I am sitting in front of my laptop, attaching a photo of myself to an email. I have just cut my hair. Short. Very short. Dyky short. Ping, who has been cutting my hair for the past three years, went a little too far, but says that it will grow out and look ‘even better’. Whatever that means. My boyfriend, Stefan, asked me to get it cut. He said my long hair took away from my cheekbones. Somehow this isn’t what I think he meant. It’s a little severe. Still, I hit return and the jpeg is off.
Stefan has been in Rome for three weeks and will be gone for four more. I’ve asked him a couple of times if he would come home for a weekend or if I can come visit him, but he dismisses it as impractical. There would be no time and I lie and agree – ‘our relationship is strong and will survive the separation. Blah, blah, blah.’ I started marking the days off on the calendar, but I stopped after I remembered my mother marking X’s over the days until she reached the little red “C’s” for ‘the curse’ scribbled in every 28 days.
I walk to the window and peer out. East 11th is empty from the cold. No drug dealers. No cops. No whores. No junkies. Strange. I touch the glass and feel a burn on the tips of my fingers. They say it won’t be above freezing for another week. I go to the mirror over the bathtub in the kitchen. I put some gel in my hair to spike it up. Jesus, I look like a dyke.
I lie on the bed and smell the pillows. I haven’t changed the bedclothes since he left. His smell is still there, but growing fainter. The smell of sweat and cigarettes and aftershave. I bury my face in deep and inhale. I can smell sex in there somewhere. I put my hand between my legs and am instantly wet. I miss him so much. I am dying for a good fuck. I think about getting myself off, but I promised myself I would save all of my longing for his return. The radiator starts banging and my moment of weakness is gone.
Bethany phones. She wants to me to come out with her and the girls – since I’m single again – at least for a few more weeks.
“I can’t.”
“I didn’t say you had to fuck anyone did I? I just thought you could use getting out of that crappy apartment. Maybe you could use a flirt, huh? A little male attention never hurt anyone.”
I agree and look through the dirty clothesbasket for some jeans, but they are too nasty to wear. I decide that even if its cold as all hell outside, I will wear my black cocktail dress. If I take my long coat, I should be alright. I dig for some tights and slide the dress on. It has a high collar, but has this tiny stripe of lace that passes over my breasts. I look at myself in the mirror. Even in this feminine dress, I still look like a lez. I decide not to wear a bra and to paint my lips dark red. It has a softening effect. If I am going to be a lesbian, at least, I will be a lipstick lesbian.
I meet with Bethany at bOb bar. It’s a shoebox where some guy from Israel plays French Chansons mashed-up with industrial. B. suggests whisky to warm my bones. I can tell she is a little drunk, because she starts rubbing my thighs and giving me these little kisses on the cheek, that come too close to my mouth.
“You should have gotten your hair cut like that years ago. You look really HOT!”
B.’s always playing these little lesbian games. I wonder what she would do if actually tongued her. Run home to Westchester, probably. It’s not like I’ve never thought about it, but I guess I’ve never met the right girl.
I ask B. who else is coming. She says that Claire cancelled because she has a deadline tomorrow. We all know what that means. She’s at home taking care of her trust fund-junkie boyfriend, Karl. But don’t worry she says, “Laurel will be here soon.”
Laurel arrives. She’s a book editor and a professional in every aspect of her life. Laurel surveys the room. Who’s eligible marriage or fuck material? She takes the whiskey from my hand and slams it back, then with a flare too much drama, tosses her feather boa over her neck and announces that we need to leave. “This place sucks!”
“It’s early. Give it some time. The animals don’t come out until feeding time,” Bethany says, looking at her watch. “It’s only 11. Wait another half hour or so.”
Laurel frowns and sits on my next to me. She pulls herself up to me and runs her hand through my hair. “Ooh, you finally did it. Is this some kind of lesbian fantasy on Stefan’s part? He finally gets to turn one a real woman?”
“Thanks for reducing me to a cultural cliché.”
“Not you. Him. And yes, I still think he’s still an asshole for not coming home at least for a fucking weekend while he’s gone. A first class asshole.”
I excuse myself and get another drink. When I return, I notice that Laurel and Bethany are in a huddled conference. They are laughing and turn to me as I approach.
Laurel stands and takes whiskey #2 from my hand. “We are going to have some fun with you tonight.” She knocks back my drink.
“Hey, do you mind? Those things aren’t free.”
Laurel takes my arm and leads me towards the door. “Don’t worry. I’ll buy the next two rounds.”
We exit into the freezing cold and my headlights go on. I should have worn a bra, my nipples hurt. Laurel takes one arm and Bethany the other. They laugh conspiratorially and drag me down the street.
Before I know it, we are standing in front of Meow Mix. “I suppose you think this is very funny?”
“Come on. You can’t cheat on Stefan with a man, but what about a woman?”
“That’s your fantasy, B., not mine.”
“It’s all of our fantasies,” says Laurel, and we enter.
I survey the room. The place is remarkably tame. I expected an orgy, but instead find a few girls on the dance floor. A couple of real lipstick lesbians, one even wearing those angel wings – how 90’s – stand around the jukebox. Jesus, somebody is playing Ani Defranco. Will we ever be safe?
We take some stools at the bar and Laurel lives up to her promise and buys the next few rounds. As I suspected, B. refuses to look around the room. Laurel – to her credit – reviews my possibilities. “What about her over there? The one with the almost shaved head? Boyish body. Good way to start, don’t you think? Nice hard ass. You could ride something like that until you come. What do you think, B?”
Bethany refuses to turn around. She looks into her drink and away from the butch bartender, who senses Bethany’s frigidity. “You want one on the house?” the bartender asks. B. can’t look up. She only shakes her head “No”.
I lean into B’s ear and whisper, “I think if you play your cards right, this could be your night.” B. gives me the ‘go to hell’ look and I lick her ear. “No comment, B.?” She pulls away and I decide not to torment her any more.
The music switches to the Go-Go’s and Laurel shouts out “Junior High!” before dragging me onto the dance floor. We dance together for a few songs as the jukebox jumps from Le Tigre to The Donnas to Pink. Laurel decides that B. needs to dance a few, but turns to find her in reluctant conversation with the bartender. Laurel points and laughs. I can’t help and crack up as well.
As Laurel and I are dancing, I notice this diesel dyke turning our twosome into a threesome. She is tough and it looks like she tapes down her breasts because I can see them through the extra large armholes she has cut into her Harley t-shirt. She is dancing next to me and then next to Laurel – giving both of us the eye. Why can’t the cute one Laurel pointed out earlier make her move on me? I can see her eyes darting to and away from me. She looks like a Modigliani model, with her olive skin, almond eyes, twisted nose, and full flower bud of a mouth. I imagine her nude, reclining on a red velvet couch, stretched out. She turns over on her belly, her ass inviting.
I look over to find Laurel and the Diesel standing by the bar. Harley is standing right up on her, smoothly moving back and forth against Laurel’s leg. I decide what the hell, I’m drunk and horny. I find the boyish one in the corner. Her name is Alessandra and she is from Sardinia. She is waiting for a friend from Naples. Alessandra barely speaks English and her accent is thick. She wears a white t-shirt and Levi’s. I can see the outline of her breasts under the thin, too many times washed, cotton. She is not wearing a bra and her nipples are almost black and the size of silver dollars. I decide to touch her face. I reach out as if to casually brush her cheek, but she instinctively moves away. I have insulted her. I start to say something, but she moves towards the door. Her friend from Naples has arrived.
I go to the bar and Laurel is gone. I ask B. where Laurel went. “She took off with the big girl. On the back of a Harley. If you can believe that fucking shit.”
“Did you get the bartender’s number?”
“Can we get outta here?” says B. as she pulls on her coat, and makes for the door.
Once outside, we walk fast to stay warm. We separate on the corner of 1st Avenue and 6th street. I go East, and she, West, to the apartment her parents bought her. Tough life, deciding what you want to do with it while your parents are paying the bills.
I get home and the heat is on. Thank God. Still, I am chilled to my bones and need to warm myself. I run a bath and get in. The phone rings. I climb out of the tub and pick up the receiver.
“I told you you’d look better with your hair short.” It’s Stefan.
“Yeah, I think it looks OK.”
“I mean, you might have to beat the lesbos off with a stick, but I think it looks good. Real good. If I didn’t have to get to work right now, I would suggest a little verbal erotic.”
I can’t stand this waiting and saving anymore. “Why don’t you ask me what I did tonight?”
“OK. What did you do tonight? Go out with the girls?” he says dismissively.
“Oh, you could say that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I went out to Meow Mix with Laurel and B.”
“Did your new haircut turn you into a lesbian?”
“What would you say if I told you I went home with a girl?”
There is a moment of silence on the phone. Stefan comes back, but his voice is a little tight. “You did not go home with a girl.”
“Her mouth tasted of fennel. Like she had been drinking Grappa or something?” I giggle.
“You did not go home with a girl.”
“Oh, yes, I did. And I fucked her.” I settle into a chair at the kitchen table and spread my legs.
“What did she do to you?”
“You mean what did I do to her.” I am getting wet.
“OK, what did you do to her?”
“Let’s see, where do I get started…”
“Don’t be coy.”
“She was from Sardinia. Dark and cool... a little bit like a 1950's James Dean type teenage boy. Short-short hair. Almost shaved. Strong arms. White teeth.
She was taller than me, and stronger - really strong thighs. Long legs. Painted toenails.”
“Go on.” His breath is short. “I’m really hard.”
“I am standing naked over the girl stroking myself. I shove her legs apart and pour oil all over my index and middle fingers. I lubricate her sex, shoving my fingers in and out of her, but find she is already wet and the inside of her tight thighs sticky. She can’t wait and moans awaiting the thrill. But I decide to toy with her first. I push the lips of her pussy open and then retreat before they are fully parted. She begs me to do it and I finally concede. I slide my fingers deep inside of her. She lifts her head and places her lipsticked mouth to my erect nipple. She sucks, then bites. She pulls her mouth away from my breast leaving a red lipstick stain. She falls into the pillow and parts her muscular legs to let me in - further than she would have for any man to allow for my woman’s hips. My breasts are pressed against hers; nipple to nipple, and I fuck her hard. I tongue her deep and slam her. As she starts to climax, she runs her long nails up and down my back before digging them into my soft ass, pulling me into her - deeper. She comes, but I am unsatisfied. My clit is engorged and hungry. I straddle her face and force her mouth onto my sex. I make her lick and suck me until I come. I kiss her again, smearing lipstick across our faces.”
I awake in the kitchen chair, finally released from my abstinence. “Stefan, are you still there? Stefan?” I can only hear him breathing.
“I’ll be home this weekend.” He hangs up and I meet him at JFK on Saturday morning. We fuck for the next day and a half and he leaves on Sunday night, back at work on Monday morning.
©? Antonia Witt, Berlin, 10 February 2004