She could have been a high
fashion model when she was young. Tall, narrow shoulders
with boyish hips and bottom. The faintest hint of breasts,
and long, long, pale cream legs. Her face however would
have kept her off the runway. She was homely. Large buckteeth;
thin mouth and eyes; a short beak of a nose, and a dusting
of acne scars along her jaw. Her short sable hair would
have been pretty – if she hadn't chosen a glossy slicked
back style – Devon, my adorable stylist, calls it
Hollywood butchy-fatale.
Yet,
for me, looks count only until I judge someone's laugh.
She had a good laugh. But though there were excessively
few of us in this town, and I caught the way her eyes reacted
to me, I wasn't interested.
Why?
Maybe it was the mix of insecurity and arrogance that I
sensed. Maybe it was the wildly cute chicana, with incredibly
wavy black hair down to her waist, that accompanied her
to the coffee house the nights I was playing banjo (yeah,
a girl can play banjo – want to argue?). Maybe because
my choice in bed is having a woman who's pliant and the
signs that her body sent told me she wasn't one. Maybe it
was because I didn't want a one-night stand, and I didn't
want yet another affair to regret.
Then she came on my Thursday night without
the chica ornamenting her like the expensive man's watch
she wore. Sipping her latte with a shot (okay, I asked Brenda
the head barrista – curiosity doesn't kill this cat),
leaning back in her chair, those long, long, legs crossed
while wearing a crimson Lacoste shirt and a silvery herringbone
tweed skirt that dropped just over her knees. Her eyes closed,
really listening to the music. I said that I liked someone
who had a good laugh, I like more someone who listens.
At the end of my set, after I bend my head
so that my massy hair fell over my face and down onto my
hands that cradled Gabriella, my banjo – my little
drama signature – and raised my head, Bren brought
by a cup of strong green tea, with two very thin slices
of lemon, and nodding towards the woman and saying, "She
asked what you drank," I had to go over to thank her
– didn't I?
I was wearing a short black flounced mini-skirt
with a faded blue chambray workshirt tucked into the waistband;
sleeves buttoned on my wrists, and a few buttons undone
at the top – to show off my turquoise necklace. The
short skirt is to get the small crowd to bother to look
up, the shirt says that I was here to make music.
Her eyes were blatant as she took me in.
Mine were blasé. Aphrodite was my birth goddess –
I was gifted a luxuriant body; knew it, and gotten nonchalant
about it.
She held her hand out and said, "I'm
Claire."
"De Lune?" I quipped as I took
her hand in mine. Her lips curled automatically and briefly;
that joke was probably very stale for her. Our hands stayed
gripped for longer than just a shake; the feel, the strong
warmth of her fingers caused my mind to drift...
"Why can't I force myself turn away?
As I warm your bud in my hands carefully,
my fingers massaging tenderly
Symmetrical, Earth shattering
Get closer, I need to talk
And make you mine"
Fuck poets – no, don't fuck poets,
they'll carve their lines on your heart.
Her voice got me out that wistful, angry,
space, "I've never heard Bach played on the banjo."
I shrugged, "If you can transcribe
for guitar..."
She let slowly go of my hand and nodded,
"I suppose that the curiosity of playing classical
on your instrument gets you gigs."
Yeah, I thought to myself, enough gigs to
pay for the cost of owning a peachy orange VW Karmann Ghia
and not much else. If it weren't for that little trust fund
that my Aunt (my sister in heart) left me I would be either
pushing coffee, or worse.
I let myself laugh and decided to sit down
across from her – hell why not, she knew the difference
between Bach and blue-grass, and she did have great, great
legs.
Half-hour later, after talking about classical
music, trashy novels, experimental film (she shocked me
by actually knowing of Maya Deren, had seen "Meshes
of the Afternoon");
after I noticed little things, like that
the nails on her left hand were bitten down to the quick,
like that she kept her eyes on my face and not wandering
over my body after that first survey, like that she would
chuckle without thinking, that she had a fine neck under
that scarred jaw; she asked me if I would like see a student
film that she was in, at her place.
No one-night stands, affairs that end badly.
Yeah, I had my rules. I said I would like that.
I followed her in my Ghia – she had
glanced at the car and at me, saying without saying that
it suited me – and we ended about five miles outside
of town, in front of one of those old rambling Victorians
that had been converted into multiple apartments. Past the
entryway, and she silently ushered me through double French
doors into her small hexagonal living room. A couple of
overstuffed chairs by a marble fireplace, a loveseat with
red velvet upholstery and a camel back facing a television.
I noticed a couple of law journals on the couch; she made
a wry face and admitted to being an attorney and added defensively.
"I do mostly family law – which can be a bitch
for us."
Us, being dykes and queers, but that was
understood – there was a lot, too much, already understood
between her and me.
"Wine, or some tea?" She asked
me. Great leading question counselor.
I decided to be a little bitchy and raised
my arms behind my head while yawning. "How about some
coffee?"
That caused a faint blush and a nod. "I'll
be right back, make yourself comfortable" Well, there
weren't any books on shelves to peer at, so I kicked off
my sandals and settled down on corner of the loveseat; tucked
one leg underneath me out of habit, doing so exposed a lot
of thigh; thought about that, shrugged, and waited.
She came back in a few minutes – enough
time for her to make two cups of coffee and a plate with
chocolate biscotti, and to restore her power femme manner.
She handed me the coffee, put the plate on the couch next
to me, and went over to put the video on. She came back
to the loveseat, took a place on the other end, stretched
those long, long, legs of her out and started the movie.
A young ballet dancer, sitting and undoing
her slippers, her toes bandaged, red, a flickering ghosting
montage of Degas drawings floating behind and underneath
her. Watching her with nervous eyes, an older dancer, puffing
away on a cigarette...
A stocky, elderly woman, her long hair striking
white, wearing denim overalls, doing tai chi alone in a
barren park. A back and forth dissolve to another woman,
in a hospital bed, staring up with blank eyes as a wingless
angel hovers with both sighs and laughs...
A woman, dancing by herself in a sunwashed
bedroom; Claire. Wearing tight jeans, knee-high suede boots,
and a turtleneck sweater. A battered suitcase on the bed
opening by itself, clothes hurling out of it, and then falling
back in. Claire, hugging herself, dancing with wet cheeks...
Then the sound of a flute playing a flowing
melody with odd harmonic twists and shifts. The faces of
all three women raising up. Each walks out, down a country
lane, down a city street, along an alleyway. Walking until
they appear on a powdery beach, shedding their clothes like
leaves falling. Walking until they are together, naked.
Lacing their arms together in the timeless
pose of the Graces. Dancing together, voluptuously, as the
music from the flute rises and falls.
Claire is the one in the middle, her back
to the camera. The arched curve of back going to round little
boy cheeks, those endless legs sinuously moving on the sand...
I nibbled at a biscotti in self-defense.
It was only a student film, overwrought with obvious, but
it had pinged my heart – and that, not the sight of
Claire nude, made me moist.
She clicked off the video, half turned on
the cushion, and asked me what I thought. I knew if that
I answered her truthfully it would be the same as if I spread
my legs.
When you listen to music, you connect the
notes to each other and the key signature – without
thinking -- you make sense of the design, and the sensuality.
I heard the different notes in me; my sweet heart, my bitter
memories, an aching tide deep inside, what I thought she
would want in bed, what I was afraid she might want in life.
I listened to the music, and then I told
her the truth.
Honesty is scary as hell, and more exciting
than revealing eight inches of bare thigh. She blushed again
and bit with her big teeth her bottom lip. All the insecurity
that growing up a gangly, ugly faced, girl with taboo desires
for the love of another girl that she buried in her came
up for a moment.
I said gently, "Kiss me Claire."
She slid over to me half-mewling. Then she
kissed me and her cry became a moan. Long kiss, a kiss that
was lingering, engulfing, capturing my lips over and over
again. She kissed me fiercely, tongue sweetly invading my
mouth, our tongues tangling, stroking each other. My tongue
sweeping hers back and darting repeatedly past her thin
lips into her mouth. Her tongue reclaiming my mouth, plundering
me, devastating me. With kissed each other, dueling with
our tongues in a way that made both of us breathless, both
wanting more and more.
We kissed as we stood, as we went down the
hallway to her bedroom, as we struggled to get our clothes
off while still kissing.
Her hands restless and gentle behind me,
from my nape to the cleft of my ass, to my broad hips, arpeggios
on my spine, to my neck. Still kissing.
My hands, splayed on her almost flat chest,
my fingers on her surprising large nipples. Opening my eyes,
staring into hers as my fingers pinched the hard little
tips; vibrating inside when I saw her gray eyes widen with
shocked delight. Still kissing.
She danced me to the bed. I laid back on
the thick comforter, my turquoise necklace riding high on
my neck, my wild hair fanning over a pillow as she climbed
on top of me. Her legs between mine, her narrow firm thighs
spreading mine effortlessly. My ankles hooked over the back
of her knees. Her downy mons nestled on my damp, moist,
god so needy, place.
She raised herself, her thin arms straight,
hands flat on the bed. Her eyes closed, her back arching,
the plump flesh over her pubic bone wantoning on my pearl,
on my swelling petals. I found her nipples, color of coral
tea roses, and my callused fingertips roughened them, making
her cry my name.
We were mated. Her mons sliding up and down
against the slick wet heat of my center. Curves and folds
of us, concave and convex, fitting in a way that touched
every nerve, every want, every need.
Her body above me stiffened, her hips ground
down and spasmed on mine. She went deep into herself, loosening
and losing herself in her blinding, molten, moment of release.
Then, as she sobbed my name, the wave in me tipped over,
crashed and I came in a flood that seemed to never stop...
She fell on me, kissing me, our legs tangling
together, our happiness flowing in each other as our skin
flowed against us. I touched her face with my fingers, whispering,
"beautiful, beautiful."
She shook her head, almost angrily; tiny
tears at the corners of her eyes. I stroked her scarred
jaw, her lips and whispered louder, Beautiful Claire, beautiful."
Her eyes stared at me, she moved half off
me and her hand went between my thighs, cupping me.
Usually it takes me a while before I can
return to that place, but her hand caused sudden shivers
deep in me, made me tip my hips up so that her hand was
pressed tight to me. She grinned at me and suddenly licked
my ear, whispering, "Don't stop looking into my eyes."
The little things that make your heart skip
a beat; that makes your stomach ripple. I nodded.
Her palm on me, moving in small circles
over my pearl and petals. One finger finding my opening,
slipping into me casually, indifferently. My eyes on hers,
seeing her soul open up to me as her finger claimed me.
Moving so slowly, so delicately; as if she
were playing lazy chords on a piano. Then, another finger
followed the first, stretching me gently and my womb fluttered
around her. My eyes on her, seeing how much this was good
for her, her seeing how it was good for me.
She managed to hook her arm around my shoulder,
embracing me, her hand resting on my breast; fingertip circling
on my nipple. Her curved fingers in me rocking slowly. My
eyes on her, her face becoming misty as my body felt the
coming flood.
A hesitation, then there was a third finger
snuggling in me. A coo from her, "God, how wet you
are..." My eyes widening. What she wanted to do was
what I would do, only twice in life had I been the one filled.
My kiss on her open mouth told her: Yes.
She slowed her fingers, stopping them, teasing
me with pauses. Until she heard my breathless urgent gasps.
The fourth finger slipped in. Her knuckles rolled sweetly
around my entrance. My gasps became a low keen.
I don't know how long it was, how long she
waited. Finally, the moment, when she pushed into me, so
unexpectedly, so wonderfully. I came so suddenly, my blind
eyes on her eyes...
Claire, my Claire, Took me with her hand.
With each slow twist of her closed fist inside me she took
me. Made me come, made me pulse on her hand and wrist. Made
me come, moaning until my voice was gone, again and again.
Made me and rode me, until she had ridden into my life.
Later, the morning after, when she awoke
with a start, her fears naked on her face, I showed how
much she had come into my life. With music played on her
creamy skin. With fingers that sounded on her breasts. With
a tongue that strummed deeply into her vagina. Making her
happy, gentling her anxious heart.
Claire. I still hear her song. She was a
special melody for me...
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