shaky I felt about this weekend date. Maybe my opinion of the woman was completely wrong, maybe I'd be on edge throughout a quiet social evening and end up bewildered and embarrassed. And what if I was right? Wouldn't it still be just a nervous escapade followed by remorse? So why go looking for trouble?
Somehow my dim view brightened when I heard the saucy horn honk and whirled around to see her behind the wheel of a shiny little roadster. Right on time. My hostess, the elegant Florinda. I slid onto the seat alongside her. She stepped on the gas and headed away from the campus, threading through traffic toward her home on the other side of the city.
I was almost exhilarated now, glad to be on the move into a new adventure. Besides, after dressing so carefully for the great occasion my sexy black sheath with minimal lingerie underneath-wouldn't it have been disappointing to back out? I must have looked good to her right then; even in traffic she kept peeking over at me. Emboldened by curiosity, I intercepted one of those sidelong glances and returned her gaze. Again there was some mysterious, spark of communication between us, only this time it had a kind of horny effect, familiar shock waves in the pit of my gut and I knew for sure that she was a lesbian. I didn't guess. I knew. And now something else became immediately clear, too, and I knew why it was all happening. Why I was there. At last I understood the reason, the one and only valid reason for this apparent moral lapse of mine, this sudden willingness to set aside normal pleasures and dabble in perversion once more.
There was a leftover memory to blur, to erase, to exorcise, a painfully poignant memory that needed only the proper purgative to be consigned to oblivion. Like brainwashing, in a way. Dilute the old memory with a lot of little new ones, all in that same vein, just as precious on a smaller scale. Enough lesbian silver bullets to lay a haunting lesbian ghost, enough lesbian laughs to drown out the lamentation of a lesbian tragedy…
Alix, you snooty slut, get lost! Get rejected! Get the fuck out of my life!
The apartment was as advertised, a pleasantly quiet contrast to the hustle and bustle outside. More than that, it was pure paradise compared to my ugly dormitory room. With well-justified pride, Florinda showed it off to me-the complete guided tour-and was pleased by my quick recognition and appreciation of her talent as a decorator.
Back in the living room, we relaxed and had a drink. There were student rules about that, especially for senior girls, but neither of us mentioned it aloud. So we sat and sipped sweet lemony rum drinks, making small talk and covertly continuing to size each other up. I noticed the color of her eyes for the first time, a kind of nondescript blue, indistinct and perhaps even variable in shifting light. Before that I had only felt their impact as eyes, all knowing and endowed with certain magic capabilities indescribable in terms of ordinary color. The effect was prismatic, a shattering of the spectrum, radiating power rather than reflecting light. But the current was switched off now, allowing the eclipsed blue to make a comeback and almost match the blue trim on her chic pantsuit, no doubt purchased with that in mind.
I asked a neatly calculated question and managed to narrow the conversational range down to where it would mean something and might even do me some good. Our one safe topic of mutual interest seemed to be the stage. Florinda was the expert, of course, doing graduate work in the field, and I was content to shut up and listen, aware now of her expertise. And aware also of how our ripening friendship might be used to promote a good part in a good play for me, furthering my theatrical career even in my freshman year. That was only a vague notion though, something to squirrel away and crack open at some later date-if and when I could figure out how to work it into the conversation. It wasn't the sort of thing I'd dare to bring up on my own behalf, except maybe as a desperate measure. And even then, well…
My ears pricked up. She had strayed back into that same historical era again-was it the second or third time?-evidently one that appealed to her in dramatic form. It was Tiger at the Gate now, a more modern treatment of the theme. A different play about that same old war. My war. What a coincidence! I could hardly sit still, waiting for the opportunity to get a word in and score some points. And that was when she saw me fidgeting and found it funny enough to burst into laughter and end the suspense.
'Oh, if you could just see yourself! The way you're wiggling around, Sue darling; what is it, a brainstorm? Poor baby. I've been teasing you. As a matter of fact, I intended to look you up much sooner. I've known about it since registration, the little freshman who played lead in the Troy pageant two years running.'
'You-you-'
'Hush. You're sputtering. Calm down. And then you can get up and perform for me, hmm? I'm dying to find out if you're any good or not. Here, I'll even arrange the lighting for you, almost like a spotlight… '
'P-perform? You mean like in the pageant?'
'Not necessarily. Just show me what you've got, the real you. Sing, dance, recite, turn a cartwheel; anything, whatever comes natural to you. Even if you just walk around and pose like a model. But it has to feel natural, you hear? Show me the real Sue Daventry. Lay yourself bare, peel off the false front. Strip your soul naked-and your body too, if that's what it takes. I want to see the girl before I see the actress.'
So now it was an audition of sorts. I rose slowly, somewhat dubious but still confident enough, aware of how much my beauty would compensate for any noticeable lack of talent. The lights were nice and bright, mostly from a three-way bulb turned up high and backed by a tilted lampshade. I moved around with a kind of studied indolence, endeavoring to remain cool and yet project a certain sensuality. It wasn't easy to strike a balance, though. Posing and posturing, I couldn't quite block out the hotly insistent sensations that seemed to filter through my guard and give rise to an uneasy tension inside me. Turning my movements almost awkward…
'Don't act, just be natural. But that's impossible, isn't it? You're acting because you know my eyes are on you. So, you're trying to act natural, isn't that true? And there you have it-act natural, a contradiction in terms-the hardest task an actress can ever set for herself. Because no one can help you, not even the best director in the world.'
'You just helped me.'
'I helped you understand, that's all.'
It was enough, that bit of understanding. More than I had learned from any drama coach back home. A revelation, practically! All of a sudden I felt relaxed-and terribly respectful too, almost obsessed with the need to gain the approval of this wise woman. What else could I do to please her?
The question had already been answered, it was just a matter of letting myself do what came naturally. I was still conscious of those insistent flashes of sensation, intensifying now and triggering wave upon wave of something akin to desire, something that seethed outward from its root in the pit of my stomach. Then too, there was that other thing on my mind, the stigma, the ugly memory to wipe clean. Alix Moreau had all but slung mud in my face with that self-righteous rejection to end our affair; hadn't I brooded over it long enough? The way to forget was to laugh, to love, to live! And here was someone who could teach me how, surely.
All that bright glare was bothersome now admittedly, but I went right ahead with it anyway, I started tossing my clothes off. The sound from the sidelines eased the situation, an unwitting but clearly audible gasp that drove out every last vestige of embarrassment and made everything feel quite natural, even the blazing light. Natural for me, at least naked but oh-so-natural!-and I realized almost irrelevantly that my potential for sex was far greater than what appeared on the surface. I found it puzzling but also cause for pride. Would she help me plumb that potential, this clever creature, this intriguing lesbian, my lover-to-be?
I felt pretty clever myself, using my 'natural' inclinations as an excuse to strip. With my bare body on display like that, I figured it wouldn't take long for something to happen. And then, after more posturing under the hot lights-lights that seemed scarcely hotter than that ardent gaze now-at last I heard the switch click and saw the lampshade tilted back to normal. I held my final pose awhile, my nudity an invitation in the contrasting and now somewhat romantic dim glow.
She just sat there, though. 'Charming… '
'Is that all you're going to say? Or do?'
'Huh?'
'And I tried so hard to inspire you. Too bad.'
Mute appeal glistened in her eyes, combining immediate comprehension with wary disbelief. But they were still that same wishy washy blue, with no trace of mystery, no hypnotic influence, nothing like that. On the contrary, I got the distinct and vaguely disappointing impression that my lesbian seducer was almost afraid of me, afraid to take the plunge and declare herself.
'Well? Florinda? Want me to get dressed again? Not that I feel much like it-such a bother, you know?-but if that's what you want… '
