had little idea of what Jane knew of her.

The waitress brought menus.

At Jane's back hung tacked-up charcoal sketches of idealized male nudes. Other walls are hung with what Arlene's father called, “Accidents of paint.” The patrons seemed young — young would-be artists, boy friends. They paid no attention to the two women.

Jane spoke first, “Want to order?”

“Maybe a glass of wine. You?” Her lips closed slowly over her teeth. There was a matter-of-fact smile.

As Jane peered into the menu, Arlene's eyes slid over the nudes. She hadn't seen Martin for over a week. They had meet three years before, at the hot dog stand; it was a Red Socks – Yankees double header; she had been with Paul then; Paul, who introduced them; Paul, had been a brother Delta Sig at Penn State, Paul, a year before his death, three years after Paul and Arlene began Buddhist practice.

Jane asks, “Red or white?”

Arlene, “House red's okay.” She thinks Jane is more attractive than Marty said of his wife. He said she was dowdy, wore out-of-date, hand-me-downs from her mother. Arlene sees she is plainly dressed in an understated way, but the vest, embroidered peasant blouse, and skirt match perfectly.

Jane, turning to the waitress, “Carafe of house red. Two glasses. Small, mixed-cheese plate.”

As the waitress left, Jane smiles.

There followed a long, drawn-out silence, until Arlene asked, “So, how are you?'

Arlene knew Martin worked long hours, came home late, frequently getting up after the children had gone to school, once saying the miserable sex life he had with Jane maybe wasn't all her fault as he was frequently exhausted, but it was never half-good: even in the beginning. As he described their attempts at love-making, there was little pleasure for either. He doubted Jane knew an orgasm. Martin told how she got up two, three times every night to pee, always waking him, until he wore earplugs. He acknowledged Jane's days were unfulfilled; she wanted to be a teacher, but the quick pregnancy with Sally, then Tommy....

After the first months, Arlene requested he not speak to her about Jane, but as Arlene's meetings with Martin — except when she stayed with him on business trips to New York — were frequently arranged around obligations to children, family and Jane's schedules, she was inevitably mentioned. And now they share a table. And soon wine.

Arlene repeated, “So, how are you?”

Jane, after a time, first looking to see if their order is arriving, answers, “Don't you know?”

Arlene shrugged her shoulders, kept her arms folded across her chest, waited; sucking in her cheeks caused her lips to part exposing the sharp edge of lower teeth. She thought she might get up and leave, then deciding to stay, she offered, “What is it I can do for you?” There is an edge to the way she spoke.

“There are things I want to know. As his wife. . . I am entitled”

“Are you now?” The same edge.

“I have rights. We've been married eleven years; but I suppose you know that?”

Arlene had known coming here would not be easy. On the walk over she tried to prepare, but it was like briefing for a university exam without having been told the subject. Even the hour of meditation didn't calm her.

The wine, two glasses, a plate of miniature, wrapped Dutch cheeses and crackers arrived just as Arlene asked, though she tried not to, the tone contemptuous, “Don't I have any rights?”

The waitress beats a hasty retreat as Jane, seemingly stung by Arlene's assertion of “rights,” slumps back. Arlene leans forward filling both glasses. She slides one to Jane, saying, “This'll help.”

Jane pulls her chair closer to the table, making a deep audible sigh as she accepts the glass, whispering a “Thank you” then — in better voice — repeats “Thank you” before adding, “I appreciate this is not easy for you either.”

Arlene reaches for a windmill-wrapped Gouda, decides on an Edam, cuts it in half, offering a share to Jane, who mutters, “Thanks.” Then, as she accepts a napkin, “Thank you.”

Neither speaks as they sip and savor, without really tasting anything.

Jane feels her jaw shaking uncontrollably, her teeth chattering as they do after a swim in cold water. She finds it difficult to keep steady, not to break every cracker as she spreads the creamy substances, when, without wrapper, looking like every other Dutch cheese, the color, she fears, like her own, pale and lifeless.

Neither looks at the others' eyes as the ritual of sips and spreading occupies their hands.

Arlene notes Jane's fingers are not short and stubby as Martin said; not long and thin with painted nails like hers are, but, considering the demands of children, the nails are neatly rounded, cared for, and her hands are delicate and, like her other features, softly curved.

Jane sees Arlene's longer arms reach with assurance to cheese, crackers and wine. The nails are polished, a deep rose. There are no rings, but a tasteful, non-statement-making watch and several thin, filigreed bracelets dangle on her right wrist.

Jane sees Arlene's bra-less breasts do little to fill out her mauve silk blouse. Small breasts, as Martin said. Mystery and appealing dark brown nipples ... that's what he liked. Not hers, so full, sagging, particularly following the third, unanticipated, child. Sex was so infrequent these last eight years neither took care...and Jane being Catholic....

Arlene breaks the silence: “Where are the children?” Other people's children aren't very real, nor are wives, until you have had babies or were married. Arlene had neither experience.

“With Marty away, my mother, bless her, knows” ... her voice catches ... “knows I need a break. I get them back tomorrow.”

Just for a moment, Arlene thought she might ask where Martin had gone. Deciding against that, less edge now, she asks again, “Well ... so, what is it I can do for you?”

Feeling calmer now, maybe the wine, Jane says, the tone subdued, weak, almost pleading, “I need to know your intentions,” she pauses, the first time looking directly into Arlene's eyes, she adds, “Are you are taking my life?”

Arlene sees, as if a tap had been turned on, Jane's eyes fill with water, then before she could raise a napkin, tears fell from both lightly-rouged cheeks. Looking away, as she dabbed her eyes, saying, “I'm sorry. I wanted to be stronger.”

Eyes red, but dryer, Jane faced Arlene again. She took a deep breath, then asked, the voice lowered, “How did he meet you?”

Jane said 'you' without a tone of venom, as if Arlene was poisonous, as if there was a poisonous kiss. Arlene heard a neutral 'you,' the whole utterance a simple question, a desire to know, know how it began, maybe when.

Arlene might have told about meeting Martin at the baseball game, an introduction by Martin's long-time earlier, good friend in the fraternity, about the death of her soul mate, Paul, their plan of marriage and growing Buddhist spirituality, told about Martin, after his stirring eulogy, offering to take her home, about her need then not to be alone, about her asking him to meditate with her, about how he was unwilling, then willing, then needy himself, about how their spirituality grew week by week, soon a three-year anniversary; she might have told about how her best friend, taking a married lover, converted him to Buddhist practices; how she envied her friend's love and romance, until she found herself dipped into the same delights, often chaste spiritual encounters — not always — once or twice weekly, and finally about how naively she spoke to Martin about everything else — her life, his family — remaining the same, separated by the principles of karma and emptiness. Arlene might have told Jane how Martin did say this time would come and how before meditation, sometimes in bed, they would play on the-time-would-come phrase working it into how they teased each other. But she didn't.

Instead, Arlene, shifting away from the table, back against her chair, hands poised, finger tips on the table's edge, looking down at Jane's bag under the table, saying “We grew attached when I was afraid of being alone after the man I was to marry was killed”— not adding — “by robbers on the doorstep where we lived.” Then feeling like a family pet who had peed on the kitchen floor, she adds, “I encouraged, Marty, as you call him. I was needy and naive. I am sorry.”

Instinctively, Jane reaches to place her right hand's finger tips over the table-grasping fingers of Arlene, saying, “I am only trying to understand.”

Arlene, not looking at Jane, feels the touch of her fingers. Still staring under the table, but seeing nothing, her head hangs. She closes her eyes as she feels the tears emerging. She draws a deep breath, holds it.

Jane senses Arlene's pain and her fingers move to stroke the back of Arlene's hand as one might a kitten. Jane feels she wants to stand, go to Arlene, whisper in her ear, repeat, “I am only trying to understand.” She sees Arlene's fine, clean, black hair; she wonders if it smells as good as it looks.

Arlene accepts the comfort of Jane's fingers on her hand and, releasing her grasp, turns her hand so that their fingers come together.

Jane, reaching further, takes Arlene's hand in hers and gently urges it forward. She cannot see Arlene's face. She sees tears falling. She slides a napkin forward, simply saying, “Here.”

Arlene, lifting her head, sniffles, and accepting the napkin from Jane, for the second time says, “I am sorry.”

Jane doesn't know if the 'sorry' is because Arlene has broken down or is for screwing her husband. It doesn't matter now.

At the third repeat of, “I am sorry,” Jane rolls Arlene's fingers in hers and squeezes. Then Jane strokes the smooth inside of Arlene's wrist as Arlene relaxes her arm and — like a sacrifice — offers her other arm to Jane, wrist up. Jane slides the bracelets inches up and continues stroking. As Arlene's head is lowered, tears again fall directly to the floor.

The waitress, not trying to look, sees they remain that way: the blond woman stroking the others exposed underarms and wrists; neither speaking as they touch fingers and grasp hands; the dark-haired woman not looking up, her whole body occasionally shuddering; they seem utterly alone, unnoticed by any other patron.

Left alone Jane and Arlene eventually move closer to the table look sympathetically, knowingly into each others eyes, continue touching hands, stroking fingers, sip and finish eating, until Arlene says, “Look. You are in no condition to drive anywhere. You can call the children from my place. Give me the keys.”

In the hallway, walking ahead, Arlene drops the keys in the bowl. She hears Jane's ring spin and clink. #

Girl on a Thursday

As I reached to hug, she twists. I held a breast. More then a handful. No bra. I was embarrassed, but she simply said something like, "That was nice." No sarcasm. I probably said, "Sweet dreams," or something like that. I was dropping her off at her new Melbourne flat. I drove off.

That moment could easily be forgotten, except Brindi telephoned an hour later. She offered another 'thank you' for the ride and, asking if I might visit one evening, said, "Just us."

She recently broke off a year-long relationship with an older, married man from Sydney – all to the good for her. She has more time for friends her age – twenty-three.

While she has some butch qualities, I never thought of her in a lesbian way.

We were both free on a Thursday. Ten days to wait.

A sort of a relative through divorcing and re-marriage, I'm thirty-three and have known Brindi since her teen years. At family events we sat and talked like older and younger cousins.

She radiates health in a milk-eggs, lamb-diet, Australian country-town way. If she paid more attention to her appearance, with blue-eyes, naturally curly and short blond hair, she would be considered attractive, even beautiful. A real eye-catcher. Instead, she is casual about her hair and what she wears, sometimes the same outfit days in a row.

Since finishing university studies she has been writing programs for computers. A bit shy and geeky (it fits) but – at the same time – bright and confident in a knowing-what-she-wants way.

Never having a lesbian experience myself, I hadn't considered the possibility until after she called. At least, not seriously.

I became apprehensive. A warped parable entered my thoughts: two Eves eating the forbidden fruit. In the accepting society of Australia, no longer banishment ... exile from paradise ... yet.

The next time seeing her – three days before The Thursday evening – we were with five other miscellaneous friends, blokes and sheilas A casual, come-if-you-can dinner (Chinese). It was Monday. Arriving late, I was not surprised to see her. Tangentially we have the same friends. I seated myself across the round table. To far to converse. Instead, we did a heap of smiling – sort of secret-sharing smiles. That's what I thought.

Afterward, outside the restaurant, hugs and cheek kisses are exchanged as we go our separate ways. Her ride is with a bloke living near her flat. She doesn't drive; no car. Bikes everywhere or takes a tram during the day.

On our parting, her hug seems a bit more clinging, sort of confirming my relentless imagining.

*

In my imagination, only imagination, what I anticipate (future-tense) Thursday:

As her flat is new, she will show me around. When she shows me the bedroom, I will see fresh sheets. The cover will be pulled back. She will look to see if I notice. I'll be cool. Say something about, "Nice pillows. Where did you buy them?"  [This is the original version of a published and edited e-version -- See "I kissed a girl, II" edited by R. Perry. Look at comments and thanks to Kate, Michael, Michelle, and the Redhead in Florida for assisting....]