Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee (13 page)

Then suddenly, as I’m sitting here filling our table with awkward silence, I wonder if I always date men because they ask me out. I’m just not used to
doing the chasing
. I suppose, when a woman is heterosexual, and she’s attracted to the sort of men who boss the world around,
they
want to do the running, and it’s easy to let them. When have I ever asked someone out?

Never, Kitten. Not once.

Under the table, I can feel my feet snugly encased in my peep-toe stilettos, and suddenly, something dawns on me:
If high-heeled shoes are meant to empower me, then dammit, I should let them
.

So I put down my fork, dab my mouth with the napkin and say, ‘Henry, I’m sorry. It’s been great to catch up. But if you’re still in love with me, we have to call this a day.’

‘I … why?’ he says, his eyes wide with surprise. His glasses slide down his nose and this time he pulls them off and squints at me across the table. ‘I’m not asking for anything, Debs.’

‘Neither am I,’ I tell him, ‘and that’s precisely the problem.’

When he asks what I mean, I say that I don’t want him anymore. And though saying this makes me feel like a bitch, I know I must stop being tossed around by every breeze. ‘We’re broken,’ I tell him. ‘And besides, I think I’m a lesbian.’

He gazes at me for at least five seconds, then he starts to laugh, falling back in his seat. He claps his hands together, as if he’s about to applaud. ‘Oh, Debs, you’re adorable, but you’re not a lesbian. You haven’t even
been
with a woman. You’ve always been turned on by men.’

I tell him I have indeed been with a woman, and a beautiful woman, at that. I admit, it’s satisfying to see the smirk sink from his face.

‘
You’ve
been with a
woman
?’ he says. ‘A
woman
?
You
?’

‘And a man,’ I say, ‘both at once, actually.’

Behind us, I hear somebody mutter, ‘Holy Moses,’ and I notice that the tables around us have gone quiet. It’s strange, but I really don’t care what anyone thinks, right now.

Henry glances around, then whispers, ‘Debsie, you’re loud.’

‘I
am
loud,’ I announce. ‘Especially when I’m in bed with a fellow lesbian.’

‘You are not a lesbian,’ says Henry. ‘Pumpkin, you’re not, you’re just confused.’

Now there’s some tittering behind us and the clink of glassware.

‘Oh, really?’ I say, snarkily. ‘Well, how come, when I caught you fucking that woman,
she
was the one I was watching, not you?’

‘What?’ he says. ‘You were watching
Sarah
?’

‘
Sarah
was gorgeous.
You
faded into the background.’

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, then opens it again and lets his jaw hang there. ‘You’re not into women. You can’t be into women. You were always so into my …’ He points down at his lap like some kind of pantomime character.

‘Your cock, Henry,’ I announce, as he frantically gestures for me to keep down the noise. I have to admit, the surrounding tables have turned so silent that a whisper wouldn’t cut it. Janey will be proud if I tell her about this. ‘Women can have cocks too,’ I say. ‘It isn’t about what bits you have.’

He looks terrified, stunned, as he shakes his head slowly. ‘You’re not,’ he says, more quietly now. ‘Even if you don’t want
me
anymore … you can’t. You’re not. Not
you
.’

‘For someone who says he’s in love with me,’ I say, ‘you have a funny habit of refusing to acknowledge me.’

‘Debsie, I’m sorry, but listen to me for a moment –’

‘Believe what you like,’ I say. ‘Why should I care?’

And I still feel his eyes on me as I collect my handbag and stride from the room, with the whole world watching.

Saturday, 24 March

12.30 p.m.

Dear Kitten,

Last night, after I stormed out on my date with Henry, I came straight home and did two things. The first was to bin the birds of paradise he sent me. The second was to call Glads for a friendly ear.

‘Bigoted bastard,’ she tells me, when I’ve given her the spiel.

‘He’s just defensive,’ I tell her. ‘What puzzles him most is that I always seemed into his cock!’

‘Oh, the ego!’ Gladys snorts. I do too.

‘Mind you,’ she says, once we’re both done with laughing. ‘A lot of men think it’s all about that. And it isn’t. It really isn’t.’ She tells me how her new man, Marco, isn’t very well hung at all. Then she adds that what he does with his hands and mouth is beyond compare. ‘Plus his accent!’ she gushes. ‘And he’s so
intelligentsia
that, when he rails against Milgram’s electric shock technique, I end up jumping his bones.’

I roll my eyes.

‘And you,’ she says, ‘you’re a sexually political beast! Coming out in front of all those people! You’re rebellious, Debs. I didn’t know you had it in you.’

I don’t know how to take that last bit. I mean, of course I have it in me to rebel! All the same, when I try and think of an instance, I can’t. Glads is right. This is my first rebellious move. And at the thought my lips spring into a smile.

Then, this morning, when I notice Janey isn’t up, I consider waking her. But I decide I should trust her. She’ll be at Pussyfoot Shoes by eight, just like she said she would. All the same, I put out her strawberries and spinach, ready for her to make her breakfast smoothie. I place the blender next to them, feeling all warm inside – I love doing things for Janey. It makes me glow.

And maybe it’s rash, but I also leave her a note that says, ‘Have a nice breakfast and see you at eight. P. S. I have binned the flowers.’

Now, bear with me, Kitten, because I need to explain what happened when Janey did arrive. See, head office had emailed me the usual printed directions for what a trial member of staff should wear, and I’d forwarded them to Janey. Basically, Pussyfoot Shoes stipulate: for men, a pair of black trousers with a crisp white shirt and tie, and, for women, a flared pink knee-length skirt with a plain white top.

Does Janey keep to these instructions? Well, frankly, it’s hard to say. Because when she arrives at the shop, bang on the dot of 8 a.m., she’s wearing a pair of black trousers, a crisp white shirt and a long silver-and-black-striped tie. A tie, Kitten! A swankier one than Henry would ever wear – more Guy’s taste, I’m guessing. But, my God, the girl looks far hotter than those men ever could. On her head is a flat-peaked cap, and on her feet a pair of black pointy lace-ups. And her eyes are a defiant blue as she stands in front of me. Her head is cocked and she has one hand on her shoulder, like a character from a gender-bending musical. There’s a twitch of a smile at the edge of her lips and a brightness in her eyes. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘how do I brush up?’

‘Um, wow,’ I say, running a hand through my hair. I gaze at her for a moment, trying to fight my urge to grab her tie and yank her towards me, before swooping my lips to hers. The more I drink her in, the damper I feel between my legs. Oh, my God, Kitten, she’s deliciously distracting! I picture her lying sideways along my double bed, naked except for her cap, her tie, and a pair of black lacy briefs. The tie is draped across her lower breast, but her other is totally naked, with its hard, rosy nipple just begging for my lips.

‘Well?’ she says, giving me a devilish look. She leans against the doorpost, like a guy who’s coming on to me. ‘Do I look dapper, or what?’

‘You look incredible,’ I say. I reach out and run her tie through my fingers. It’s warm from the heat of her body. Half of me wants to kiss her, while the other half wants to take her over my knee and spank her, hearing her gasp with pleasure every time she feels my palm.

Christ on a crumpet, what am I thinking? I glance up and down the street to see if anyone saw us, and once I know the coast is clear I tell her to come inside. Then I explain my concerns about her get-up. For one, ‘Crabby Carol’ the Area Manager will be coming this afternoon, and she won’t take kindly to gender-bending. Also, how will our customers react?

‘Well,’ says Janey, ‘I could take off the tie.’ She cocks a sexy eyebrow. ‘But it’d be a shame, don’t you think?’

‘Janey, love,’ I say. ‘We’re here to make money, not political points.’

‘I did it for you,’ says Janey, standing so close that I can feel her breath. (Dear God, Kitten! She smells of strawberries!) ‘You threw the flowers away. So I thought I’d get all queer in celebration. After all, I finished with Lil, last night.’

Oh, joy! ‘And, as of yesterday, I’m finished with Guy,’ I say, beaming away.

‘Really?’ Her whole face lights up and she claps her hands like a birthday girl. ‘I thought you went out on a date last night.’

‘No,’ I say. And I decide not to mention my dinner with Henry. What good would it do anyway?

We look at one another, smiling, for an awkwardly long time. At last I say, ‘This is all wonderful. But this is business, love, OK?’

That makes Janey’s look go sour. ‘I’m wearing what it says in the guidelines you sent me. I mean, I was
impressed
that they didn’t mention gender.’

I think for a second. But it’s hard to think when the woman of your dreams is:

a) single for the first time since you both met;

b) looking so incredibly hot;

c) gazing at you with such angry passion that you wonder if she’s going to jump your bones;

d) still looking so incredibly hot.

Then suddenly, I’m thinking: I’m in love and lust with a twenty-three-year-old woman; last night, I told my ex-husband and half a busy restaurant that I was a dyke; and I’m becoming a sexual radical. Is that a recipe for conventional clothing? I think not.

So I say, ‘All right. We’ll let it ride this morning and I’ll ask you to take off the tie by noon. Then, at four, when the Area Manager turns up, you’ll be safe as houses.’

Janey gives a sigh and stares down at her hands. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Thanks.’

And I feel like a party pooper.

But here’s the funny bit. The customers
love
her!

Young women clip along in brand-new shoes and flirt with her, asking if their bum looks good, giving her moon eyes as she unpacks shoes from tissue. A smart, older woman, who’s dripping in silver jewellery, says that Janey reminds her of her lesbian daughter. (‘I’ll be coming back here more often,’ she says. ‘We should see more smart women like you dressing in shirts and ties.’) A girl with long red curls held back by black hair combs asks for seven pairs of shoes to try. Seven! And Janey brings them so willingly and is so absorbed in choosing which pairs suit her customer that she ends up kneeling on the floor to get a closer look. I tell her not to do this, of course. Kneeling like nuns isn’t our style! But the girl buys two of the seven pairs and seems delighted with Janey.

What’s more, after a mere hour and a half she understands the storeroom system as if she’s been working here for years, and is using the till like a genius.

But me? I’m not at my best. I’m glancing over my shoulder at Janey every minute, noticing her perfect buttocks inside those fitted trousers as she bends over to pick up a box, or I’m watching her smile as she rings up a pair of mules, or imagining whether she’s braless underneath her shirt and tie, her nipples all hard and pink, her breasts a swell of pale skin. All I want to do is slam her against the wall and open my mouth on hers, running my hands across her chest and feeling her nipples hardening beneath. I want to rub my pussy against her thigh, Kitten, and run the edge of my peep-toe stiletto up and down her trousered shin, showing her how much I love her like this – all gender-bending and kinky.

Pearl arrives at eleven. She’s less excited about Janey’s outfit. In fact, she looks a bit peeved. ‘I don’t see why I can’t wear something like that,’ she says.

‘Pearl, I had no idea you liked to wear a tie!’

Pearl flips her blonde hair behind her shoulders. ‘I told you how much I hate flared skirts. I’m a pencil-skirt woman.’

I tell Pearl that Janey’s outfit is temporary. Next weekend, she’ll be wearing a Pussyfoot uniform.

‘You’ve made a decision on this new girl quickly, haven’t you?’ She crosses her arms, gives a look that says,
Well?

I butter her up and remind her how splendid she is, and all is forgotten.

But back to the smut, Kitten! At one point, Janey and I are both in the stockroom, and Janey is up on the stepladder, reaching for a super-small size. As I slink past her, my eyes are level with her bum and, dear God, I get so close to pawing her through the material and feeling those smooth buttocks that I almost lose my mind. Then, when she’s climbing down, and I’m on my way back, shoebox in hand, she smiles, reaches out for me and pulls me into a hug. It’s a surprise because we’ve never hugged before. ‘I’m sorry I got pissy about the tie,’ she whispers. ‘I’m so grateful for this job, Debs. And I love wearing this get-up too.’

She brushes her hand up and down my back, super-slow, so I can feel my every cell warming with her touch, and our breasts are pressed together, and her jawline smells of that soap of hers, and her cheek is so soft as she pulls away.

‘I’m … glad you … like it,’ I stutter. ‘You’re … a great fit.’

‘Mmm,’ she purrs, running her fingertips idly down my bare arm. Her eyelids grow heavy, and she looks up at me through her lashes. ‘You and I work well together,’ she murmurs, ‘wouldn’t you say?’ I can feel my arousal all over my body, as if sexy women are blowing warm air all over me, kissing me behind my ear and down my breasts and thighs …

Then comes the real corker! Before she pulls away, she rests her cheek against mine and says, ‘I know I look all “man” today but, just so you know, I’m wearing the skimpiest pair of satin knickers under here. They’re black and lace-trimmed and totally femme. They rub against me in lascivious ways.’

As she moves away, I stand there, mouth agape, my flesh in a personal hell of longing. I want to kiss her hard, up against the boxes of shoes, letting them collapse around us as I rip off her clothes … Oh, Kitten, I’d hump her like a crazed dog, rubbing myself against those lovely toned thighs, squeezing those perfect breasts of hers and rutting her … yes, rutting!