CHAPTER 3: UNDER MID-WESTERN EYES
John's prowess comes under scrutiny in Minneapolis. Melissa makes out with Antonia at a book launch and gets inside her at a pub.
The plane skipped away across the Great Lakes to Minnesota. Looking down at the expansive waters, John could hardly believe that he wasn't crossing the ocean. It was a refreshing sight as he looked back on his nights in Newfoundland and New Hampshire. He felt he had acquitted himself well, so far, and had a lot of enjoyment to boot. He settled his supple buttocks into the seat and fell asleep with images of Anna and Barbara revolving in his mind. Are they thinking of me, he wondered? He wished he could take a stealthy look at their photos.
He was speeding further and further away from Melissa, who was already considering her options for the evening. Should she join Antonia at the book launch at Foyles, or should she spend the evening listening to some relaxing music, indulging her nostalgia with the Travelling Wilburys or -- there's an idea! Blind Faith, and waiting for the right moment to browse John's report from New England? Float away on the Sea of Joy? The book launch presented more of a challenge, the music an easier path to the necessary climax. Both offered a slow, delicious build-up.
In the end she chose Antonia's pussy over her own and dressed for Foyles. You needed to look sophisticated but not glamorous, bookish but not dowdy, intelligent and well-read but not -- good God, no -- intellectual. She wondered if she would meet anyone she knew, and whether this would cramp her style with Antonia. It would be satisfying, and arousing, to show off her new girlfriend, but it might postpone the moment when her hand crept into Antonia's bush or slid discreetly under her top.
Delay was good, though, as long as you knew you were going to get laid. As she buttoned her blouse over her bare breasts (in case Antonia wanted a good feel) she was already alive with anticipation. There might be little of her attention left over for the new novel and the speeches, but she could pretend to be listening while Antonia leaned back against her, wine glass in hand. She texted her, walked outside and flagged down a taxi.
Sure enough, Antonia was there, and so were some of the women she knew from the publishing world. Some even went back to her days at King's College. London, that is, not Cambridge, which was John's scene. Some of them she had fucked. There was Candice, and Jessica, and Brenda, Rosamond, Laura and one or two others. A few blokes dotted around too, whom she knew vaguely. The book was not exactly chick-lit but it was getting close. Strongly feminist, but there were so many shades: queer, trans, bi, hetero, other, you name it. She knew she would have to watch what she said, in case someone called her a TERF or a SWERF, but she had been around the block and it wasn't really difficult. For the present, she was more interested in Antonia's firm body under her clothes. The rest was background.
When the author spoke (and she spoke confidently and fluently), Melissa was glad she had left her bra at home. It was delicious to be able to caress Antonia's back with her breasts. To look as if she was paying attention, she listened out for a word beginning with "a", then one with "b", and matched each of them to something she preferred to be thinking of: ass, boob, cunt, dildo . . . With every alphabetical success she let her hand, resting on Antonia's waist, edge a little further across towards the place where words would fail and her lips would be required for a different function. She could sense Antonia urging her groin into her hand.
John, meanwhile, had arrived in Minneapolis and was admiring the downtown precinct with its smart stores and dinky restaurants. On an impulse he slipped into Victoria's Secret. It would be arousing, and he could get his bearings, size up the local women.
On second thoughts, as he made his way past the big screens flickering with models way beyond his dreams but wearing the kind of thing he had only to ask for to be able to purchase, he wondered whether it was a good idea to be so immersed in a sexually stimulating environment. Shouldn't he rather be sitting at a table somewhere improving his caffeine levels and reading Garrison Keillor? Gosh, how they had chuckled over
Lake Wobegon Days
in the old days at Magdalene!
But just as he was making for the door, one of the sales assistants cornered him. "Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" Well, actually there was. She could be a quick answer to his night's challenge and a slow satisfaction of his re-kindled desires.
"You're too kind," he said, hoping his English accent would be a turn-on rather than induce a yawn. Perhaps it would give him some exotic appeal. "Damn it," he thought, "stop trying to be James Bond. That's so out of date. She's just going to roll her eyes and dismiss me as a wanker."
Fortunately, she didn't. His being English didn't make any kind of impression, but he had an air about him that she liked. Two supremely satisfying nights above, below, beside, beneath trans-Atlantic womanhood had done his confidence a lot of good.
