The Dancer from the Dance

Bonnie hung up the telephone and looked around her to see if she had disturbed Colleen's sleep.  She looked so innocent under the sheets, the blush on her cheeks in harmony with her apricot dreams.  Faun paced in front of Bonnie with her tail erect; she wanted food. 

(Not a bad idea.)

Faun followed Bonnie to the kitchen.  She didn't rub against her in that annoying cat fashion.  Instead, she vocalized her desires. Bonnie opened a can for her and fed her on the counter top.  Good thing Colleen hadn't seen it, she would have made a fuss (no cats on the counter).  Faun ate quietly while Bonnie looked around for the right tools.  Breakfast in bed would be a nice touch.

She whipped up some scrambled eggs, bacon, whole-wheat toast with butter and jelly, coffee and orange juice.  She looked around for a bed tray but couldn't find one in the kitchen.  (Maybe the hall closet.)  Perfect.  She had a choice of several.  When she decided on one, she accidentally uncovered a vibrating butt-plug.  (God damn!)  She couldn't believe it.  (A joke, of course.)  It was pristine and shiny.  (A joke.)  So she hid it under the napkin on Colleen's breakfast tray.  (A joke!)

Colleen wasn't quite awake but she pulled herself into a sitting position to take the tray.  "Oh Bonnie, you're so sweet.  You didn't have to serve me in bed."  Bonnie turned on the CD player without saying a word.  She kept smiling to herself.  "Outlaw Man" was playing.  She liked the Eagles.

Colleen looked at her breakfast -- overcooked eggs, extra weak coffee, burnt bacon and burnt toast (the toast had globs of mint jelly on it.)  What a nightmare.  But she was polite and gracious.  With her mouth full of burnt toast and mint jelly, she decided it was time to grab for the napkin.  Quick!  While Bonnie had her back turned she would blow the jelly into the napkin discretely.

When she uncovered the butt-plug she didn't need the napkin anymore.  She needed a bath.  The flesh-colored toy startled her so much she spewed black bread and green jelly all over her plate and drenched herself in cold coffee and orange juice.

Bonnie couldn't control herself.  "Radical, chick!  You're a riot!" she laughed and held her tight flat stomach.  "You're gonna make me wet my pants," she howled.

Colleen had the plug in her hand, furious at this rude awakening.  "You won't have a chance, I'll plug you up!" she yelled, surprising Bonnie enough to quiet her.

Bonnie sobered quickly.  "What?" she asked coldly.  "What did you say?"

"You heard me," Colleen glared.

"I hope I heard you wrong," Bonnie threatened.

"Shove it!"

Bonnie gasped and rushed at Colleen.  They struggled for the butt-plug, pushing and shoving until they knocked the tray onto the floor.  Faun jumped on the dresser to get a better view.

"Give it to me!"

"No!  You're hurting my wrist.  Stop it."

Bonnie wrestled it from Colleen and flicked the switch victoriously.  She held it high over her head like a dagger.  Faun looked up at the vibrating device wide-eyed and Colleen screamed.

The struggle had released the anger without disturbing the natural tension between them.  It had begun.

"Now who's going to plug who?" Bonnie announced.

You could have cut the silence with a knife, except for the buzz of the butt-plug and a song called "Saturday Night" just starting to play in the background.  Colleen stared intently into Bonnie's face.

Bonnie lowered the device slowly, stretching her arm out to place the tip between Colleen's exposed breasts.  Colleen forgave her for what she was about to do.  She locked onto Bonnie's gaze, the way a bird does before falling victim to the snake.  Then she melted slowly under the touch; postponing guilt and castigation to embrace her fate.

Her breasts heaved up and down as the tip of the vibrator moved slowly downward.  Bonnie continued to peel back the sheet, revealing more of Colleen's youthful body.  Yes.  Something had happened.  They had set some kind of process in motion; unwittingly, they had opened a door.  Neither one could quite grasp what was happening, much less try to stop it.

Bonnie had never noticed how pert and abundant Colleen's breasts were.  Their remarkable silk and luminosity caught Bonnie completely off guard.  A sumptuous feeling shot like a welder's arc through her arm and down to her panty liner.  She could feel herself moisten and dilate.  Every pore in her body seemed to blossom -- a thousand lotus flowers released their captivating scent.

Colleen could smell her.  But to her, it was the close smell of rose water (an aroma finer than prayer).  Colleen began to blossom too.  She relaxed her thighs.  She wanted to die with her thighs open.  (One Claw upon the Air.)

Faun jumped off the dresser and left the room to find some food.

(Food for the kitty.)

Two Catholic girls about to violate the ancient laws of the Church.  Women with cultural roots older than the mother of Christ.  One from the womb of some distant and solitary highland lass; the other from a long line of Gaelic women.  Both survivors, whose matriarchs before them held tenaciously to their insular identities, resisting Pict, Angle, and Roman alike.

What idol worship was this?  No large Goidelic man-part whose resurrection promised renewal and life.  What sacrilege this?  To hold this severed prosthetic instead of the life-giving flesh of man -- or god?

Bonnie muttered something.  "Patooey!"  She spat and flung the buzzing butt-plug against the wall.  Faun ran back in the room to check it out.

(Kill -- dead.)

Colleen sat up with a surprised look on her face.

Bonnie buried her face in Colleen's lap.  Colleen suddenly remembered her French -- la petite mort -- (there's no place like home, there's no place like home -- like a seawall -- the sea -- might I but...)

"More..." she groaned "more..."

Not the more of sexual ecstasy, the more of a hidden identity...

"More..." she urged, "more...," resisting the urge to resist her intruder.  "More...more."

...the more of a thousand fertile women whose beautiful sons rivaled their daughters in looks not strength: true strength is a straight line from womb to womb.

"Umm..." Bonnie responded.  She started to navigate this unfamiliar channel with the dignity of a seventeen-year-old boy.  Following the staccato of her tongue, her heart raced to keep step.

The world began to float away from Colleen.

(She was losing it.)

The natural rhythm of Bonnie's tongue drove her deeper and deeper into some perverse meditative state.

(Something paranormal was at work here maybe.)

She was cognizant of the details of her present circumstance, yet she found herself participating in a mythic drama she couldn't control.  (Classic guilt reaction, perhaps.)

Why couldn't she just lie back and enjoy this animal act?

(What would her mother think if she knew that Bonnie was performing cunnilingus on her innocent daughter?)

Bonnie was already cross-eyed from the luxury of this magnificent vagina in her face.  She lapped at the soft edges, just beyond the beautiful red hairs; much the way she used to lick around an ice cream cone.  Bonnie was convinced that Colleen's flesh cone was sweeter; creamier.  She craved it.  She craved it so badly that she forced her tongue out as far as it would reach.  She could almost feel Colleen's cervix (she thought).  And she was sure that she could feel Colleen's clitoris stiffening and pressing against the back of her tongue.

Apparently Bonnie had no gag reflex.  Instead, with each press of Colleen's clitoris, Bonnie swallowed hard.  To the casual observer it might appear that Bonnie was literally sucking the life out of Colleen in long hard draws.  Each swallow sent a shudder through her body, each shudder more intense than the previous.

Bonnie was in heaven -- in the lap of luxury, so to speak.  This was a dream-come-true for her, even though she'd never dreamed this dream before (you know, playing the lesbian).  The thought had never even entered her head.

What could she have been thinking all these years?  How could she not have been aware of this potential?  She must have been lying.  No one is like that.  No matter how much you deny it to others, you cannot deny it to yourself.  But the question had really never come up.  There was no denial, and Bonnie was not unusual in this respect.  She was, in many ways, a typical young American woman.

It was Colleen who had privately thought about tribadism, though not in a prurient way.  She remembered running across the term and looking it up in her American Heritage.  Hers was an intellectual entertainment that had never approached the detail or verisimilitude of a male fantasy.  Yet she was being overwhelmed by this unexpected carnal frenzy.  She was far too logical, however, to give in to these physical pleasures.  She felt she could ride this wave out indefinitely without drowning in it. 

(It never occurred to her that she might be suicidal.)

Bonnie was sweating like a pig and panting like a dog.  Her transformation was astounding.  She acted as though she had grown a penis but wasn't sure what to do with it.  Without a word she began stripping herself naked to discover her newfound masculinity.

(You could almost feel her muscles harden and her scrotum tighten as she metamorphosed from a beautiful young woman into a priapic young boy.)

Thank God her erection was all in her head.  The way she suddenly mounted Colleen, thrusting her hips wildly back and forth, side to side, she could have done some serious damage.

Colleen almost started to laugh.  Bonnie was playing "air penis" with such a serious look on her face.  What's more, her pubic hairs were tickling Colleen.  This shift in Bonnie's performance gave Colleen a chance to catch her breath and gain some intellectual distance.  She could critique her at arm's length without having to give in emotionally.

"Let's see," Colleen thought (imagining herself witnessing this spectacle with her index finger resting against her temple).  "Bonnie's really into this thing.  It reminds me of something, but I'm not sure what.  It's as if -- no, it can't be -- it's like she's jacking off!"  She very nearly burst out laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing when Bonnie seized her by the ears.  She planted her mouth right on Colleen's and shot her tongue down her throat.

The surprise of Bonnie's long tongue effectively stifled Colleen's urge to laugh.  It was enough to make her feel she was starting to drown.  When she realized she could actually taste herself in Bonnie's mouth, she found herself swimming against the tide like a drowning rat.  She knew she was going to heave chunks.  Desperately fighting the inevitable, she tried to take a deep breath, but a strong scent of urine and halibut lingered on Bonnie's nose.  She tried to jerk herself loose.  Bonnie had her in a headlock.  All she could do to save herself was try to think of something completely off the wall.  The first thing that popped into her head was "pussy-licker.  Bonnie's a pussy-licker."

Abracafuckingdabra.

(It worked.)

Out of the blue Colleen was struck by the lightning image of her absurd thought -- pussy-licker.  All her resistance passed away with an audible click -- the hammer was cocked; the gun was ready to fire.

Body odors changed from black and white to cascading colors.  They lingered in swirls of warm burgundy and cotton candy pink.  Soft swells formed sweeping curves, rising and falling in her imagination to the beat of a heart.  More than anything else it was the irresistible feeling of bare human contact that roughly translated to sexual arousal.

(That's how a male would understand it.)

The contact here was devoid of males.  And perhaps it would be safe to say, devoid of sex.

Granted, there was some kinship between sexual arousal and what Colleen felt, but there were some important distinctions.  For her, it wasn't the clitoral and vaginal stimulation that involved her, it was something different.  It was the feeling of another woman's breasts pressed against her own that would trigger that resounding shot.

(La petite mort.)

It was the point of contact between sex and sexuality for every young woman.  And Colleen was roused by something ancient calling desperately from inside her.

A loud thundering shot and a flash of light transported her supple young body to soft green hills covered in fragrant clover.  The hum of a bumblebee comforted her, keeping time with the present.  She was at home.  Under the summer sky of an Ireland centuries old she was free to feel as she chose.  No inhibitions, no creeds or schools to keep in abeyance.  Only the feel of another woman's breasts pressing against her own.

Like every mother before her, she felt she understood, for the first time, what it was to be a woman.

(Not what it was like to be a woman in a heterosexual world; that is, not what it was like to be a woman as opposed to being a man.)

From this day forward she would measure her life by this unexpected revelation...

The touch of her partner made sense without reason.  The feel of her breasts unearthed a timeless mystery that vaguely paralleled eroticism.  But it did something more.  It formed a horizontal transparency that separated her conscious from her unconscious mind.  Like a glass-bottom boat, it momentarily allowed her to glimpse clearly into either half.  She perceived the continuum that shot up from the erotic, through the autoerotic, and down to her own identity.  She could experience all three and enjoy her own reflection at the same time.

Colleen had discovered her inner strength, the bond that linked her to the rest of womankind.  Now she relaxed to enjoy what she had previously denied herself.  She joined Bonnie in genuine enthusiasm for a closeness neither of them had ever experienced.  Her mind and body merged with Bonnie's, in feel and smell and time.

(The CD finished playing.)

Faun sat at the foot of the bed to observe the performance.  This is what she perceived:

Two young women were locked in mutual embrace.  They rolled gently one atop the other until it became difficult to tell them apart.  Movement followed music (precisely along the continuum Colleen had imagined).  Sound combined with motion.  There was no bed.  The room had disappeared entirely.  The summer sky was a canopy of stars.  Beneath their tiny lights the performers transformed, melding before her eyes in sound, motion, and form.

Unable to distinguish the girls from their performance, Faun anxiously vocalized her concern, "meowwwwwwwww...."