They drove in separate cars.
It was the strangest drive of Gayle’s life because every single street corner she approached seemed to beckon as an escape route.
What am I doing? she asked herself a hundred times.
She even glanced at her own eyes in the rearview.
Her inner parasite gave her no answers and the look in her reflection’s eyes was that of excitement. Interest. Hunger.
Yes.
All of those.
The house looked old but was one of the faux Victorians that had sprung up after the Trouble. Beautiful and ornate, with turrets, dormers, and a wide wraparound porch with decorative railings and turned posts. And everywhere outside was lovely trim work, including gingerbread cutouts and spindle work. They ran up onto the porch, both of them laughing because the rain was so fierce and cold that hiding under umbrellas was a complete waste of time.
Dianna unlocked the door and held it open for Gayle to enter first.
The place was clean but not neat, with stacks of magazines and books everywhere, untidy shelves of crystals, musical instruments from cultures Gayle couldn’t even name, and an improbable number of cats. They seemed to be everywhere and of every species—smoky gray, orange stripes, calico, and one named Noapte, which Dianna explained was Romani for night, and who was midnight black except for a white heart-shaped patch on her throat.
Dianna took her wet coat and hung it up and offered her a towel.
“I’m soaked to the skin,” said Gayle, and then flushed because it was obvious to both of them. Her silk sweater clung to her and the cold made her nipples stand out in undeniable points.
“I can get you a robe,” said Dianna, and went off to do that before Gayle could protest. She came back with a thick dark blue terry-cloth and indicated the guest room where Gayle could change. It was done without a hint of suggestion about anything that might follow, and as Gayle undressed she wondered if she’d read the whole thing wrong. Despite the passion of the kiss at Tank Girl, there had been no understanding that they were going to make out.
She realized that’s all she was thinking about. Making out. She caught a look at herself in the mirror—soaked, bedraggled, and in her underwear—and had to laugh. Her hair hung in rattails and she was covered in goose bumps.
“Oh, yes,” she said to her reflection, “total sex goddess.”
She debated leaving her bra and panties on, but they, too, were soaked. So she took the plunge and stepped out of them, hanging everything on the shower curtain rail and towel racks in the en suite bathroom. Then she pulled on the robe and cinched the belt tightly around her waist, taking care to tie a knot that wouldn’t just pop open.
There was a soft knock and she opened the door to see Dianna also in a robe. Hers was purple and had embroidered tulips on it. Her hair was back in a ponytail and she’d washed all the makeup from her face. Her skin was a medium brown and there were some small acne scars from long ago. A real face, without a trace of pretense.
They stood for a moment, looking at each other without sound.
Then Dianna touched her own cheek. “Me in factory settings,” she said. “Don’t be scared.”
“No,” said Gayle quickly. “No … God, you’re beautiful.”
They stood a yard apart, but Dianna smiled faintly and said, “Come here and say that.”
Which Gayle, after only a moment’s hesitation, did.
They made love in Dianna’s big bed.
It was very sweet and very slow and very strange for Gayle.
At first it was merely tender, with them holding each other and kissing. Rediscovering and deepening the rhythm of the kiss from an hour ago. They wore their robes and Dianna did not touch her in any sexual way. No, she left that door for Gayle to open. After fifteen minutes or more, Gayle touched Dianna’s cheek and then let her fingers drift down along the side of the woman’s neck and over her collarbone and along the V neckline of the robe. There was another pause—a mere heartbeat—and then she flattened her hand and ran it very lightly over one full breast. When her palm brushed over the cloth tented over the nipple, Dianna shivered. So did Gayle.
Their kisses continued while that hand rested there, unmoving. Gayle was almost afraid to break the spell. She had come this far, dared this much, but was she really ready to go further?
Dianna hooked a finger in the collar of her robe and pulled it open so that Gayle’s hand now touched her bare skin.
“Yes,” murmured Dianna. She leaned over and kissed the soft flesh below Gayle’s ear. It sent an electric thrill through Gayle’s whole body. Once upon a time Scott used to kiss her like that. In some other century, in some other life. Dianna’s kisses were quick, with small bites.
Gayle continued to caress Dianna’s breasts and, try as she might, she could not help comparing this woman’s body to her own. It was maddening. Dianna had larger breasts and her nipples were paler, pinker, with smaller areoles. The flesh was shaped differently and the surface rippled with each of Dianna’s deepening breaths. It was surreal, because Gayle kept expecting her own breast, her own nipple, to feel what she was doing to Dianna. As if this were her touching herself.
She realized, too, that she was tensing for the moment of pounce—when Scott would climb on top and use his knees to part her thighs, spreading her for penetration. Her body had become conditioned to that as the inevitable next stage.
But Dianna lay there and kissed her.
And soon Dianna’s hands began caressing her. She found all the places that sent electric thrills through Gayle, but it was alien. Just as she had been struck at how different it felt to kiss another woman, or to hold one in her arms in a passionate embrace, it was equally strange to be touched by one. There was a gentleness that was in no way weakness. There was a knowingness in each caress. Dianna doing to her what she knew felt good to a woman because she was a woman.
When Dianna went down on her, it was absolutely beautiful and Gayle nearly broke into tears. Her body writhed like a snake, and she gasped when Dianna slid a finger inside while her tongue flicked and danced.
It was nearly perfect.
Nearly.
But not.
And the fault, Gayle knew, was in no way Dianna’s.
This was so different. Much different than she expected, much different than she dreamed about. Despite all of the wonderful, beautiful things this lovely woman did, she was unable to fully relax. There was a gradual rise toward climax, but the orgasm eluded her. And after a while both of them knew it. Gayle almost—almost—faked an orgasm, but did not. It would be an ugly thing to do. A lie in the midst of discovering truths.
When she went down on Dianna it was beautiful and delicious, and for a while Gayle was completely lost in it. Doing to Dianna what the woman had done to her. Dianna’s orgasm, when it came, was intense. She turned her mouth and bit a pillow and screamed, her hips bucking as Gayle fought to hold on, to maintain contact so as not to spoil the orgasm before it ran its course.
Afterward they kissed again. And touched. And went down on each other again. Gayle did not come. Dianna did, but it took more effort. Maybe because second orgasms often do, or maybe it was because of the burden placed on the moment by Gayle’s inability to come at all.
Eventually it was just sweetness and quiet. Neither of them saying much at all. Listening to the rain. Dianna held Gayle tenderly against her breast, stroking her hair and her back and occasionally kissing the top of her head.
The only words spoken throughout their time in that big bed were said as Gayle was getting up to get dressed to go home. Dianna watched her rise and put on the blue robe, but before it was belted, she said, “You are beautiful.”
That made Gayle cry and she wheeled and fled to the guest bedroom where her clothes waited. Where another version of Gayle waited to be put on like a garment and worn for the ride home.