The Sista in 3J
By Chantale Reve
Copyright © 2011 Chantale Reve
Smashwords Edition
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Front-loading washing machines in the dim, dank laundry room lurched and groaned their grievances over decades of neglect. But worse than that, Val was missing her favorite prime-time soap, The Edge of Passion, because she had gone to the gym over the weekend instead of laundering her clothes. Cursing under her breath, she sipped on chamomile tea from a mug that read “Love Conquers All” in faded-black capital letters on an eggshell-white background, the lukewarm liquid miraculously avoiding seepage through the crazing. She absentmindedly traced her fingers over the disharmonious geometric mosaic of survival cracks that matched the mapping of her well-traveled heart. As she leaned back in her favorite red folding chair, her wide hips straining against the metal, she fixed her gaze at the lather spewing onto the glass of the machine.
Up at street level, the police sirens, screeching of cars, restless laughter of young people on spring break, and humming amen corners of brown, beige and ebony sages formed a kinetic quilt of the African Diaspora. Indeed, the frenetic, tough and culture-steeped Bedford-Stuyvesant streets seemed a world away. Do or die? she mused the neighborhood’s survival motto. Feels like a little of both, today anyway.
Like the ebb and flow of the ocean, the toxic water in the washers pulsed, teased, receded and splashed, reminding her of the approaching summer. But two months was too long a wait for the relentless sun to melt her frozen heart. She longed to embrace her lover again, to apologize for the misunderstandings that sent her mind whirling like wet clothes on spin cycle. Closing her eyes from the assault of the laundry room's fluorescent lighting, as blinding as sunrays, she began tracing the events that led her to an unbearable emotional solitary confinement.
*****
The last time Val trusted abandoning her wash to catch up on fictional characters airing their dirty laundry via the all-soap cable channel was a lonely night in January. She was sipping on jasmine tea at the faux-walnut snack table and dipping chunks of a potato samosa in plum sauce in a feeble attempt to watch her figure. A former high school sprinter, she was confident that her athleticism would rescue her from the perils of urban living despite her parents' warnings about careless acts such as doing laundry late at night.
Running down three flights of stairs to the laundry room in the basement only took a minute but the effort was moot because, to her surprise and embarrassment, someone had taken the liberty of removing her intimate apparel from the washing machine. Bras, thongs and camisoles were strewn about wantonly. On several washers, across a dryer and on the floor. She had no choice but to retrieve them and prepare them, albeit with much silent cursing, for a repeat wash. Who would do such a thing? she wondered.
Reaching down to grasp a lacy pink thong from the gritty floor beside a corner washer, she suddenly noticed a shadow loom over hers and found her answer. Without warning, a firm mocha hand covered hers and a dusky voice uttered, "Don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you."
"Are you the one responsible for —" Val could not complete her question.
"No, of course not. I've been the unofficial monitor of our building's basement," said the muscular woman, now helping Val to her feet. "Turns out there's a panty raider among our neighbors, and he or she is frightening the crap out of the women who do their laundry on-site."
"Geez, maybe I should go to the Laundromat around the corner — Sudz," said Val. She thanked her neighbor, extending her hand and introducing herself.
"Pleased to meet you, Val. My name is Isis and, no, I do not hold the magical secrets of Ancient Khemet."
Both women chuckled, and Val gently pushed Isis' shoulder as if she had known her for aeons. When Val's eye locked on a thong that remained on the floor, Isis could not resist teasing her. "Hmm, I see someone has a naughty side, huh?"
"Well, I-I-I like to fantasize that I'm as sexy as one of those supermodels in their barely there lingerie," said Val, squatting to sweep up the stray thong.
"Why don't you give me your phone number in case of an emergency," Isis said, tugging at a paper in the back pocket of her tight jeans. "You know, with panty raiders among us and all," she said, laughing.
Val laughed back nervously but complied, adding her apartment number, 3J, to the paper. Her confidence was back in the safe zone, but Isis insisted that she return to her apartment.
"I'll guard the rest of your wash for the night," Isis said. She accepted her new friend's roll of quarters, her fingers brushing Val's palms and recording their softness, and then sent her upstairs.
Smiling at the fading thuds of Val's ascent, Isis ran her thick fingers through the metallic blonde tufts framing her oval face. In profile her head resembled that of an exquisite West African wood carving, the kind she had bought at the indoor market on 125th Street in Harlem. She dropped five quarters one at a time in a washer's coin tray, pushed it forward and launched the wash, sensing her blood surge through her veins as powerfully as the machine's motor. She relished her chair duty in the manner of a lifeguard misusing his or her vantage point to spy on the hard bodies wading out into the surf.
While Val was upstairs cradling another ceramic cup filled with soothing chamomile tea, in preparation for The Edge of Passion, Isis was downstairs stopping the washer to remove one suds-soaked undergarment after another. When she found her favorite article — the nylon black thong — she stretched the narrow crotch between her thumb and middle finger, and with her other hand she undid the zipper to her jeans, tugged aside her own sopping thong and diddled the purple clit head that was extended from its engorged sheath. Then she placed the drenched panties in her back pocket.
*****
Several hours passed, and Val stubbornly awakened to her telephone's insistent ring tones. The Edge of Passion was watching her, which made her laugh inwardly.
“Hi,” the raspy voice whispered. “Val, did I wake you? It’s me, Isis. I’m holding your thong for ransom.”
“Oh, I overslept,” Val said. She did not hear Isis’ joke. Instead, she offered, “Do you wanna come up now, or should I —”
“Don’t bother leaving your apartment. It’s nearly 10 p.m. I’ll fold everything and come up in about 20 minutes.”
It took 15 minutes for Isis to fold the clothes and another 15 minutes to shower away the cum that had oozed around her crotch during her self-adventure in the musty cellar. Her apartment was situated one floor beneath Val’s, and therefore she was at her friend’s threshold, wearing a fresh T-shirt and jeans, before the 11 o’clock news could begin. In one of her back pockets she had stashed the cum-caked nylon black thong because that aroused her and gave her a power befitting an Egyptian queen.
“Am I too early for the pajama party?” Isis asked jokingly.
“Uh, I think I’m a tad underdressed, don’t ya think?” Val replied, at first looking upset that Isis was late. In typical fashion, she shrugged off the minor annoyance, then pulled Isis through the door with much effort. “You are welcome anytime,” she said.
“Welcome to do what, young lady?” Isis said, flexing her eyebrows. She dumped the laundry bag near Val’s hat stand and followed her to the lumpy plaid sofa.
“What are we watching on TV tonight, honey?” Isis asked, her right hand supporting her chin and left hand resting on her crotch in a mock-masculine gesture.
Val could only laugh heartily, apologizing in between to neighbors as if they could hear the joyful noise she was sharing with her newfound companion. She sashayed in Isis’ direction, wearing a flannel, plaid prairie-style gown and fuzzy pink slippers, then plunked down wearily on the sofa beside Isis. “Something tells me you’re going to be like the big sister I never had,” she told Isis.
Isis walked over to the laundry bag, reached inside and pulled out a DVD, then returned to the sofa. When she dimmed the lamps on the end tables, Val opened her eyes, wondering what was happening and then spotted the title of the DVD: Sappho Sistas Part VI.
“What’s up, Isis? I thought we would just be hanging out, just talking and playing chess or Scrabble. I mean, it being a Friday night and all,” said Val.
Isis moved closer to Val, glancing up from her pendulous breasts to her full lips. “I sensed downstairs, when you embraced my hand, that is — well, I thought we had a connection, a certain, you know, un … der … stand … ing,” she said, planting a kiss on Val’s neck between each syllable.
“Look, I don’t, oo-oo-ooh —” Val was speechless for what seemed like the longest minute in her adult life. Then, whimpering, she tried to reason with her seducer: “I mean, oh, God. I mean, I-I-I’m straight, Isis.”