The bar was its usual sticky hot, the ceiling fans inadequately trying to breathe fresh air on our warm bodies. The heat lent to more trips to the bar than usual, and tonight I was really feeling the rhythm, loading up on gin and tonics, downing them in my trip from the bar's edge to the middle of the dance floor. It had been weeks since we last spoke. I missed seeing you every night at the bar, shooting the shit, staring at each other, me catching whiffs of your cologne and perspiration. For what must have been a month straight, I would get drunk there at the bar, talking to you and pretending to be concerned with mingling with all the other dykes, but always returning to you at the bar, your sly half-mouth grin and half-closed eyes knowing what I was doing, what I wanted.
All those nights I'd go home alone, half drunk, wait until my roommates passed out, and masturbate for hours thinking about you. I'd put on some gentle music, make it romantic sometimes, playing softly and slowly with the tip of my swollen clit, letting my wetness guide my fingers up and down, slippery soft. Other times I'd want you so bad I'd finger myself hard in the shower, with my forehead pressed against the cold tile, as hard and fast as I could until my hand cramped up and I'd have to use the showerhead to finish myself off, my mouth gaping open in strained, needy pleasure. Falling asleep afterward was harder than I would have liked; a warm, soft body next to me was what I really needed. But a few weeks ago I learned you had a new girlfriend – a dancer who worked at the local strip joint. I saw you enter with the stripper that night around midnight.
You wore a skintight wife beater, the thin, ribbed cotton material gripping the slight curve of your bound breasts and your pooching, curvy belly. Beneath that were loose-fitting cutoff men's pants, your tanned legs exposed, the swell of your calf muscles bending gracefully into sockless sneakers. Your cheekbones stood high, your dark straight hair falling to your chin in the front, raised in the back. You were tall and powerful; everywhere you went, you commanded attention. The sexiest thing about you was your full lips, which you sucked in your mouth periodically, sometimes letting the tip of your tongue slip out on to them. God, how I wanted to pull your lips into mine, let the tip of my wet tongue drag itself along yours, our bodies pressed together and hands clasping each other, or else groping, exploring.
Your girlfriend wore low-cut jeans and a halter which exposed most of her torso except the center of her breasts and the strings that tied behind her neck and back; her body looked like she frequented the gym. She had excessive tattoos, which were sporadic and nonsensical: a flower on her shoulder blade, a star on her foot, a mermaid on her forearm. She wore a ponytail and some makeup. All that aside, it was still obvious she was a dyke – there was a certain heaviness in her step, a disregard for the conventional notions of feminine gestures, like flitting wrists and crossed legs. She did not perch at the bar, she slumped, and became engrossed in a conversation with the bartender, whom she obviously knew quite well, her wrists resting somewhere between her chin and cheeks, keeping the conversation private. As her laughs and voice grew louder, I noticed you come toward me, that cute fucking grin on your face. Fuck.
"Hey," you said, your voice carrying that trademark huskiness player dykes get once they're sure they can fuck any woman in the bar and have probably done so with most of them. You knew I was yours.
"Hey. Long time, no see." Gah. That was predictable.
"Yeah, you know. Ball and chain." You raised your eyebrows in her direction.
"Must be really fucking shitty." I rolled my eyes and decided to occupy myself with finding the nearest girl I knew. Sam was to my left.
"Hey, Sam!" I called, trying to make it obvious that I was done talking to you. My plan was for you to keep walking past me, to the bathroom maybe.
"Hey!" Sam called back. "You coming to my house after? I have like 3 cases of beer!"
"Yeah, I'll be there, but I need a ride."
"Come with me and Amanda!" Sam replied. "There's always room in the family sedan!"
Success. You had moved on. I watched you walk toward the bathroom, taking a long, deep swig from your beer bottle. You push the door open and heard the bottle hit the other glass that was in the trashcan.
Now what to do? I couldn't stay here, hearing her talk and carry on with that dumbass bartender. I decided to ride my drunken high and go dance out my frustration.
As the loud music pounded over and over, I could feel it in my mouth, my heart, my feet as they hit and slid against the floor. There were a lot of cute girls out tonight, all ready to mingle and dance, their faces plastered in a constant smile, shouting greetings to one another over all the noise. There were the avenger dykes, dressed in long pants or short skirts and thick tights, always wary of baring too much flesh. They congregated in the corners and danced in their elite circles, forming a barrier around the most sacred young lesbians, the recruits. These girls would be seduced quickly and fervently, re-educated about the inner workings of the fucked up world, and released to be their own activist bombs, setting off tiny revolutions in whatever walks of life they would subsequently encounter. There were the scene dykes, which consisted of mostly "lipstick lesbians," a term I despised, who sort of jilted around the dance floor, their teased and asymmetrical hair barely moving, their big earrings and tight 80s clothing clinging to their invariably skinny bodies. There were the local dykes, who had been in town since they came here for college, who were either 28 or 45, who wore baggier clothes, never makeup, short hair, and usually talked about their dogs' shitting problems or the latest vegetarian dishes they were trying. There were ugly dykes, sexy dykes, dykes who looked straight, horny dykes, lonely dykes, temporary dykes (these were usually college students), permanent dykes (the ones with mullets), one-lovers (hippies who also fucked men), all old, young, fat, thin, muscular, black, brown, pale, and everything in between. For me, this bar was my sanctuary, and communion happened every Friday and Saturday night, where I took it all in, celebrated, thanked my lesbian sisters for their existence, and went home refreshed.
That was, until you entered the picture. I was happy playing the field a bit, going home with older women mostly, women who knew what they were doing in bed. I could fuck them and not feel bad about being unattached. But ever since we had that first conversation, since you checked my appreciation for Kesey and Wolfe, saying instead Schulman was the great beat writer of our time and gender, I was hooked on you. You challenged me, and that turned me on. Besides, you were the best looking girl at the bar, and everyone knew it. Including your stripper girlfriend. So I began to dread my trips to the bar, knowing you'd show up one night with her, and I'd want you even more for it. That was tonight.
I needed water. I poured a cup from the pitcher at the bar and went to the bathroom to wash my face. I looked nervous, my pupils dilated, perspiration beading along my forehead, shoulders, chest. I decided against wiping it off; it looked sexy. I straightened my shorts, pulled my tank top straight under my breasts, checked my teeth. When I backed away from the mirror, you were in my reflection, leaning against the back wall, one foot propped up behind you.
"Jesus!" I said in surprise. "How long have you been there?"
"Do you have any coke?"
"Yeah." I fished in my pocket for the cigarette case, and nodded toward the large back stall.
You sat on the toilet, your forearms resting on your knees, as I opened the case on the toilet paper holder. I took out the tiny bag of cocaine and spread a bit on the case. There was no need to make perfect lines of it; the tap-tap-tap might sound suspicious and I didn't care if you did too much of it anyway. We had done this together a few times before, and I was pretty sure you knew you could count on me to have enough for you and to give it to you freely. You sniffed slowly, deeply, for about 10 seconds, tilted your head back, and let it drain down without making too much noise. I did the same.
With my neck still pointed at the ceiling, I thought I felt your lips on my hand. Jesus fucking Christ, did that really happen? I stood completely still, thinking maybe it was just the hard hit I had just taken, not daring to look down at you.
Then again. The kisses were soft and wet, so gentle, so slight. I immediately felt a tingle and a hotness in my crotch, halfway out of surprised elation and halfway out of sheer fear.
