Beggar of Love (18 page)

“You don’t love her enough to tell her what you need.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, Glad.”

“Yes it is, Jef. I promise you it is.”

For their fifteenth anniversary, when they were thirty-three, with what Gladys said still on her mind, Jefferson and Ginger decided to fly to Florida. One of the women from Café Femmes, that arrogant little butch Frenchy, who’d dated Angela way back when, talked up the Clearwater Beach area where she had family. Florida in February sounded like a great idea: no slush, no freezing temperatures, no heavy jackets. She and Ginger had never traveled together except to dance festivals like Jacob’s Pillow in Massachusetts and the Jeffersons’ summer cottage in New Hampshire.

“Girl,” Lily Ann Lee told her the night before they were to leave, which happened to fall at the same time as their monthly dinner, “you are excited out of your mind.”

She swallowed a forkful of fra diavolo. “It’s more than a vacation, Lily Ann.”

“Rekindling the flame?”

She pondered that a minute. “How can I explain without—I mean—”

“Spilling the beans about Ginger?”

“That’s kind of it.”

“How long ago did the romance leave?” Lily Ann kept her eyes on the fork and spoon she was using to lift linguini from her plate.

“Since she opened her school.” Shame rose to her face in a blush.

“That was what, six years ago, J? And you put up money for her damn school?”

“Some of it.”

“Like half. Some repayment.”

“It’s her first love, Lily Ann.”

“And you think a trip to the white sands of Florida will change that?”

“Let me tell you something. But it’s between us, right?”

“Everything is, J. You’re my best friend.”

She smiled at Lily Ann, then cut her pasta into smaller and smaller pieces. “You know how, when you’re going to be with someone, you maybe do an extra shower before bed or sponge off the important places?”

She snuck a quick look at Lily Ann, who was, as she expected, regarding her with amusement. Doing sex was one thing, talking about it was embarrassing.

“Kind of like a magic charm?”

She took a long sip of the dry red house wine. “I’ve been doing that at home every night for no reason ever since Ginger opened her school.”

“Oh, J.” Lily Ann’s face was a quick display not of pity, but of tragedy observed. “That explains a lot.”

She laughed, her gaze not leaving her plate. “My wayward path? Margo read me a poem once, about a picture on a vase, back in Grecian times, about how hot it can be to want without getting. The line that stuck with me was, ‘For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!’”

“I’d be seducing every femme in the city too.”

“If you were butch.”

“Which I’m not.”

She smiled. “I’ll drink to that,” and drank again.

“But seriously,” Lily Ann asked, “you know how you’ve told me Ginger kind of likes guys? Do you think that might have something to do with it?”

Although she shook her head no, she couldn’t look Lily Ann in the eye. She was in the grip of that lightless place where she was filled with silent screams. She reminded herself that she always lived through it and opened her eyes.

Lily Ann asked, “Is it a worse betrayal because it’s with a man?”

“All I know is I want to kill any man who touches her, even innocently. Not that I believe a man could touch her innocently.”

“Don’t think about it.”

“It’s her sacred body, you know? I never touched her without, what—awe, amazement, the beauty of her, like the best sunsets, the sweetest bird song, poetry.” It had been a long time since she’d dared touch Ginger even casually. She couldn’t stand to see her shy away. As much as Ginger liked sex, Jefferson’s desire seemed to disturb her. Ginger was just going through something, she told herself. Although Ginger denied it, she suspected she’d been touched in a bad way as a kid. Or something. Sometimes she would lie there sick with desire for Ginger and hope. Hope was the killer. She felt like a fool for hoping and she cherished it like a last embrace of her beloved.

Lily Ann pursed her lips, looking disapproving.

The conversation didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for the trip. She always dreamed that this time things would be different.

While Ginger spent the boarding wait on a pay phone with her dance school and her family, Jefferson pictured the two of them wading in green-blue shallow waters and holding hands as they walked the white sands at twilight. In the heat of the afternoon they’d be in their room at Don Cesar’s, a baronial pink palace of a place that, from the brochure, looked like it had aged well and was posh in the lobby and well-appointed in their room overlooking the beach. She imagined the luxury of Ginger’s trim body, her long red hair spread as it used to be across the fine linen pillowcases, ready for Jefferson once again.

And it was like that.

The first afternoon they were in swimsuits. Jefferson had a little flab around her body, from all the whiskey, she supposed, and swore she’d cut back, maybe suggest she and Lily Ann have Chinese instead of Italian food. Sprouts and veggies and bean curd would be good. She could quit drinking if she wanted to, but why? Life was more fun with it.

She didn’t wait for an excuse from Ginger, but stepped boldly up to her and slid her bathing-suit straps off her shoulders, leaving the wet suit across her breasts so the mound of them was half exposed to her kisses and their covered heft was in her hands. There was a radio in the room. She’d found the classical station earlier. “Afternoon of a Faun” was playing. Perfect.

Ginger said nothing, only let her do what she wanted. She waited for some response, but Ginger stood there as if deciding whether to give Jefferson the gift of herself.

No, Jefferson thought, unfastening the top and swallowing as much as she could of Ginger’s left breast, partly kneeling to capture it, moving her tongue around the nipple hard enough to rouse a statue and playing with the other nipple the way Ginger had liked when they were first together.

Finally, Ginger sighed, and she rolled her swimsuit down her belly and bottom, down her legs, waiting for Ginger to step out of it while Jefferson paused, crouching at the tops of Ginger’s long legs.

“Baby,” she pleaded, coaxing Ginger’s legs apart, then parting her outer lips with the fingers of both hands. She ran her tongue from top to bottom of her open and, she discovered, cream-covered labia. “Baby, you’re dripping.”

Ginger, silent as always when they made love, moved one foot sideways and bent her knees to give Jefferson more access. She kept her tongue in motion while supporting Ginger at the hips. Dancing as always, Ginger lowered, then raised, then lowered herself against Jefferson’s tongue, varying the pressure until Jefferson stayed with her clitoris, circling while Ginger shuddered above her, knees akimbo, hands on Jefferson’s shoulders in the most erotic stance Ginger had ever assumed with her.

“It’s been too long,” Ginger admitted as Jefferson stood, sliding her hands up Ginger’s sides. Ginger’s calves had been pressed against the king-sized bed. Jefferson stripped off the spread, blanket, and top sheet, then stood at the edge of the bed and beckoned her.

Ginger said, “I didn’t know I’d missed this so much. There’s never time.”

She reached for the buttons of the shirt she’d thrown over her old Speedo.

“Let me,” Ginger said, swiftly unbuttoning and slipping the shirt off. As Jefferson had, she loosed the straps and pulled the Speedo down, pressing her lips against Jefferson’s, opening her mouth, inviting Jefferson’s tongue inside.

Jefferson really let loose then, years of desire flooding her senses. She touched all the parts of Ginger she’d loved and been denied for so long. She was excited, as Lily Ann had said, out of her mind and took Ginger again, her finger thrusting into the beloved narrow wet burrow of her lover slowly and gently until she had Ginger meeting her every move, chasing her finger, as if they’d never stopped making love together.

She knew she had Ginger then, had reconnected with that primal part of Ginger that wanted nothing but pleasure and release. Elated, she withdrew her finger and positioned her hand to insert three fingers. “I love you, woman. I’m giving you my love. Can you feel it?” Making a triangle of her three fingers, she reached as deeply inside Ginger as she could, no longer as gentle, her one desire to drive Ginger wild.

If the old hotel had thinner walls Ginger’s cry of pleasure would have brought security.

Ginger slept then, and Jefferson watched the reflections of the pool below dance on their ceiling until twilight. She dropped off too and was only awakened by the feather touch of Ginger’s hands on her. She opened her eyes and smiled at Ginger. Ginger’s fingers were circling her tummy.

“Kiss me,” she’d said.

Ginger kissed her. They touched lips and tongues for a long time. Desire overtook Jefferson again. She led Ginger’s hand back to herself, hoping she was ready. Ginger used one of her long fingers to manipulate her. She focused all her concentration on that one spot and moved her hips to their rhythm. She badly wanted to come for Ginger. Ginger lifted her pelvis to get the touch she needed from Jefferson. Jefferson’s thighs tensed. She was so near, about there, when Ginger stopped.

“Did you come?” Ginger asked.

“Not yet, honey. A little longer?”

“Sure. My tongue?”

She still always refused oral sex from other lovers, saving that for Ginger and being completely frank with her lovers about why. She could only groan and nod. Ginger missed her cue and obviously interpreted her response as a no. Her finger went to work again, but she wasn’t otherwise caressing Jefferson or kissing her, or saying longing words.

She gave up after a while and pulled Ginger to her. She held her. Why hadn’t she ever tutored Ginger in lovemaking? She’d never been with a woman so incapable of following the signals of her partner’s body. Why wasn’t her deep love and desire for Ginger enough by itself?

She got up to go to the bathroom. Ginger was watching as she returned. She smiled and anticipated Ginger lifting her arms to bring her close.

“Stop doing that to your hair,” Ginger said.

She had a habit of running the fingers of both her hands through her hair to roughly comb it back from her face.

She stopped.

“It doesn’t make you look attractive.”

As she got under the covers, she touched Ginger’s shoulder with one hand.

“Cold,” Ginger said. It was true. In her hurry to be with Ginger she’d washed, but hadn’t waited for hot water. Her mistake. Ginger pulled the covers over her shoulders as she turned away from Jefferson. “You wiped me out.”

Hesitantly she curled against Ginger’s back and met no resistance. She held Ginger with a tenderness no one else since Angela had inspired in her, softly kissed her lovely hair, considered herself fortunate to have this much contentment with Ginger. She drifted off to a fantasy of mutual passion, mutual orgasms, mutual declarations of eternal love, but awakened with the question that haunted her always: why had Ginger, a dancer, never learned to be a lover? Was it because she’d been with no one but Jefferson? Or was it the worst reason: Ginger couldn’t feel passionate about another woman, about Jefferson—maybe about anyone.

Each day of their vacation was the same: sleep late, breakfast at the hotel, swim, make love to Ginger, nap, have drinks before, during, and after dinner at the hotel restaurant, which was an elegant affair. By the fourth day, Jefferson persuaded Ginger to explore another beach and they walked hand in hand, in warm, ankle-deep water as far as they could. Ginger smiled at her a lot. They talked abut everything but work, about which they had agreed not to speak, and sex. Why didn’t Ginger ask her if she was okay with what they did? Or explain why she never wanted to make love at home? Lack of time was a lame excuse.

On the last day of their vacation she resolved to bring it up. Ginger had become entirely passive in bed. Her receptiveness was thrilling, her responsiveness exciting—and Jefferson couldn’t stand it another minute physically, never mind emotionally. If she could work this thing out with Ginger, maybe she’d leave the other women alone. She reached for the glass on the bed table, sipped her whiskey, then took a long swallow. She’d confess that she had never had an orgasm with Ginger. It would either destroy them or make things better.

“Ginger,” she said while Ginger rested in her arms after several orgasms. She told her what hadn’t been happening for her, though she didn’t say it had never happened. She described what she needed from Ginger, looking in her eyes while she did, asking if Ginger was okay with what she was saying.

“Sure. I’ll do better, Jef,” Ginger said in a sleepy voice, and reached up to her.

It was a simple, autonomic response that led her to initiate lovemaking once more. Ginger had a less-than-wild orgasm, then lay there smiling.

“Ginge,” she said when Ginger stopped moving. “Ginge,” she whispered, not for the sex, but to escape the unavoidable journey to her dark place.

In recent years Ginger had started snoring as she slept, in a very quiet, ladylike way. She snored now.