LM Presents
Life, Love & Lust
Life, Love & Lust
LM Inc
Copyright LM Inc 2010
Published by LM Inc Publishing at Smashwords
Smashwords
License Statement
This ebook is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away
to other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re
reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased
for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase
your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Foreword
Welcome to our first Lesbian Memoirs Anthology.
Here is a little information about who we are…
Lesbian Memoirs.com is a retreat, getaway, sounding board, and muse for the artistic lesbian. It began in July of 2008 under the guise of two motivated women for establishing a place where the lesbian artist could go to release, share and grow. Since then, LM has continued to grow and press forward.
We are determined to have Lesbian Memoirs be the chief online community encouraging positivity, inspiration, growth, and community. The artistry of a woman in itself is emotionally and spiritually profound, because that is what we are. The thoughtful and philosophical insights in poetry, writing, painting and all other art forms allow us to express pieces of ourselves that we have been taught to suppress.
Creativity, eroticism, imagination, sexuality, passion, anger, disappointment, yearning, love, lust and dreams are all a part of each of us. Liberate yourself, free your mind, discover new realities and alter egos alike…come fantasize and create with us.
We present to you our first Short Story Anthology: Life, Love & Lust.
Let us keep you entertained, excited and intrigued. Enjoy the words to come by the talented authors amongst us.
We are determined to art the world.
Thank you for supporting us.
Blessings,
~The Team of Lesbian Memoirs.com
Dedication
To everyone who made this book a reality.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Contents
Life:
The List
The Funeral
First Crush
They Stopped
Ring/Shout
Cat And Mouse
Family
Melodic Rose
Changing Faces
Till Death Do Us Part…
After She Left
Rainbow Letters
The Photo
L’ocean D’amour
The Perfect Getaway
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Love:
Mutha’s Love
Cherish the Day
The Perfect Weekend
A Future of Fullness
Not An Option
Beauty Is Her Name
Beauty Among Garbage
Waves
Closing Doors
The Bonds That Tie
The One Who Got Away
I Have a Dream
Trying To Love Her
Playing It Straight
Love Induced Trauma
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Lust:
Pussy Was My Drug Dealer
Breakfast
The Birthday Gift
Orchids in Winter
Lost In Paradise
The Dark Angel
Lunch
Hump Day
Planting Seeds
One Night Out
One September Saturday
Silk and Satin
Oh My God!
Dinner
Last Call
Torture Me With Love
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Life
The List
By Katrina England
The list in my trembling hand wasn’t very long. Number one: Call mother.
Lord, here we go.
“Hi mom. How are you today?” I kept my voice cheery and light. The need to stay off mother’s radar is of utmost importance.
“Girl, how do you think I am at 7:30a.m?” For the first time ever, I found her sarcasm refreshing. I couldn’t stop the small smile that played about my lips.
“I guess I just wanted to touch base with you, that’s all.”
“Why didn’t you just come out and say that? Young people today, I swear…” Her annoyance was never a thing one had to search hard to find. Very little managed to escape my mother’s nerves. “I have to go to the DMV this morning to renew my license. I don’t know why I can’t just have Henry do it for me. Or even Adrien. It’s not like they want to steal the identity of a sixty-five year old woman. Hell, I wouldn’t!” I could hear her making her habitual morning tea.
“Have you tried to renew it online?”
“What the hell do I know about that?”
“Well, you know how to email and get in chat rooms just fine.” Mother loved to have others wait on her. A true Southern Belle.
“You know I get confused with all that. And anyway, since you know so much, why don’t you come over here and do it for me?” I rolled my eyes. I knew that was coming. After an unladylike slurp, she continued. “Gert and Mildred are coming over today. We might go over to that new fabric shop and have a look see. You are welcome to join us.” She waited expectantly for an answer.
You must be kidding, lady.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to go and visit Aunt Abigail and Aunt Linda today.”
“Girl, the day is too pretty to go sit in a cemetery holding on to the past.” Another slurp.
Mother lost both her sisters to breast cancer. Because the three of them were all born in August, they used to celebrate their birthday on Aunt Abigail’s birthday since hers was in the middle. Both sisters had died within six months of being diagnosed and my mother had taken it very hard. After a few years, it was as if she closed off that part of herself and seldom spoke of her sisters.
“Mom…I was thinking that maybe the two of us could go together?”
“For what? What would be the point? To be reminded that I could be dead six months after finding a damn lump in my breast?” She made a rude noise in the back of her throat.
“You don’t have a lump, mother.” I closed my eyes for a long moment.
“I know that! And I’m damn grateful too, ‘cause the minute I get one is the minute I know my clock has started ticking.”
“It’s aunt Abigail’s birthday, mom,” I said gently, blinking rapidly.
“Yeah, and November tenth is her death day and I don’t plan on celebrating that either. Now if you don’t mind, I need to go and get ready before my company arrives.” I was more than familiar with that tone. The conversation was over.
“Alright, mother. Have fun with the girls. And stay away from leopard prints!” I still have a well intentioned outfit hanging in my closet because mom had found an unbelievable clearance.
She was considerate enough to chuckle. “I still have yards of that ridiculous material left!” I laughed with her. She couldn’t hear it because the sound never left my mouth. “I’d better run, it’s getting late. I’ll talk to you later, sweetheart.”
“I love you. Goodbye, momma.” I hung up before she could question why for the first time in years I had called her momma.
Number two: Break up with Devin. I sighed. That one wasn’t as easy but it was long overdue. I picked up the phone again, noticing absently that my hands had stopped trembling.
“Devin? Hi, got a sec?”
“Sure, baby, what’s up?” It was his velvet smooth voice that got me in this rut in the first place. Brothers must take a class on how to make the word baby sound so intimate.
“We need to talk.” Anyone who had ever been in a relationship that had problems knew what those four words meant.
“What dat mean?” Devin was no novice to relationships.
“I just have something on my mind that I need to discuss with you, that’s all.” I didn’t want to sound defensive but his change in tone forced me to. I was no longer his baby.
“What you mean discuss? Seems to me like all we do is discuss shit. Every time I look around there is something to discuss!” He was pissed off. I was taken aback by this.
“Is there something wrong with talking?” My voice had taken on the sistah girl tone that all my education still couldn’t erase when my button was pushed.
“No, but there is something wrong with your listening. You not hearing me. I don’t wanna talk! I don’t wanna discuss nothing! All I want is for us to get down like we used to instead of all this damn conversation!”
Sex. One day somebody was going to tell him the difference between having sex and making love. It should have been me, but I don’t have that kind of time or patience anymore. Hell with him. Clueless bastard.
“Look, Devin, why don’t you find somebody who feels like you feel. Somebody who likes to get down all the time instead of talking.” I was calm because I was done with him. I’m glad he reminded me of that. Dumbass.
“What you mean by that, Fee?” Oh, so it’s Fee now? A minute ago I was all but frigid.
“You know exactly what I mean, Devin.” He was quiet for a long moment. Probably shocked that someone had had the nerve to end it before he could.
“I don’t know who told you that you was all that, but look here: you ain’t. I gots plenty of females trying to ride up on this here.” Aw, his male ego was bruised. Poor, conceited baby.
“Goodbye, Devin.” As I placed the receiver down, I heard him yelling “Felicia! Felicia!”
Number three: Haircut. I smiled at that one. A part of me had been wanting to cut my hair since I was a teenager, but my mom would have had a coronary. I had repressed a lot about myself because of that woman. Enough was enough.
Looking into the mirror, I thought about it one last time. It would be a big change for me. I gathered my long, thick hair between my fingers and pulled it in a tight ponytail. My caramel colored skin covered a face that was slightly angular, but not unattractive in spite of the wide, full lips I was cursed with. I turn this way and that to make sure my ears wouldn’t look too big with short hair. I planned to cut it all off. I’d leave only short waves. Before I could change my mind, I grabbed my bag and left.
The haircut was fabulous. The stylist looked near tears as she cut it but I didn’t care. I did let her talk me into keeping it a few inches longer than I’d originally planned though. The longest strand still didn’t go past my eyebrows. The curly, bouncy look was great. I could definitely live with it. Live with it. My smile fades.
Number four: Shopping. I make my way purposefully into the shops along the boulevard, buying clothes that would have appalled my mother. Long flared skirts, loose tops in a variety of prints, scarves, ethnic jewelry of all sizes, and a beautiful pair of handmade sandals. My good mood had returned. I put on one of my newly purchased outfits before leaving the store, laughing out loud at my appearance. I had never looked better.
Number five was simple, but it was something I had been forbidden by my mother to ever do: Eat at an outside deli. Mom thought that was just a nasty accident waiting to happen and never failed to give an indignant sniff every time she passed one. I never knew what the big deal was, but always longed to try it.
“Will you be dining alone, miss?” The handsome young waiter had a lovely English accent.
I could stop the smile I felt making its way across my face. “Yes, I will.”
“This way, please.” His eyes skimmed briefly over my appearance. With a wink, he turns and leads me to a table with two chairs. I guess it would be silly to have a table with only one chair, I noted absently. Feeling somewhat giddy, I lower myself onto the chair he held out for me.
“What can I get you to drink, mademoiselle?”
His eyes asked me for more than a drink order. Imagine that. I fought back a grin and hastily skimmed the menu to avoid his inquiring look. To my utter dismay, everything was in French. Great. I knew that if I asked for his help, he’d take that as an acceptance of his unspoken invitation.
As I sat there racking my brain for a classy exit, another waiter approached and sheepishly asked if I would mind if another patron could join me, as they were out of tables for one. I take a quick glance behind him before answering, pleasantly surprised to see a lovely, well dressed woman standing anxiously at the door. Whoever she is, I hope like hell she can read French.
“Sure, no problem,” I reassure the embarrassed waiter. My personal waiter looks disappointed. Sorry buddy.
“Thank you so much,” the tall, shapely woman gushes as she settles in at the table.
I dismiss it with a casual wave and let her place her drink order first. “I’ll have the same,” I smiled sweetly.
Two hours later, Sharon Day and I are fast friends. It hadn’t taken her five minutes to realize I didn’t read or speak a lick of French. She, on the other hand, was fluent. Her mouth did beautiful things to the French language. I find myself feeling rather lightheaded but I’m not sure if it is due to the wine I was sipping or Sharon’s overwhelming presence. I had never been around a person so completely comfortable in her own beautiful brown skin. That brown skin also seemed to like connecting with other brown skin, for she touches me frequently throughout lunch. Her hand always seems to be touching mine or my forearm or my shoulder. She even touches my face at one point, calling me a sweetheart as I confess to a weakness for all things fuzzy.
Brushing aside unfamiliar stirrings of attraction, I listened attentively as she told me about her experiences as a foreign exchange student while studying at the University of London. Toying innocently with her long black braids, Sharon’s soft pink lips held me in a near trance as she regaled me with tales of her many sexual escapades. Some great, some downright embarrassing, I wasn’t sure if she was being entirely truthful with me, but she had a wonderful sense of humor. I hadn’t laughed so much in ages. Sharon didn’t hesitate to poke fun at herself and my laughter seemed to only encourage her.
“I’m sorry but you are going to have to take off those gorgeous sandals before you go any further.” Sharon had invited me back to her place.
“Will I get them back?” I joked.
“Depends on how long you leave them here. Anything past forty-eight hours is fair game.” She held my gaze just a tad too long to be considered innocent. Oh, my. She was flirting with me and I had no idea how to handle it. Sharon was such an openly sexual woman, while I could count all of my lovers on one hand and still have fingers left over.
She left me there with my tongue on the floor and headed into the kitchen. I forced myself to focus. Large photos stared at me from her cream colored walls. Handsomely framed, the pictures were of people of all races. Old men playing dominos, barefoot kids, a young woman in tears.
Sharon walks up behind me without my noticing. I’m standing entranced before a large black and white print of a nude African woman with skin the color of dark chocolate. She is breathtaking. Her large eyes beckon as her long, elegant hands lay splayed across her abdomen. She is on her back, her legs parted. She has an earring in her nose and not a strand of hair on her head. Her dark eyes radiate desire and yearning. My lips part as I felt a longing way down deep.
“Do you like it?” Sharon’s breath caresses my ear.
“Yes,” my voice raspy and deep, betraying just how much.
Sharon laughs softly, putting a glass of wine in my hand. My eyes never leave the picture.
“Her name is Sela.”
“Did you make love to her?”
A pause. “Yes.”
I envy Sela.
I pick up a pen and add a new item to the list. Number six: Make an appointment. I glance at the phone. I lie back and stretch out on my sofa, staring at the ceiling. I am wearing nothing but a tiny black silk robe. I feel so very sexy. Sharon had bought the robe for me the morning after we had first made love. It was all I wore, if anything at all, for the next seventy-two hours.
My hand moves lazily over my body of its own accord. I had no control as long fingers sought my right breast. After a moment, the seeking hand eases inside my robe and continues stroking, touching first the nipple before moving to the soft flesh that surrounded it. The hand pauses. My eyes fill with tears. Sharon had touched me there. My finger gently strokes the lump. I had discovered it six months ago.
Seventy-two hours later and I had changed my mind about dying.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The Funeral
By Pamela Sneed
It was a relationship everyone measured me by, 15-17 years ago. But who’s counting? Still it caused some lesbian or woman I was doing a show with to keep bringing my ex’s name up as if throwing gases on a dead flame. In other instances she refused to utter my ex’s name or e-mail address in front of me, as if she thought I had some interest in contacting her. Then, there was another lesbian whom I barely knew, kept recently bringing my ex’s name up and went out of her way to tell me her girlfriend was having lunch with her, then she smirked.
I had cheated on her, I guess, but I wasn’t the first lesbian to cheat really. Come to think of it, the people who judged me most harshly were women who had done some pretty scandalous things to their own lovers, but that never made the papers the way mine did. There were some concealed facts of the case that no one quite knew- that she’d told me to date who I want. I remember being concerned about that, but was very young and didn’t have the language to say, “I want you to care about who I sleep with.” Like the most recent lover I had who was into non-monogamy, I wanted her to have a conversation with me, not just blurt out, “Date who you want,” which sent a particular message.
If it’s any consolation my previous lover had gotten me back right away by sleeping with the woman I was planning to sleep with. No one saw anything, like the particular Christmas I told my parents I wouldn’t be coming home if she wasn’t welcome. Like a poem I started to write then, I’d never not gone home, never not been with my family, but I was willing to forgo presents, everything to claim her as my own. All of those who judged me still hate me to this day. They never saw the particulars of that Christmas, a lonely grey day that I ended up spending with her family. Her mother looked at me and treated me like the garbage which had stolen her daughter away and made her a lesbian.
Still no one ever saw or knew about important parts of our relationship-like at the funeral of her family member where I wasn’t allowed to sit next to my lover because of our lesbian relationship. I was seated in the back of the church. She said nothing. Like the poem I started writing then but lost, “I wanted us to be like two gun-toting warrior women, run screaming from the church, for you to say our relationship was worth more than approval.” No one saw the important times I’d stood for her, like fighting to get her a job and taking the agency to task on the non-hiring of Black women. And that, 17 years later she never forgave me. Even after she’d had jobs, lovers, family, devoted cadre of friends, a life free from scandal and duress-whereas everyone had seen her as innocent, a victim, and me as a monster. Part of me cheating on her was me testing. I wanted her to say no, put her foot down.
People asked why I never said anything but the lid had already been sealed, casket closed on who I was as a person. She had made up her mind like so many others without ever really consulting or talking to me. Any perceptions of me would be filtered like a single thread through the tiniest lenses of their perception. People will always say you need so much approval, but it wasn’t approval I wanted. It was a fair trial, a voice and a hearing.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
First Crush
By Ayofemi Folayan
The first day of junior high school in 1962 was a mixture of stampede and roundup. Eight hundred twelve and thirteen year olds sat in the auditorium of Girls’ Latin School and radiated nervous excitement. We were the academically unchallenged of the public schools in Boston: tested, interviewed, and prepared for rigorous educational achievements.
As I listened for my name, my eyes wandered over the horde of students until they rested on a petite student wearing a green checked blouse and matching solid green pleated skirt. Her thick auburn hair was pulled back into twin ponytails and her deep brown eyes reminded me of Bambi. She was also one of the few African-American students in the room. Trying not to be obvious, I continued to watch her as Miss Brenda Glennon, the school guidance counselor, droned through her lists of homeroom assignments.
I was relieved when I finally heard the announcement for “Miss Campbell, homeroom 246,” and realized that we had reached the part of the alphabet where my last name fell. Ms. Gorgeous in Green was still sitting across from me. “Sarah Stone,” said Miss Glennon and the object of my admiration stood and joined the other girls lined up behind Miss Campbell. I was so busy following her with my eyes; I almost didn’t hear my own name: “. . .Whitney Stowell.”
As I gathered my sack lunch and notebook, I felt totally clumsy, like my body had two left feet and two left arms. I stumbled and dropped my binder, causing a loud clatter. My facial skin flamed scarlet with embarrassment. I grabbed my things and went to stand behind Sarah Stone. A lovely lavender scent filled my nostrils as I got close to her. I was intoxicated by the smell. I forced myself to focus on Miss Campbell as she led us to our classroom, assigned us to seats and passed out a tedious stack of forms to complete.
I could not believe that I would be sitting behind Sarah Stone in homeroom for at least twenty minutes every morning of every school day for an entire school year! I now know that God is real and I have done something to earn His favor. I would cheerfully do all my chores without being reminded and finish all my homework assignments before dinner just for this amazing blessing.
I had no idea how to label my feelings of attraction toward Sarah. I had never heard the word “lesbian.” I had always assumed that I would have the “normal” passionate interest in males. Nothing had prepared me for these feelings toward an individual of the same gender. I only knew that my brain was swollen with her image to the point where nothing else could fit. I kept staring at the back of her neck and was shocked that I wanted to kiss her there.
After school, I rode the bus home, so lost in my thoughts of Sarah that I almost missed my stop. After I let myself into the house, I sat in my room relishing the mental images of her that filled my head. At some point, I looked down at the loose leaf paper on which I had been writing and saw her name in a variety of doodles instead of the neat list of Latin verb conjugations I was supposed to complete. Angry with myself for being so distracted, I tore the page from my binder, crumpled it into a wad and tossed it into the trash.
After I completed my assignments and packed my book bag, I went to the closet and studied my wardrobe. Looking good was even more important on the second day of school than on the first! Clothes had not been important to me until this instant. I finally selected an outfit from my limited personal wardrobe: a navy blue skirt, ecru shell and navy blue cable sweater.
The next morning, I was in my seat some fifteen minutes before the homeroom bell rang. The empty seat in front of me elicited a sense of despair that Sarah would be absent, but at the sound of the bell she appeared in the doorway. In that instant, I understood the Shakespeare line from Romeo and Juliet, “But soft; what light from yonder window breaks? It is the East and Juliet is the sun.”
I felt as though my heartbeat thundered like symphonic timpani and everyone in the room could hear it. As she slid into her seat, Sarah whispered, “Good Morning.” In my mind, clouds moved apart and dazzling sunshine flashed, all superimposed over that smile.
As Miss Campbell intoned a list of brain-numbing announcements, my attention was once again diverted to that spot on Sarah’s neck just below the part in her hair. A blast furnace ignited full force in my solar plexus. Suddenly, my sweater felt like a thermal straitjacket. I yanked it off while my emotions ratcheted up the internal heat.
I have always had a nervous habit of doodling. If I have a pen or pencil in my hand, within seconds I will turn out an array of geometric and alphabetic shapes on the closest surface. That particular morning, the surface available was the skin on the knuckle formed by the pinkie finger on my left hand. In that era, tattoos were viewed solely as body art for truckers and bikers. So creating a tattoo was not my conscious intent as I inscribed the letter “s” with a ballpoint pen. In fact, I had no real awareness of what I was doing until a thick dark letter was fully formed. Mortified, I deliberately turned the letter into an infinity symbol.
That evening, I stared at the symbol and worried about the possibility that I would contract blood poisoning from the ballpoint pen ink, a myth that had been repeated to me a gazillion times. That fear was displaced by the swirling confusion that enveloped me. I knew something was wrong with me. Girls simply didn’t feel this way about other girls.
I forced myself to read the assigned pages in my history text, but after nearly an hour of “study,” I had no clue what was on those pages. I gave up and packed away my books. That is when I noticed the letters “a” and “r” on the knuckles formed by the ring and middle fingers on my left hand. As I deliberately worked to obscure the letters and morph them into abstract images, I was completely unaware of the deep and painful gouges my homemade tattoos had created.
By the end of the first week of school, there were five symbols carved into my left hand, the name “Sarah” obscured by geometric symbols that had become infected and oozed foul-smelling pus. Saturday night, our family ritual, was to make cheeseburgers, baked beans and potato salad to consume with root beer floats while we watched the Pro Bowlers’ Tour on our black and white console television. As I took a plate from my mother, she grabbed my hand and cried out, “What on earth happened to your hand?”
I pulled my hand back and tried to divert her attention away from the offending wounds. “Do we have any bread and butter pickles?”
Undeterred, my mother took my hand again and examined it. “What on earth have you been doing to this hand?”
I snatched my hand away and opened the refrigerator door, ostensibly to retrieve the pickle jar. My mother was not so easily distracted. “Answer me!”
“Nothing.” Sullenness infused my answer, as I slammed the refrigerator door and retreated to my bedroom. I could not explain to my mother what I didn’t understand myself. My mind and body had been kidnapped by emotions; I had no ability to understand. I only knew that I couldn’t talk openly about them to anyone.
The second week of school was even more tortured than the first. My obsession with Sarah expanded to consume not only my thoughts but also my appetite, my ability to sleep, my powers of concentration and my sanity. The wounds from the tattoos began to heal, although their scarred images would remain far longer. My “coming out” story had been written, literally, on my hand. I could never again wonder if I was a lesbian.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
They Stopped
By Yetunde Battle
They stopped talking to me for two weeks once, because I stood up for her. Faces with intrigued disgust looked and listened to the one that read aloud about that girl’s heart, a pervert, oh how a kiss was wanted; a simple form of humanity could bring her so much wonderment. But, “That’s just nasty.” That poor girl’s love was stretched across the sea of blurred adolescent faces, and parted when she dared walk among them. They pointed at her desires; those feelings of what she felt were right, good and whole; to live those feelings in the sun of their today.
“Freaking dirty dyke how dare she?” Shaking heads from teachers as they “didn’t realize” the taunting and loud whispers into half opened lockers, “Yeah that’s the one, she nasty.” Jesus slammed down upon her desktop. “Abomination,” spewing from the mouths of teenage girls with bellies swollen from sin’s seed, yet they whipped her with that book until she folded herself in two. Its hell for you, and you since you spoke up…
For two weeks they stopped talking to me. Haven’t they touched lips with others before I reasoned? What’s the difference? “She must be one too.” I tried not to understand what they were saying; I pretended not to fully comprehend, “Naw, I’m a good girl, period. I’m not like that.” It’s not like my gazes at the bodies of other teenage dolls had anything to do with my urge to take them, as she wanted in her embrace.
My sideways glances had nothing to do with longing, though I felt myself become moist at the thought of what lips, what soft lips felt like pressed against mine. But those were fantasies of blonde haired pinups that only crept from the pages of dirty magazines into my bed at night. Maybe I was just curious about myself. Yeah, my body was changing; it looked different, felt different. It felt so nice touching, discovering them secretly to myself. But that was fantasy, a myriad of plastic white doll faces that belonged to no real girl so it couldn’t be. “It couldn’t be, could it?”
They stopped talking…only silence, or whispers. No…whispers. Whispers traveling behind me everywhere I went; that one telling anyone who’d listen. Whispers…as I forged a friendship with that “Dyke,” and we sat and lunched our brown bags, poetry books and her art filled our days with sunshine. I liked her. I was admittedly curious about her. Maybe she could tell me who I was. Help me to understand the conflict within my heart. We laid in the shade of green trees and wrote of melancholy trying to, as any adolescent, to make sense of nonsense, of ups and downs, of phases, of friends and foes. “Maybe it’s that way for you,” she interjected, “Just a phase.” I agreed. I mean I wasn’t a tomboy, despite my outfits. I wanted dresses, makeup…to be a woman in all those feminine aspects. Besides everyone knows dykes are all masculine, at least that’s what I took as truth. The only ray of hope I clung to from the whispered message violating my ears.
I stood up for her and they stopped talking about me, as their attentions faded as softly as school bell tones, ushering the herds to other classes and dilemmas…Now, thankfully, over; and on to the next teen scandal. Yet in my heart raged confusion: kinship, but I wasn’t gay. I wasn’t gay. At least that’s what my mother proclaimed as her eyes traversed my letters. But I felt it. I’d pray. Yes pray and bury those desires. I burned my poetry. What good does prose serve when it doesn’t, it doesn’t. It doesn’t erase my feelings that I felt before they stopped talking. Before kinship, before friendship… that wasn’t it.
I felt in myself and hid. I stood up for her and vehemently denied it, “No, for the last time stop asking me. I just noticed her shoes for heaven’s sake.” But knowing and feeling that my eyes had betrayed me as I raked over girls’ bodies aroused and conflicted; wasn’t I supposed to like men? I stood up for her and they, they became distorted faces into my madness. I must be going mad, to feel as I feel, for someone so like me; so soft, so budding in femininity. I would lie awake and dream of her, allow her life, in my day. “I am losing it.”
My mind, a whirlwind of right and wrong pretty colors that rainbow her to me. I hold on as if I was a kite caught in the wind blowing here and there. “I’ve lost it. I am mad. Angry, upset with it all. With me, me, me.”
I stood for faded memories of masculine lovers trying to exorcise the lust I could not rid my mind of. To reduce the longing to be in soft flesh of the familiar and not this muscular irreverence that everyone, anybody wanted for me. To make and feel and believe a yearning for men would one day wash over me cleanse me of this particular perversion? “It’s unnatural, fundamentally wrong.” I would exhume that little girl that my mother always saw being fully complete and happy with a man. It’s not that she is dead, I don’t think she existed. I made her up not to hurt; to make everyone else happy.
“Therapy?” Obviously, I need it. Am I crazy for not wanting that hardness and not understanding the big deal about sex and love? Always being so upset because, “He just don’t feel right!”
For her, inconsequential moments I have forgotten, as I stare openly, lovingly, honestly, into the eyes of the woman in front of me understanding for once, what I feel and what it should feel like to connect with someone truly.
“I am a lesbian, damnit.” I said it.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Ring/Shout
By Sharon Bridgforth
lil naynay have always loved to shake dance.
she widely knowed at the shake shack for years.
glittered and feathered/tasseled and twirled
she shimmy and drop/slow roll and pop
grind everybody mind to a halt with she sizzle.
lil naynay retired na.
not from old/from just feeling done.
but the history of she/live on in the walls of the joint.
however
lil naynay have opened she own place.
say she feel like owning something of her very own.
something just for womens.
ummmhumm. ain’t no mens allowed up in lil naynay’s.
well/except mr. goodies. mr. goodies ain’t from here/and he don’t tell much a nothing/so we don’t know his real name.
but we calls him mr. goodies
cause we all wants a taste of his packages.
he be sitting alone off in the corner all quiet and lovely
drink jar disappeared in the thick of his hands
the black of he muscles rippling loud from his shirt.
all heads do turn in wonder. ummmhumm
we don’t mind mr. goodies being up in lil naynay’s.
no no/not one bit.
anyway.
wasn’t no other mens allowed up in lil naynay’s
well/except the ho mens she run from the back
and sweet rodger.
sweet rodger tend the door/case a tester want to flex and show.
na/only a stranger would
not know
that ain’t a body lived yet
that could out run or out shoot sweet rodger
and
that lil naynay is expert with that blade she keep packed in she titties.
it’s a little gold number with pearls
tucked right in the tight of she sweat
up in there with all that lace and poured over skin and
anyway.
growing up the only girl in the devils house
lil naynay long ago decided wasn’t nobody ever again
gonn take nuthing from her she didn’t want to give.
and sweet rodger
well/sweet rodger come out the womb clutching his pearls.
he and lil naynay share a knowing of how some people like to
mash and down trod female types.
they both got the fact of that
engraved in they skin and rancid memories.
well/wasn’t none of that allowed up in lil naynay’s.
ain’t no mens at lil naynays cept mr. goodies sweet rodger and the ho mens.
na/lil naynay don’t run no young ho mens/or no sissy ho mens
the sissys gots they own joint and ho mens down the way.
though parently the sissy joint ain’t just for sissys cause sweet rodger say be
plenty a non-sissy man up in the sissy joint just a rolling and a balling the sun up.
ummhumm.
lil naynay’s ho mens there for the service of womens.
be all propped up and pretty smelling like cookies and cake.
my favorite is that big ole juicy one right there wrapping his wide lips round that
fat cigar
rock me daddy
uhh/yes well
anyway.
lil naynay’s ho mens like to take to the stage and shimmy.
she don’t require it/but do encourage it as the shake dancing mean so much to she own
self. ummmhumm. from time to time the ho mens enjoy getting up there and shaking it
long and through the night
smiling/free in hips and thighs and bended knees.
sometimes womens gets up and joins they. every woman need to feel the dip and sway of
she own self from time to time. some nights the free of it release possession right there in
the joint. possession of self. possession of power. possession of newness.
this do make sense cause lil naynay’s on the river
and you know the river is the seat of all womaness/and flow.
when i say lil naynay’s is on the river/i mean it’s on the river
not along it not near it. it’s on it.
i think the river enjoy all the goings on in lil naynay’s
cause it ain’t never been nothing but gentle to that lil shack floating on in the night.
on the bank/always be a pack of mens playing cards and talking long through the night.
i guess they just like the feeling of being close to all that woman business up in there.
they alright though. lil naynay won’t let them in/but she do let they buy licka and food
from back door of the kitchen.
my grandma-aunt porkchops run the kitchen
and baybay i am here to say
that my grandma-aunt porkchops
sho
can
cook.
and the mens seem to enjoy looking at her as much as they enjoy eating she food.
see they calls grandma
porkchops
not from she cooking/naw they say
cause one look at that woman
and you be drooling like you looking at a big ole thick crispy brown
porkchop.
to this day
can’t nobody guess all the old grandma-aunt porkchops is
i asked her one day say
grandma-aunt porkchops how you stay looking so young and shinning?
i’m sorry grandma-aunt porkchops nasty.
she put a bad picture in my mind with she answer.
i really cain’t bring myself to let what she say out my mouth.
uhh/yes well
anyway.
i do know grandma-aunt porkchops start everyday singing to the lawd
well/maybe she ain’t singing to the lawd
but her voice sho sound like heaven
and grandma-aunt porkchops is a nice church lady. she
a urrsha
a sheppard
a flower bringer
a cook
a greeter
just don’t ask her no questions
cause trust me
you ain’t ready for she answers.
anyway
half my family religious
half used to be.
but it’s safe to say/we all agree
sometime you just need a preacher.
sometime you just need a good ole fashion shout put on you
a high holy hand/a hit of salvation/a ride to heaven on the wings of a mighty tongue
a pinch in the
uhh/yes well
anyway.
this was one of those days.
we needed a preacher.
and though we didn’t have one
we did have holy hands in the house.
see/what had happened was
boucilla jones had caught fire dancing on the stage one night.
every grind and lift seem to take her deeper down higher ground.
boucilla drop and moan/dip and circle /hips made the whole room spin.
cheeks streaming.
sweat and wail soak all who witness.
river lift the shack soft.
river rock the room gently.
i see sweet rodger quick close and latch the door.
lil naynay and ho mens run round snatching shine and drink jars off tables
latch all glass behind the bar.
river lift/river rock.
a chorus of help she Jesus come calling like it sunday morning.
i hear grandma-aunt porkchops order pots and plates cleared/hatch kitchen and back.
river lift/river rock
boucilla roll and she wail.
lil naynay pull she blade out she titties clip a piece of boucilla hair toss it to sweet rodger
in one motion. get to dancing.
chorus sing help she Jesus. somebody speak in tongues.
sweet rodger back from delivering hair to grandma-aunt porkchops in kitchen.
sweet rodger dance.
river lift/river rock
louder louder faster higher hips swirl and shake the walls/feet drum floor boards quick.
all of a sudden mr. goodies run up from back the joint.
mr. goodies grab boucilla
chorus pull close/lil naynay and sweet rodger dance.
mr. goodies push boucilla head back with he thick hand/call help she lawd
help she Jesus chorus respond
mr. goodies spit on forehead/call help she lawd
help she Jesus chorus respond
mr. goodies dip boucilla like a baptizing
river lift/river rock
help she lawd
help she Jesus
ho mens circle the circle
tongues shout round room feet drum floor boards quick
lil naynay and sweet rodger dance
then quietly/corner of my eye catch a glistening from mr. goodies shirt
parently/the thick of his hands/the black of he muscles rippling loud
help she lawd
help she Jesus
all the swirling and dipping and spitting and pushing and soaking and feet
drumming /done bust mr. goodies shirt wide open.
and there right there up from him undershirt i see mr. goodies gots titties!
mr. goodies gots titties/i shout.
right when i wiggles under just could reach in and
see if mr. goodies gots goodies
grandma-aunt porkchops snatch me up and off into the kitchen.
well
next thing i knowed
i wake at grandma-aunt porkchops house to sun bright and morning quiet.
i don’t know what happened the rest of the night
i don’t know if mr. goodies gots goodies
but i tell you what
i am fo sho
mr. goodies gots titties.
ummhumm.
well/i jump up before wash and brush/before coffee and biscuit/i runs back to lil naynays.
there i see lil naynay sweet rodger grandma-aunt porkchops mr. goodies and ho mens
joshiaus and honey/and of course boucilla jones.
they all naked as you please
in the river in the sun
circled round boucilla
who they dip and hold in the water.
grandma-aunt porkchops feel me peeking behind the trees/say
come here gal
i try to get over there but get caught up in mr. goodies .
just as i suspect/mr. goodies ain’t gots no goodies at all.
thing is he more glorious with all him she parts that i ever could have imaged with
him he things. mr. goodies coco brown skin too rich to take in all at once/him muscles on
flesh rumble more than shirt could ever show/rippling hard in pouring river and sun.
him titties soft and small and perfectly balance the curve of him hips and thighs
well/just as i get to the gold
grandma-aunt porkchops snatch me from where i stand
i don’t know how she always can sneak up on me like a a a a a one day
i’m see she coming first/and a a a a a
uhh/yes well
anyway.
next thing i knowed i’m naked and singing in the water/doing my part
to lift mr. goodies prayers/with him might holy hands to the sky.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Cat And Mouse
By Tawanna P. Sullivan
The wind and rain beat a frantic rhythm against the car and the windshield wipers fought a losing battle. Aria should have pulled into the rest stop and waited out the storm, but home was only sixty miles away. While most of her co-workers were stuck at the airport, she would have the privilege of sleeping in her own bed.
It had been a hellish week. The new CEO had decided to take the annual management retreat in a radically new direction. Workshops and leadership building had been replaced by a mishmash of new-age spiritual whole-being-ness and customer manipulation. Marketing gurus hired for the week tried to convince them that they were spiritual partners, not indistinguishable cogs in the corporate machine.
In whispered conversations, everyone acknowledged it was a waste of time--stockholders are not going to hold your hand and meditate for higher dividends. Anyone who spoke out in-session was accused of being negative. Aria sat in the circles, took her turn with the ceremonial “speaking stick” and tried to act the part of a true believer. Fake smiles, fake community, fake intimacy—she couldn’t wait to get away from those people.
Home was sanctuary…
A truck surged passed and Aria struggled to keep control of her Jeep. Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, she crept around accidents and suspicious pools of water.
The relief Aria felt as she pulled into her own driveway was immeasurable. She decided to leave her suitcase in the trunk, if a thief was desperate enough to risk the deluge for her dirty socks then more power to him.
A few steps on the cobblestone path and she was at her front door searching for the right key. It seemed like an eternity to get the locks open. Then, she was greeted by a rush of foul, nauseating air. “Damn!”
After taking a moment to collect herself, Aria took two steps into the living room, turned on a lamp and collapsed on the sofa. The screen door was no match for the storm, but a damp rug was a small price to pay for fresh air. Her shoes and socks were drenched. She pulled them off and, as if on cue, a black lump of fur appeared to purr around her naked ankles. “What have you done, Mr. Scissors?” She asked. “Turned the whole house into a litter box?”
Mr. Scissors had a knack for ignoring criticism. He rolled over on his back and exposed his fat belly. She scooped him up—he definitely hadn’t missed a meal--and held him close. “Mommy missed you, too. She’s just pissed that no one bothered to scoop your poop.”
Aria thought back to the night before she left. She had wanted to leave Mr. Scissors in a cat hotel, but her best friend Rachel was appalled by the idea. “That’s cruel! How would you like to be ripped away from home and locked away for a week?” Other people in the restaurant turned to see what the fuss was about and Aria wanted to disappear into the floor.
Even a brochure from the place couldn’t convince Rachel that Mr. Scissors would be in the feline version of a country club. “I would let him stay with me, but...” Rachel didn’t have to finish. She was taking care of her sick mother and barely had time for herself.
That’s when Jennifer, Rachel’s girlfriend, volunteered for cat duty. “I can stop by in the afternoon and make sure he’s getting plenty of food and water. I’ll play around with him for a little bit.” Though she was talking to Aria, Jennifer had reached across the table to stroke her lover’s hands.
Rachel was thrilled with the idea and, against her better judgment, Aria had given Jennifer a set of keys.
She sighed. “And now I have a house full of shit.”
Slowly beginning to recharge, Aria glanced around the room. From the books spilling off the shelves to the cat toys piled in the corner, everything looked just as disorganized as she left it. If Jennifer had been snooping, at least she had been nice enough to put everything back in its place. It was great to be in familiar surroundings.
She noticed new claw marks in the recliner’s wooden handle. The scratching post she had strategically placed next to it still looked brand new. “What am I going to do with you?” Mr. Scissors ignored her and began washing his face. He was innocent, of course. “Let’s see what other damage you’ve done.”
Aria pushed herself up and started towards the kitchen. The plan was simple: empty the litter box, open a few windows, take a hot shower and then bed.
In the dining room, Aria was surprised to find the litter box nestled in its usual corner and practically empty. Mr. Scissors made a point of strolling over nonchalantly and lying in front of his throne. His tail gently swept the floor and brought her attention to a few smears of dried blood.
The smears led to bloody paw prints that were more pronounced as her gaze followed them into the kitchen, past bowls overflowing with cat food, to a small clump of brown and red sitting on the linoleum. “Congratulations Mr. Scissors, you’ve caught a mouse.” At least she hoped it was a mouse and not one of the many rats attracted to the vacant house next door.
It wasn’t until she flipped on the light and looked around the counter that Aria discovered the “mouse” was a ponytail and attached to a woman’s head. “Rachel?” She touched the shoulder and the neck tilted unnaturally backwards to reveal the soulless eyes of a stranger.
Concern transformed into terror and Aria whirled around to make sure no one was behind her. She ran until she felt the cold, muddy ground under her feet.
It was after she heard the wail of the first siren that she realized the rain had stopped.
*
“Baby, this was a great idea.” Rachel took Jennifer’s hand as they left Brasserie Bordeaux. “I miss having one on one time with you.” It had taken a leap of faith to leave her mother in the care of David, her baby brother, for the night.
“Reservations be damned. I knew we wouldn’t have a problem getting a table.” Jennifer’s black Corvette pulled up to the curb and the valet made a point to open the door for each of them. “Now that the body has been fed, come home with me so I can feed your soul.”
Throughout dinner, Rachel had tried to silence the pangs of desire welling up within her. She had failed miserably. “Let me call home just to make sure everything is alright.”
Pouting made Jennifer look like an exasperated 5-year old. “If there was an emergency, David would have called the restaurant and he has my home number.”
“I’ll turn the phone on to see if he called. If he didn’t, I’ll turn it back off.” Rachel didn’t want to argue. Lately, what little time they could carve out together ended in anger and hurt feelings.
“Do whatever you have to do to put your mind at ease. Tonight I want you all to myself.” Jennifer drove away from the restaurant entrance but there was no reason to get back on the highway until she knew which direction they were going in. She knew she was treading on thin ice. Rachel had warned her from the beginning that she couldn’t dedicate herself 100% to a relationship.
The series of short beeps from the cell phone indicated that a voicemail message had been received. Rachel had to listen to it three times to fully comprehend Aria’s trembling voice: there’s a corpse in my kitchen.
Jennifer didn’t even try to hide the irritation in her voice. “What’s wrong?”
“We have to go to Aria’s house.”
“You haven’t seen her for a whole week, one more day won’t hurt.”
“She said there’s a dead woman in her house.” Aria’s line was busy but Rachel kept hitting the redial button. “Was everything okay when you saw Mr. Scissors this morning? Did you lock the door behind you? Of course you did someone must have broken in.” Her partner’s silence troubled her. “Everything was fine this morning?”
Jennifer rested her head against the steering wheel. “Fuck,” she whispered. “I couldn’t make it to Aria’s on Tuesday. I was supposed to go after work, but half of the office is on vacation and clients were having problems left and right.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have fed the cat with no problem.”
“How? Were you going to run halfway across town to take care of him on your lunch break? I asked Maria to check up on him.”
“Maria?” Rachel shook her head in disbelief. “The intern from last year?”
“I was going to get the key back from her tomorrow. Did Aria say how it happened?”
“No. We won’t find out sitting here. Let’s go.” Rachel needed a distraction and began a fruitless search for a decent radio station. There were too many questions lingering in the air. This wasn’t the right time for jealousy—especially, if the girl was dead.
“Baby, I’m sorry.” For her part, Jennifer noted that Rachel had stopped worrying about her mother.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
*
Aria leaned against the trunk of her car. She stayed out of the way of the procession trudging back and forth into her house. She clearly, though not calmly, told the 911 operator that the woman was dead, so why did the paramedics bother showing up at all? Though her feet were still cold, at least she was wearing shoes now. Tucked safely away in his cat carrier, Mr. Scissors hissed at everything that moved.
Two officers had questioned her already. Now Detective Fox, a weary looking man in a crumpled suit, was taking his turn. “Ms. Temple, do you know the deceased or have any idea why she’s in your residence?”
“No.”
“Is anything missing?”
“I don’t know. I ran out of the house and haven’t been inside since.” It was the first time Aria had seen a body outside of a casket. She tried to cleanse the image from her mind but it wouldn’t budge. “She didn’t look like a thief.” Detective Fox raised a bushy eyebrow. “I mean, she was wearing a business suit.”
“We can look into that later. How long has the body been here?”
Aria tried not to show her frustration, but she sensed he was trying to trick her. “I don’t know. I’ve been at Greenfield Lodge for the last eight days.”
“For business or pleasure?”
“Business. It was a management retreat.”
“There was a flood warning in this area. Any reason you had to risk life and limb to get here? Were you meeting someone?”
“No.” Her one word answer led to furious scribbling in his note pad. She should have called a lawyer too. “I just wanted to be back in my own bed.”
“According to her license, the deceased is Maria Alvarez. Doesn’t ring a bell?”
“No.”
“Can you explain why she had a key to your house?”
“No.”
The screen door opened and two men brought the body bag out on a stretcher. The detective left her in the driveway and met the coroner on the porch. Aria clamped her eyes shut and fought the urge to be sick.
“Aria, are you okay?”
She turned to see Rachel and Jennifer walking towards her. Dodging Rachel’s embrace, Aria turned the full force of her anger to Jennifer. “What the hell did you do?”
Before Jennifer could answer, Detective Fox returned. “I have some good news for you Ms. Temple.” His words had lost that accusatory tone. “Coroner suspects the deceased had a seizure and hit her head on the counter. We won’t be certain until an autopsy is completed, but it doesn’t look like homicide.”
“Detective Fox, these are my friends Rachel and Jennifer.” Aria nodded towards the couple. “Jennifer is the one who volunteered to cat-sit for me.”
The word “volunteered” got the eyebrow excited and the detective gently lead the now sobbing Jennifer aside to get a statement. Rachel started to follow them, but Aria blocked her path. “What do you know about this?”
“Jennifer couldn’t make it every day, so she asked a former intern to feed Mr. Scissors. I didn’t know this until a few minutes ago.”
“An intern?”
“I know. I don’t think she knew the girl all that well.”
When Aria saw Jennifer coming back to join them, she crossed. It has been decades since she’d been in a fight, but she didn’t trust herself not to put her hands around the woman’s throat. Jennifer dabbed her puffy eyes with tissue. “Aria, I’m sorry. I didn’t have the time to come every day and I didn’t want to put more of a burden on Rachel.”
“I entrusted you with the keys to my house. Not Rachel’s house. I should have been your primary concern.”
“I know what I did was fucked up, but I—”
“You don’t get it. This is not about you or your feelings or what you want or what you were trying to do.”
Rachel touched Aria’s arm. “It’s unfortunate that she died, but-”
“No, I’m tired of you defending her.” Aria pulled away from her friend and months of animosity came to the surface. “Flirting with women in front of you, pressing you to put your mother in a home--dismiss all that if you want to. I’m not going to pretend that she didn’t give a stranger the key to my house.”
Jennifer backs away and says to Rachel. “They want me to go to the police station and give them a full statement. I’ll wait by the car.”
Rachel couldn’t look Aria in the eye and her voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”
“I’ll be okay. Get your girl out of here before there’s a real murder.”
*
It had taken two weeks, but Aria was finally starting to feel comfortable in her own home again. After delivering the news that Maria Alvarez’s death was the result of internal hemorrhaging brought on by a self-inflicted skull-fracture, Detective Fox had given her the number of a trauma scene clean-up service. They had come in their big blue suits like they were working with radioactive material. Even afterwards, she thought a faint odor of death lingered. It had taken a top to bottom scrubbing by a maid service to give her nose comfort.