WARNING: ADULT CONTENT, INTENDED FOR READERS 18 AND OLDER
Originally published by Cleis Press in Best Lesbian Erotica 2008, this story was inspired by a discussion in an LGBT group on a political message board in 2007 in which I was informed that bi women weren’t really queer because we could simply choose to pass for straight. I got to thinking about what it means to live queer in a straight-assuming world, who gets to claim the label, and how it feels to be repeatedly told by people in your own community that “B” is just a token letter.
When She Was Good
by Betty Blue
Tib was a master of misdirection. While you were watching her left hand, the right was stealing your heart straight through your ribcage. But you didn’t notice it then. Only later, when you needed it for something, you’d go fishing through your pockets, patting down your jacket, trying to remember when you had it last. And there you’d find it instead—a hollow thud beneath your left breast pocket: your empty pericardium.
But that was all later. Before that, there were wet, sticky days and nights of being rolled by her. And Tib, make no mistake, played you like a virtuoso cellist, fingers drawing out notes you didn’t think you had in you, slipping and sliding along your taut strings until smoke was coming from her fingers, and she had you, thoroughly and expertly played.
The first time I saw Tib, she was playing someone else. It was hotter than hellfire in the trapped bowl of the town below us, driving us up into the foothills and over desert trails into a canyon that hid in the belly of a mountain. Perched on a rock beside the falls with a leg over each side of the stone like she was sitting a horse, Tib was dressed in a black, pin-striped suit, barely breaking a sweat. The long jacket was open to reveal a crisp, white shirt, its neatness marred only by the sleeves, rolled up to give her room to pluck her instrument. I found out later that she’d ridden her motorcycle up into the canyon. That she remained so unaffected could only be a bona-fide miracle.
The object of Tib’s attention as I crested the path and saw her before the rain-filled pool was a petite, white-bleached blonde with a 1940s flip. She was bent over the horn of the rock “saddle” with her legs spread wide, and buck-naked. Tib was bringing her composition to a rousing crescendo. She gave me a smirk beneath her shades as the piece came to an end, patted the blonde on her ass, and stuck out her hand.
“Hey, there. I’m Tib.”
I stared with my mouth open for a beat and then stammered, “Sadie,” without taking the offered hand.
The blonde sat up and gave me a cursory glance before leaning back to kiss Tib, taking her time, letting me know I was of no consequence before she turned and dove into the pool.
“And that,” said Tib, hooking the heels of her boots against the rock, “was Bethany.” She leaned back and smoothed her hands through her slicked-back hair to interlock her fingers behind her head, an effortless gesture that spoke of powerful abs.
The arrival of my friend Greg at the top of the trail saved me from spontaneous muteness. He stopped and took a long swig from his water bottle, snapping the sport-top back into place. “Someone should have told me the Cherry-Popping Daddies were playing here today,” he said. “I’d have worn a better hat.”
“At least you brought your cherry,” said Tib.
Greg rolled his eyes. “Keep it in your zoot suit. I’ve already got a boyfriend.” He turned back to the trail and gestured ahead. “That picnic site you were looking for is down the road, sweetheart. Say goodbye to the nice man and come on.”
Tib’s laughter followed us out of the canyon.
Barely six hours later, I found myself toe to toe with Tib once more as Greg and his boyfriend Pete and I hit the Club, part of a revitalized downtown hotel where Al Capone was rumored to have stayed once, to get out of the stifling desert evening. The boys had made a beeline for the dance floor as soon as we arrived, and I was at the bar waiting for my drink when I spotted the unmistakable suit in the hotel lobby. The little Gwen Stefani blonde was on her arm, white crop top showing off a perfect tan and a perfect torso over a pair of jeans slung just below her hips. The top of a pair of red boxers peaked out over the belt, with matching suspenders stretched over her breasts.
Tib gave no indication that she saw me and I looked away, intent on calculating the tip as the bartender scooted the drink and change in front of me. When I looked up, Tib was sliding onto the stool beside me. Bethany had disappeared into the crowd.
“Long island iced tea,” she said to the bartender, and I laughed out loud. Tib gave me a sidelong glance. “It’s not for me.”
“It’s none of my business,” I said, trying to swallow my drink.
“And what the hell is that? Grapefruit juice?”
I breathed in at the wrong moment, trying to be cool, and choked, sputtering into my glass. Tib pounded me on the back and I knocked the drink across the bar.
“Well, that was charming,” said Tib, and nodded to the bartender with a ten tucked between her fingers like a smoke. “Another juice for my friend, here.”
“Salty dog,” I corrected.
Tib raised an eyebrow. “And that’s the story you’re sticking with.”
Bethany appeared at her elbow and plucked the tall glass off the bar, sipping from the swizzle stick.
Tib dropped the ten on the counter. “Try not to spill that one,” she said as she turned and steered Bethany through the crowd.
The last time I saw her that night, she was leading a tipsy Bethany up the stairs across the hotel lobby. Evidently, Tib was a paying guest.
Greg, Pete, and I closed the place down, straggling out to the street when the temperature finally dropped below 90. I had ridden over on my Vespa, but I was in no shape to drive home, so we left it in the parking lot looking like a shabby cousin beside a shiny Nighthawk, to be picked up in the morning.
When Greg dropped me back at the lot several hours later, the owner of the Nighthawk was stepping into the heat shimmering off the tarmac: Tib, in a pair of leather pants and a white ribbed tank.
“Nice ride,” she said, slipping her sunglasses down her nose.
“Yeah,” I snapped. “You got me. I ride a scooter and drink grapefruit juice, and don’t fuck in public.” The night’s festivities had left me a little cranky.
“I could remedy one of those,” said Tib.
I blushed to my roots, not sure if I was more angry or hot.
Tib smiled, mounting the bike. “Come on, Sadie. Why don’t you hop on, let me give you a ride.”
“Where’s Bethany?” I blurted, unreasonably pleased that she’d remembered my name.
“There’s only room for two,” said Tib. “But if you want a ride with Bethany, I’m sure she’ll be awake by sundown.”
“I don’t want a ride with Bethany.”
“Then hop on, sweetie. Let me show you what you’re missing on that scooter of yours.” Tib patted the seat behind her. “I’ve got an errand to run over on the east side and I could use the company. I’ll have you back in an hour.”
Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was my muddy head from the night before. But God help me, a minute later I was behind Tib with my arms wrapped around her hard waist, heading into the white blur of the desert midday. With my thighs hugging Tib’s hips and the vibration of the bike between them, I was oblivious to how far we were going or how long we’d been doing it until the bike slowed and Tib turned onto a dirt road between two brick columns.
The road wound through a field of scattered stones, and as Tib brought the bike to a stop, I realized they were grave markers, small white crosses poking up between them like wildflowers. Tib switched off the engine and kicked the stand into place, swinging her leg over the seat. Her boots crunched on the gravel as she crossed to one of the markers and dropped down in front of it, arms resting over her thighs as she balanced her weight on her heels. I slipped off of the bike and waited, not sure whether I should follow. She stayed where she was, so I moved forward, hands in my jean pockets.
“I come here every year,” she said. “I head home once a year to visit Mom. I think she appreciates the company.” I had no idea what to say, so I said nothing. Tib stood up, wiping her palms on her pant legs, and turned around. “It’s not really the kind of place I could bring Bethany.”
“But she makes the trip home with you.”
Tib laughed. “Bethany? I just met her yesterday.” She started back toward the bike. “Anyway, it’s hotter than fuck out here, so maybe the public sex will have to wait. Leather may not have been the wisest choice.”
It really was hotter than fuck, and I was too sweaty and flushed to bother with prim outrage at her assumption that I’d come along for sex. I held onto her belt buckles on the ride back, not because I was embarrassed to hold on any closer, but because at that point, with my head encased in the steamy helmet, I might have passed out from the heat and fallen off. At any rate, Tib didn’t seem worried about my body language.
We pulled into the parking lot beside Nellie, my Vespa, and I stared at the vinyl seat and shining metal. I had parked at night, no need to look for shade. At three in the afternoon, Nellie was a potential human griddle. Maybe I’d go inside for a soda at the bar.
Tib followed my glance. “They don’t open until five.” Most of downtown was closed on Sunday afternoon, making my chances of getting even a bottle of water slim. “I’ve got a refrigerator in my room,” said Tib.
“Isn’t Bethany sleeping?”
“She’s not even here,” said Tib, grinning. “Crawled out sometime before eight a.m. and took a cab. She had church.”
“Church?” I made a face and Tib laughed. “Do they still have those?”
“Oh, indeed they do, Little Miss Sin.” She flashed her wide smile and put an arm around my waist. “All over the Southwest. I hear they even have some in California.”
“Yeah, they’re weird there,” I said.
The room was furnished in deserty art deco, a Sonoran blanket thrown over a sleigh bed, and a lamp on the 1930s waterfall table beside it with a stand covered in stamped leather and a rawhide shade painted with cowboys and steer.
“I’ve always wondered what these rooms were like,” I said. “Kind of appalling and fascinating at the same time.”
“You a townie or a sorority girl?” Tib was pulling off her sweat-damp leather pants.
“A sorority girl?” I laughed. “Yeah, that’s me, how could you tell?”
“You never know. Appearances can be deceiving.”
“I know I’m no Gwen Stefani,” I said, folding my arms across my waist, aware of my belly. “And if you must know, yes, I’m a ‘townie’. I’m not even a college student, actually,” I added, feeling even more defensive. “I was, but I had to quit. I’m a working girl.” Tib raised an eyebrow. “I mean I have a nine-to-five job.”
Tib left her pants where they fell, crouching down to get two sparkling water bottles from the fridge. “So who needs another Gwen Stefani?” She stood up and handed me a bottle. “I wasn’t comparing you to Bethany.”
“I should probably go,” I said.
“Jesus, Sadie. It’s a million degrees out there. Just take the water and sit your ass on the bed. I wouldn’t have asked you up if I didn’t think you were cute.”
I uncrossed my arms and opened my mouth to say something indignant, I wasn’t sure what, but Tib pushed the bottle into my hand and steered me to the bed.
“It’s a drink of water,” Tib said, twisting the top off her bottle. “It’s hot out, you’re thirsty, we’re both hung over, and I happen to think your little tummy is adorable.” She took a sip and grinned. “The water’s free, by the way. You don’t have to pay for it with sex.”
I nearly choked on my water, and the carbonation stung my nose.
“You clearly have a drinking problem,” said Tib. I tried to take another sip, but I was laughing too hard. Tib climbed onto the bed and took my drink, setting it on the end table. “No more of this for you. You’re out of control.” She pushed me back against the pillow and climbed over me, shutting me up.
She was still wearing her sunglasses and I pulled them off, revealing steel-blue eyes. Tib pulled her shirt over her head and snuggled bare skin against me, soft breasts and hard nipples pressing against my T-shirt as we kissed. She twined her damp fingers between mine and lay back beneath the ceiling fan that did little besides stir the hot air.
“I think it may actually be too hot to fuck,” she laughed, closing her eyes.
I let mine close, too, just for a minute, and when I opened them again, the light from the window had grown long and low and Tib was curled beside me, fast asleep. I spooned against her, and she drew my hand over her shoulder, tucking it against her breasts.
I woke after dark to find Tib coming out of the bathroom, dressed in her leather pants and white shirt and rubbing a towel through damp hair that hung in curls around her face.
“Hey,” she smiled, tossing the towel onto the bed. She grabbed a pot of pomade from the dresser, smoothing her hair flat. One little curl hung down in the middle of her forehead. “I’m starving,” she said. “Feel like getting a bite in the bar?”
I had other ideas, but my stomach growled audibly, joining the thumping bass from the club below that meant it was already after nine. We headed down and Tib ordered burgers and fries, and we were just finishing up when I heard tongue-clucking behind me.
“I saw Nellie still outside and I was worried about you,” said Greg as I swiveled around. He gave me his best disapproving look. “Thought you’d been kidnapped out of the parking lot.”
“She was,” said Tib. “But I brought her back.”
Pete reached around Greg’s shoulder and grabbed a French-fry. “Is that anything like throwing a fish back if it’s too small?” He laughed and dodged the fry I threw at him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Tib, winking at me. “She looks like a keeper to me.”
Greg gave a dramatic sigh. “Ohhh-kay, then. We’ll be over here,” he said as he dragged Pete off to the dance floor.
Tib popped the last fry in her mouth and grinned, hopping off of her stool and dragging me after them. We danced until closing, dripping with sweat and out of breath. There was no sign of Bethany.
“You’re good,” shouted Tib over the music as we pushed toward the lobby. “I have this theory that people fuck—” She laughed, realizing that her voice was suddenly much louder away from the dance floor. She pulled me close and I looked up into her storm-blue eyes. “I have this theory,” she repeated. “That people fuck like they dance.”
I was feeling pretty bold after a few drinks and a dance buzz. “I’d be happy to help you test that,” I said. “For science.”
Tib pressed me up against the side of the banister and put her palms against the wood, her leather-clad knee hard between my legs. “I’m very dedicated to science,” she said, kissing my throat. “But didn’t you say you worked in the morning?”
I sighed, playing with her belt buckle. “Yeah, I do.”
“What time do you get off? You know what I mean,” she laughed.
“Six,” I said.
“What if I meet you for dinner? Or will you be too tired?”
I smiled. “I think I can manage.”
My shift at the bowling alley seemed interminable after only a few hours of sleep. Days weren’t so bad: leagues in the morning wanting breakfast at the snack bar, a small lunch crowd, and a few beer drinkers in the afternoon. But at 4:00, the manager called. Her two-year-old had an ear infection and she couldn’t leave him with the sitter.
Tib was understanding when I called. “Why don’t I come by and keep you company?”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “It’s pretty boring.”
“As long as I don’t have to wear somebody else’s smelly shoes.”
“Not unless you plan to bowl.”
“There is almost zero chance of that happening,” said Tib.
She came by around eight and spent the evening entertaining me by mimicking the bowlers and reading explicit personals from the men-seeking-men section. Her favorite game was “anything you can do, I can do better.” She had fun trying to prove that—to the extent that one could in the bathroom of a bowling alley. With Tib distracting me, the shift flew by, but the alley was open until midnight, and by the time I was done with the clean-up and the cash drawer, it was after 1:00 a.m.
“Who bowls until midnight on a Monday?” I moaned as I closed up. “Who does that?”
“And you have to come back in seven hours,” said Tib, kissing my neck as I locked the doors.
I looked up at her, silhouetted against the bright moon. “And I just got a text message from Donna saying her kid has a 103 fever and she needs me to cover her shift again tomorrow night.”
“So I’ll just come and bother you some more.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“What else am I going to do? I’ve been here since Friday, and I’ve pretty much exhausted everything there is to do here in three days. There’s a reason I left home in the first place. That, and the people bowling until midnight.” She hooked her finger through my belt loop and pulled me close. “Besides,” she smirked. “I have a feeling it’ll pay off.”
Tib ended up spending three nights keeping me company at the bowling alley, until little Jared had finally gotten some antibiotics. Mercifully, Donna took over my next two shifts, and I slept for over twelve hours, with the promise of spending Friday with Tib. I was beginning to get used to her company.
Tib announced she was taking me somewhere out of town. I told her that at no point during the day would I be perching naked on her lap on a rock. Tib assured me that she had other plans for me. We got on her bike and Tib headed north, and up into the mountains. The trip took a few hours over twisting roads, and I was glad to be off of the bike by the time we reached the top.
“Ever been skiing up here?” asked Tib as she pulled a thick, fleece blanket from her saddle bag.
“Skiing,” I said. “In the middle of summer.”
Tib grinned. “Something like that.” She took my hand and half-dragged me up the last quarter-mile from the parking lot to the lodges I had assumed were closed.
“What are we doing?” I protested. “There’s nothing up here.”
“Wait here.” Tib darted into the one open café, returning after a moment with two pieces of paper. “Lift tickets.”
Twenty minutes later, we were rising over the mountain, the only ones on the lift. I laughed as Tib tucked the blanket over our laps. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring a parka.”
“It’s windy,” she said. “I don’t want you to catch a cold.” There was little danger of that; under the blanket, she was making me quite warm.
“Stop it,” I protested, wanting her to do nothing of the kind. Thankfully, Tib ignored me. We reached the apex, two-fold, and I relaxed against her as the lift rounded the corner and headed back down.
“It’s actually a really nice view, if you’d been paying attention,” Tib teased. “I drag a girl all the way up to the top of the world and shell out money for a ride, and all she does is close her eyes and moan.”
When we headed back down the mountain, Tib turned off onto a private drive after less than half a mile. I had to wait until we wound to the end and arrived in a small village of summer homes and cabins before I found out what Tib was up to.
“My family’s place,” she said as we dismounted in front of a two-story cabin nearly hidden from the road by pine and wildflowers.
Inside, I barely had time to take in the surroundings before Tib had pulled me over to the thick rug and started pulling clothes off of me. I helped her in her mission and we worked up a sweat before the empty fireplace, but the temperature atop the mountain was a good 20 degrees cooler than in town, and neither of us was complaining.
Later, Tib made us sandwiches, and I dragged a blanket around me and checked out the place while she was busy in the kitchen.
“Is this your mom and dad?” I asked, picking up a picture of an older couple on the mantle.
Tib popped her head around the doorway. “Oh. Yeah. Don’t look at those. I look awful.”
“Where are you?” I asked, surveying the other pictures. I saw a family shot with a boy and a much younger version of a long-haired Tib before she came up behind me and got my attention off of pictures and onto the real, live Tib before me.
Tib scrounged up a paper from somewhere and we lay on the rug eating our sandwiches and reading men’s personals.
“‘Discreet, masculine boy seeks stern daddy for discipline,’” read Tib as I played footsie with her, legs crossed in the air behind us. “Well, discreet, I don’t know about,” she laughed. “But what about it, little boy? I bet you’re naughty.”
I stuck out my tongue.
“Keep that up,” said Tib, “and I’ll find a use for it.” She glanced at the paper as if she was ignoring me. “Hmm, this one would make an excellent complement. ‘Your cock, my mouth. Bisexual bottom looking for a fuck-buddy.’” Tib pushed me over on my back and climbed over me. “Yeah, I think this is a good one, little boy. You want this, don’t you?” She stroked an invisible cock above my face. “Not bisexual, of course. But cocksucking fuck-buddy I can do.”
My stomach twisted into a sudden, sick knot. I shouldn’t push it now, I thought. Leave it alone. But out of my mouth came, “I’m bi.”
Tib froze in mid-stroke. “Wow. You sure know how to kill a mood.” She swung her leg off of me and sat down hard on the rug, hugging her knees in a tight, impassable gesture.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sitting up. “I didn’t want to hide anything from you. But why is it such a big deal? I’m not seeing anyone else.”
Tib laughed harshly. “It’s not who you’re seeing now, it’s who you could see.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t monogamous—”
“I don’t give a fuck about monogamy, Sadie. You could walk away at any moment and disappear into the safe, acceptable world of being straight.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I said, feeling tears on my cheeks, though I hadn’t realized I was crying. “You don’t just get up one day and decide to be straight. That’s not how it works. That’s called lying.”
“It’s called bisexual.”
I felt liked she’d punched me.
“Pete is bi,” I said. “He and Greg have been together for ten years. I’ve seen plenty of people leave each other for the same sex while they’ve been together.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t tomorrow,” said Tib. “I couldn’t trust someone who might leave for the opportunity to live a straight life. It would be like a kick in the teeth. You can’t understand what it is to be a real dyke. He can’t understand what it is to be gay.”
I thought of the time I’d rushed to Greg’s side at the hospital to make sure Pete was still alive after a drunken frat boy had beaten him unconscious for being a fag. I thought of my parents throwing me out for loving a girl and telling me they were ashamed of me and I was no longer their family. It sure seemed to me like we understood.
“I’m sorry, Sadie,” said Tib, watching me cry with her arms folded as if I were a leper she was afraid to touch. “I can’t do this. You’re not family.”
The ride down the mountain was like dying. I could feel her pulling forward away from my touch as I held onto her. It was dark by the time we reached downtown and the lights of the Club were brilliant pink letters against a black sky over the hotel. I climbed off the bike and Tib sat idling for a moment, staring at her boots while people lined up around us at the door, laughing, kissing, ready to have a good time.
“Tib—”
“It’s like you stabbed me in the gut, Sadie,” she said behind her dark glasses. “And that’s what you’ll never understand. Maybe you should figure out who you are. At least I know who I am.”
Tib rode off into the hot, desert night, no sunset to give her exit the finality it needed.
I drove to Greg and Pete’s place and fell sobbing into Greg’s arms when he opened the door. There was nothing I had to say. Greg held me while I cried long into the night, curled on his couch, and Pete brought me Kleenex and chamomile tea. I envied Pete with a bottomless ache.
They surprised me at the bowling alley on Monday and came by for lunch to cheer me up. Pete pointed out girls for me on the lanes until I had to laugh.
“Check out that one,” said Pete between his teeth, nodding his head at a redhead coming in, bare arms glistening from the heat. “Very hot.”
“You’re not supposed to notice girls,” said Greg, elbowing Pete as he read the paper at the counter beside him.
“Right. No. She’s absolutely hideous.” Pete winked at me.
“I’m going have to kick you two out if you don’t order something,” I said, smiling in spite of myself.
Greg leaned over the counter. “I’ll have a vodka and tonic.”
“Okay, that’s one Diet Coke.”
Greg sighed as I filled a cup with soda from the dispenser. “I rue the day I told you I was giving up drinking.” He took the soda anyway, punching a straw into the lid and turning back to his paper. He turned a page as he was taking a sip and nearly spit out his drink.
Pete glanced over at the paper. “Holy shit,” he said. “And I mean that.”
“What?” I demanded, leaning over the counter as Pete tried to move the paper away from my view.
I slapped my hand on it and spun it around to face me. It was a local interest piece in the Lifestyles section about the mega-church in the metro area an hour and a half north.
And there was Tib—or rather, Thelma Thompkins and the entire Thompkins family in close-up: little brother David, the Reverend “Tex” Thompkins, and…Tib’s mom, Alice. Tib might not have been recognizable except for the eyes. She was dressed in a conservative suit dress, curls framing her face just below the chin, with a demure smile on her lips. Lips that had been anything but demure with me.
Beside them, a large, billboard-sized sign proudly proclaimed: “Grace Christian Chapel. Where family is first.”