Horizontal Therapy

Auth Note: This is my first attempt at first person present tense. Please R&R at how it works

          This isn’t a story about sex. It’s supposed to be, and I like to write about sex. I can’t recall a single story I’ve ever written that wasn’t about sex on some level. But writing about sex requires me to be very there, and there I’m not. I haven’t been since Marie left.

          So here I am, sitting in this god-awful retreat trying to write. I used to love writer’s retreats, especially the ones my friend Kerry holds here at Falling Rainbow Ranch, but this has to be the most out-of-my-mind bored I’ve been in a long time. Worse, the session this afternoon is on writing sex.

          Originally, Kerry wanted me to lead the class. After all, I have the reputation for writing some of the steamiest lesbian love scenes in print. I told her I couldn’t, that I was off my game. She pouted and batted her eyes and tried to ply me with wine, but I didn’t budge. That was Monday, four days ago. I should have taken her wine and kept drinking it, because this week is turning into a wasted trip.

          The mix of women at Kerry’s retreats used to fascinate me. Published authors, like me, sitting next to neophyte writers who just figured out last month that pen and paper could produce a story. I suspect some of them just come to rub elbows with their idols, maybe try and tip a famous dyke’s heels into bed. I was as surprised as Marie when I was first published to find out there were lesbian romance groupies. Who’d have figured?

          Anyway, back to the story. Our assignment is to write a scene about two women exploring each other for the first time. Kids’ stuff. I’ve done that scene a half dozen times through the years. Problem is, I haven't explored a woman for the first time since 1992, and my memory ain’t what it used to be. Besides, dredging up how Marie felt that first time isn’t on my list of top ten things to do. At the moment, it falls somewhere between changing the litter box and trying to figure out just what that foil in the back of the fridge is supposed to contain.

          I’m not saying Marie was my muse, because she wasn’t. I’m just not in the mood to be writing about hills and valleys of passion knowing hers are now under the exploration of Tina Gonzales. Go figure, she spends eleven years worrying about whether I’m dining “a la carte” with my fans, and she’s the one who ends up doing take out.

          I give up. I can’t sit here and write this idiotic scene. This isn’t high school, there’s no reason I can’t just get up and walk out.

***

          The lake here is very peaceful. I figure a walk along the shore might sort me out, but I don’t count on Kerry tracking me down. Kerry was very supportive through the whole breakup, and she’s the one who pushed me to come this week. She’s sort of a best friend, editor, and cheerleader all rolled into one; it was Kerry who got me started writing romance in the first place back in the 80’s. But sometimes she’s a bit overwhelming. This is looking like one of those times.

          “Angelina, why’d you leave the session? I was looking forward to using your scene in the discussion.” Kerry looks up at me with her wide chocolate eyes. I’ve always thought her eyes were great.

          “Because there was no scene.” I try not to sound as gruff as I feel. “I just couldn’t do it.”

          “Look, woman, I know you can write a love scene. You’ve got to put Marie out of your mind.”

          I stop walking and draw in a breath. I’m wondering whether she’ll take it personally if I rip her head off. I settle for narrowing my eyes at her. “Three months ain’t that long a time, Kerry. Not after all those years.”

          “No, it’s not. But you still have to do it, and sulking isn’t going to bring her back.” Kerry puts her hands on her hips and stares right back at me.

          I look at her hard. She’s like a short, café au lait bulldog when she gets a thought in her head. “No, but it makes me feel better.”

          She rolls her eyes. “What you need is a good horizontal therapy session.”

          “Oh, and I suppose you’re going to volunteer to be my therapist?” I have to laugh, even though I don’t want to. Kerry’s been celibate longer than I have, ever since her last girlfriend gave her the scare of her life by sharing needles with the unsavory crowd she was hanging out with at the time. So that makes it almost two years for Kerry. And she tells me I need to get over it.

          Kerry crosses her arms under her breasts and gives me the once over. “If that’s what it takes.” I’m not expecting that. Kerry doesn’t do white girls. She told me once we taste funny. Before I can figure out what to say back to her, she laughs. “Try not to miss the bonfire, would you?”

          “Ok.” It’s the best I can manage. She pats my cheek and walks off. It takes me a while to decide she was kidding with me. She’d have to be. Even so, I feel thrown. I’m thinking now would be a good time to head back to my cabin for a drink.

***

          The bonfire is a tradition at the Ranch. Friday and Saturday nights, everybody gets together and sits around the fire. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we sing. Sometimes there’s improv storytelling. Tonight I don’t participate much. I find staring into the flames more interesting. I do that, stare at fire. Sometimes I see stories. Now I just see Marie leaving.

          The night wears on and women wander off to bed. Finally, it’s just Kerry and me. She’s been quiet all evening too. I’m thinking it isn’t like her, and I’m wondering why. She doesn’t look at me, even though we’re sitting on the same side of the fire.

          We’re silent for a long time. Finally, I glance over and see her eyes on me. The darkness seems to yield her unwillingly, and I watch the play of light and shadow across her face as the logs settle and the fire burns low. I think to myself how beautiful she is. I’m surprised by that; I’ve never really looked at her in that way before.

          I feel like I need to say something. “I suppose it’s time to turn in.”

          “If you’re tired.” Her voice is distant. “I don’t think I can sleep right now.”

          “Why not?”

          She looks at me levelly. I notice how full her lips are, how the red-brown of them melts into the lighter brown of her face. “I’ve got a lot to think about.”

          “Anything I can help with?” I smile when she does, but hers fades quickly.

          “You’re the only one who could.” She looks back at the fire. I see how smooth her skin is. Like she’s carved out of tan marble. The gray streaks in her short hair give her character, but her face hides its true age well. I find it hard to believe she’s nearly forty-five.

          “Well then, how?” I get a sense of inner turmoil from her. It bothers me. I don’t like to see Kerry upset.

          “I wasn’t joking this afternoon.” She doesn’t face me as she says it.

          My heart flips over and drops a fireball into my stomach. I try to sound light, but I'm afraid she’ll hear my voice wavering. “About what, me needing to get laid or you offering to do it?”

          “Both.” She looks at me now. “It’s killing me to see you so turned inward.”

          “Sex won’t cure that.”

          “No, but it might start the healing.” She drops her head and stares at her feet.

          “It’s pretty selfless of you to offer,” I say, trying to puzzle out how to handle this. “I know how you feel about us white girls.”

          She stands and her eyes are fierce when she glares at me. “You don’t know anything. And I didn’t offer to be selfless.”

          I look up at her. “I had no idea –“

          She interrupts me. “You weren’t meant to. I wasn’t about to come between you and Marie. I guess it will always be about coming between you and Marie though.”

          I watch her stride off. For a few seconds I just sit there, and then the little voice in the back of my brain kicks in and tells me to go after her. I do. I catch up with her at the bottom of the steps to her cabin. “Kerry ….”

          “What?” I’m not sure in the darkness, but I think she’s crying. “What, Angelina? I’m sorry I told you. I shouldn’t have presumed.”

          I kiss her. There’s no intention; I just do it. Her lips are salty with tears. I kiss them away from her mouth and her cheeks. She doesn’t try to stop me. “I’m sorry I was so flip. I just didn’t see it coming.”

          “I’ve wanted you since we first met. Back then I was too hung up with the whole race thing to act on it, and then you met Marie.” Her voice is choked and she sniffles a couple of times.

          “Let’s go inside.” I take her arm and start up the stairs.

          She resists. “Don’t come in if you’re going to leave tonight.”

          I turn and look at her. I can barely see her face with the dim light from the window, but I know she’s determined. I look inside myself; the ache I feel is growing, the ache to be with her. I don’t want to be a jerk; I don’t want to sleep with her just to make her feel better. And I realize it’s the furthest thing from my mind. As I recognize my want for her, I wonder why I never saw it before.

          She is still looking at me, waiting. I don’t care about the why. All I care about is the want. “Let’s go inside,” I say. “Before I start undressing you here.”

          I explore her as I undress her. Her skin is silk under my fingers, her scent fills me with a deep aching need. I taste her mouth, her neck, her shoulder as I lower her to the bed. She pulls me on top of her, her hands studying the planes of my back and hips, her mouth hungry on mine.

          I discover the fullness of her breasts with my fingers, and then with my lips. I drink in the taste of her, amazed at the subtle differences in each spot I kiss. Her scent fills my nose, also subtly changing as I move down her body. The gentle curve of her belly falls into the mass of curls between her thighs, and I learn her terrain with my mouth, feeling her arch under me.

          I drink from her as she surrenders to me, drink both her wetness and the energy of her orgasm, riding her crest until she begs me, no more. And then I lie fully against her, take her in my arms, and kiss away the new tears that well up from her eyes as she thanks me.

          She is tender with me, whispering her wonderment as she explores my body. I open to her, embracing her movements against me with a pleasure I thought I could never feel again, not sure I’ve ever felt. When she draws the final ounce of desire from me, I find myself crying with joy; joy that she loves me so well, and joy that I am fully hers.

          I sleep at last, holding her close to my side as her scent continues to gently fill my dreams.

***

          The next retreat comes, and I'm glad to volunteer to teach the session on writing sex. I've been prolific in the previous months, and Kerry’s willing indulgence of my need for her keeps me filling the pages with tales of passionate love. I'm driven now, by the desire for her and the desire to put into words what I feel when I touch her.

          I guess that this really is a story about sex. But I write this and think that no, it isn’t, because sex is a superficial thing and what Kerry and I share is born deep within. This is a story about exploring hidden passion. This is a story about love.