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Lee's voice is casual on the other end of the line. "You busy?"
"Well," she says, thinking. She isn't busy, but she's not sure whether she wants to be. She's also cramping like hell.
"You're not busy," Lee says decisively. "I'm in the area, know what I mean?" She pauses long enough to let her words sink in, but not long enough for a response. "Let's shag."
She feels a stab of irritation, punctuated by a flash of arousal prickling all over her skin. "Aren't you the romantic." She doesn't want excitement today. She wants to stay home, drink, and watch telly. And yet.
"You'd best be glad I'm not."
She is. But there's still the other thing- "Might not be the right time, anyway. I've got the painters and decorators in."
There's a pause, and for a moment she thinks that's settled it. Then: "Don't care. I'm bored."
"Right. I'm not meeting you anywhere, though. Either you come here or you go find somebody else."
That first time, after coming back from the club, Lee had fallen asleep and spent the night. The next morning, Damia had awoken to Lee, fully clothed and sitting cross-legged on the bed next to her. Hunched over, chin in her hands, elbows on her knees, staring. It had taken a few moments for Damia to realize that she was still completely naked. Lee hadn't acknowledged her waking up, just kept on staring.
Absolute silence as she'd gotten up from the bed, crossed the room, spared one last glance over her shoulder. Looked her up and down one last time, neither of them saying a word.
Damia had watched her leave the room, then worked up the strength to get out of bed despite her hangover. Trailed into the living room with a blanket wrapped around her, dragging on the floor like a cape, scrap of paper with her phone number clutched in her hand, to find Lee tying her shoelaces. It was strange, both of them silent, under some sort of spell. Lee had cracked a smile when she'd accepted the paper.
The call didn't come for a few weeks, but as soon as she picked up, it was like a dam broke. It began to feel as though half of the time the phone rang, it was Lee on the other end, chattering on about…anything, really. It seems like pestering Damia is a way of amusing herself when she's bored.
"I could find someone else," Lee responds. "But since you asked so nicely I'll be there in an hour."
***
Lee takes an awkward step and stumbles, kicking a book across the floor. "You alright?" Damia says.
"Course I am. I just tripped on one of the communist manifestoes you've got lying about."
"Aren't you supposed to be some kind of working class hero?"
"That's right," Lee says. "The female John Lennon, that's me."
She laughs. "Right."
"Who is, then," she demands. She's still in her trainers.
"No shoes on the carpet," Damia commands.
"Who is," Lee repeats, kneeling down to untie her laces.
"Pretty sure John would've said Yoko Ono is the female John Lennon."
Lee furrows her brow, contemplating. "Maybe I'm looking for my Yoko, then."
"Aren't you engaged?"
"Oh, right," Lee says, and it sounds as if she genuinely forgot for a moment. "Right." She looks around for a minute, suddenly lost, then seems to gather her thoughts and says (defensively, accusatorily,) "You've got a boyfriend."
She doesn't have a response to that; it feels wrong to talk about him. Lee stares. "You want something to drink?" she says, anxious to fill the silence. She doesn't want to talk about him, and she doesn't want to talk about Lee's fiance, either.
"What've you got?" Then, before she can say anything- "Just anything, yeah. Something strong."
"Right," she says. "Put some music on?" She gestures at the record player. "Anything." Lee doesn't respond, but she springs excitedly over to the shelf and begins flipping through the records. In the kitchen, she pulls two glasses down from the cupboard, listens to shuffling noises from the other room, then a chime. She's put on Double Fantasy, which feels a bit like a sick joke, probably not intentionally, but in a cosmic sense. There's still a little hook of anxiety digging into her now, though, that she might've somehow given the wrong impression. Of course it seems impossible that Lee's intentions are romantic, but-
When she walks back into the room, Lee points at her. "You haven't got Mind Games," she says reproachfully.
"Oh," Damia says, setting the glasses on the coffee table. Lee sounds so genuinely disappointed that she feels almost compelled to apologize. "...No, I don't." She wonders what happened to the seemingly endless stream of chatter that Lee unleashes over the phone. Apparently she's not the only one feeling uneasy about seeing each other again in person.
Lee reaches for a glass and makes a retching noise as soon as she's taken a drink. "What," she says, coughing, "the fuck is that?"
"Pernod." It had just been on the counter, and she hadn't been thinking.
"Fucking rank, is what that is, Jesus, man, trying to kill me…"
She shrugs. "I like it. Come find something else, then."
"Gin," she says, trailing behind her to the kitchen. "Vodka. Something normal."
The bottle of gin is now sitting on the coffee table. Damia can't tell if she's trying to keep up with Lee or vice versa. Over the speakers, Yoko Ono is pretending to have an orgasm. "Dunno what you wanna do, but I'll do anything," Lee is saying. She's sprawled out, taking up about three-quarters of the sofa. "I'm more open-minded than you, like."
She wonders if Lee actually believes that or if she's just needling her, hoping that she takes the bait just to see a reaction. She takes it anyway. "That's rich, coming from you. When someone says something you don't want to hear you plug your ears and start shouting."
She kicks at Damia's knee. "I do not! Anyway I'm more open to new experiences. I've never reciprocated," she says, in a mocking imitation of Damia's voice.
"Oh, fuck off. Is that what you want? Me to 'reciprocate?'" The idea of going down on Lee both intrigues and disgusts her. She hadn't been entirely honest, the last time- it wasn't really the first time she'd had her hand down a girl's pants, but something about that had felt too personal to let on.
She had been the first one to touch Graham, back when they were teenagers. She'd been nearly seventeen, and she'd hated Graham's boyfriend, and, she reflects, that hasn't changed- she still hates most of her boyfriends. This one had been the first, though, and she'd shocked herself with the severity of her own emotions, had hated him more than she'd ever hated a boy before. Graham had confessed to her, in a rushed, humiliated mutter, that he'd requested a blow job, and been angry when she'd told him not to hold her head. Damia had been angry from the beginning, probably from the second his name had been mentioned, and only gotten angrier. That's fucking demeaning, she'd said. What has he ever done for you? And when Graham shrugged silently she prompted again: I mean it. Anything, has he ever done anything at all for you? Then crowded closer to her, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand fiddling with the button of her trousers and slipping into her underwear: has he ever done this? And Graham had let her, hadn't said anything, just taken shallow, hiccuping breaths while Damia kissed her neck, worked her hand until she came.
"If I wanted to get bad head," Lee says, grinning, "I'd just go shag a man."
She decides it isn't worth it to protest too much. "Why are you here, then."
"Let's see your tits."
"Is that it? Take a picture and go home with it."
"Aw, don't be like that, sweetheart," Lee says, sitting up and leaning towards her. "I saw that photoshoot. Few weeks ago, it must've been, looked like you could hardly keep your shirt on." She tugs at the hem of her shirt for emphasis.
She knows exactly what Lee's talking about. It had been provocative. She'd posed in a low-cut shirt, staring intently into the camera, fingers dipping just below her waistband. She can't remember what the magazine had captioned it with- probably something generic and saucy (hello, boys!) - but she looked good, and she knew it. "Go on, then, get it over with and call me a slag."
"I was being nice!" Lee says in an aggrieved tone, but she's still pulling at Damia's shirt. "Everybody's always accusing me of something before I've had the chance to do it…"
"That's not fair, is it," Damia says with exaggerated sympathy, reaching down to pull off her shirt. "Have a look at my tits, maybe you'll feel better."
Lee cackles, loud and tipsy. "That's right, that's why I'm here. And by the way-" (she's jabbing her finger at her for emphasis) "-I was going to call you a tart."
"Right."
"It was…the pictures were…what's the word."
"Provocative?" she says. Now that her clothing is coming off she's feeling impatient.
"Salacious, innit?"
"Right. Whorish, too. What else."
"Dunno," Lee says. She seems to be genuinely racking her brain for more adjectives.
"Looks like you've run out of words, now come on," she prompts.
"...Pornographic. No, that's not it."
"You keep thinking, then, I'll just put my shirt back on and-"
Lee snaps to attention. "Don't you fucking dare." She reaches for the shirt, tosses it across the room, and kisses her.
She falls back and hits her head on the arm of the sofa. "Ow!"
"You alright?"
"I can feel my brain swimming 'round my skull," she says, and then pulls Lee down to kiss her again, feels a hand settle on her breast, squeezing. She can feel her body heating up, hormonal, skin sensitive, on fire. Lee is straddling her, practically sitting in her lap, but the angle is wrong- she can't get any friction. She bites gently at Lee's bottom lip, and she feels her pull away and bite her neck in response. "Come on," she says, trying to grind against her, but it's to no avail.
Lee shifts and props herself up on both arms, hovering over her. "You're in a hurry."
"Come on," she repeats.
"Maybe I don't want you bossing me about," Lee says, and pinches her nipple.
"Ow," she says, but it comes out as a moan. "I'm bossing you about? You're the one who phoned me-"
"So what."
"-phoned me, invited yourself over to my house-"
"That was your idea, me coming here-"
"-demanded to come fuck me and invited yourself over to my house-"
"Completely daft, you are. You're the one demanding."
"What," Damia says. "What am I demanding."
Lee cups her breasts in her hands, groping, rubbing at her nipples. "I dunno," she says, grinning.
"Either we shag," she starts, then takes a deep breath. It's difficult to remain coherent, given the circumstances. "Or you get off me and get the fuck out of here."
"You don't mean that."
"I bloody well do! You-" She's cut off by her own moan when Lee slips a hand into her pants.
"You're wet," she remarks.
"I know." Lee's touch is light and teasing, too little and too much at the same time. All of her muscles feel tensed in anticipation. "That's what happens when women get horny. Unless it's different for you."
Lee ignores this and keeps touching her. "There's a bit of string…must be your tampax."
"Don't be disgusting."
Lee presses her thumb down on her clit. "You're the one letting me feel you up while you're on the rag."
Then she feels her hand withdrawing, grabbing at her waistband, and suddenly she's naked on the sofa, staring up at Lee, who hasn't removed a single stitch of clothing. A few moments pass. "Well?" she says impatiently.
"Ask nicely."
She thinks about it. "No."
Lee stares at her, expression unreadable, then shrugs. She leans down and gets to work, mouth warm and wet, and Damia writhes. It's better than the last time- not that the last time was bad, but they had both been considerably more drunk, and Lee had clearly never done it before. She wonders if she's practiced on anybody else since then. For all her loudmouthed aggression, she's incredibly attentive, even sweet. Damia pets at her hair instinctively. Then, as soon as she's getting close, Lee is pulling away and sitting upright.
"What's wrong?"
"I've got to flip the record."
She hadn't even noticed. "The- no, you don't!"
"I do," Lee says, rising from the sofa. "Unless you want to."
"Nobody has to flip the record! Get back here!" She feels like she might implode.
Lee ignores her, crossing the room and carefully turning the record over. Picks up the needle. Then, instead of putting it in the groove, carefully sets it back down. "There's a bit of dust."
"...What?"
"Have you got a- one of them brush things. Y'know. A thingy. To dust it off."
"We'll listen to the dust, then," Damia says, desperately, furiously. Lee finds the brush and begins to wipe dust off the record. She decides she should take matters into her own hands and touch herself, while she waits. Lee puts the needle onto the disc and walks back to the couch.
When she climbs back onto the sofa, she kneels over her and doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything. Just watches.
Damia isn't sure what to say. "Are you- will you-"
Lee shakes her head. "You didn't ask nicely, earlier. And then you just went ahead without me."
"You left me here!"
"Bit dramatic. Go on, then."
"That's not fair," she whines, but something about it is turning her on anyway.
Lee shoves a hand into her own pants. "Life ain't fair, sunshine."
"Would you at least-"
"Spread your legs wider," she interrupts.
Without thinking, she obeys. "Would you- you haven't even taken your shirt off-" Or her hoodie, for that matter.
Lee's gaze has been fixed on Damia's hand between her legs. She doesn't bother to look away when she says, "No," and grins. "You wanna pull that tampon out and let me finger you?"
"No," she says firmly, "that's disgusting." She wants it, but-
Lee shrugs. "Your loss."
Damia watches Lee watching her, the rhythm of her hand inside her trackies, her jaw clenching, her chest rising and falling as she breathes heavily through her nose. It occurs to her that whatever game they're playing, she's losing- a peculiar and subtle humiliation that pushes her over the edge.
Lee laughs. And laughs, and laughs, and takes her hand out of her pants. It isn't even a mocking sort of laughter, it's one of sheer delight. "Ooh, you should've seen yourself."
She doesn't even finish. Damia thinks about offering to get her off and then thinks better of it. As soon as she's alone again she feels close to tears, and when they begin to spill she scolds herself internally for giving in to- whatever it is. Hormones. Her general state, lately. Loneliness. Worst of all is the fact that she still feels aroused. She drifts aimlessly to the record player and ends up just flipping Double Fantasy back over to hear it again. She's glad Lee isn't around to see her crying, but she wants someone, anyone, to touch her. Almost regrets not letting Lee finger her, but it was something too disgusting- too personal-to let someone she's only seeing casually do to her, someone she doesn't even really consider a friend.
She lies back down on the sofa, hand on her crotch, not even really doing anything, just a firm pressure. A cramp rolls through her abdomen. If Graham had asked to finger her she would've said yes, she thinks. She thinks about calling her, now, but doesn't. Seeing her has been too much, lately, every interaction feeling like her head is being wrapped in cellophane, blurring her vision, suffocating her, slowly and gently killing her. Graham slurring her words, bitter, sullen. She takes a deep breath and listens to the music. Why don't we take off alone? Take a trip somewhere far, far away…It wasn't supposed to be like this. We'll be together all alone again, like we used to in the early days. It wasn't supposed to be like this, she thinks, letting a ragged, shuddering sob take over her body for a moment.
If it was still the way it used to be, Graham would be here right now, because she was always around. Or just a phone call away. Back then there weren't any questions, and when there were the answers didn't matter. They would spend hours doing nothing together, doing everything. Talking, laughing, listening to music, watching movies. Kissing. They never needed reasons for any of it. They would be kissing, right now, if she were here. They would be sitting on the sofa and then Graham would help her take her clothing off and gently guide her onto her back…Thinking about it is getting her all worked up, frustrated, sad.
She sniffles and tries to pull herself together. A bath. She should take a bath. She twists the volume knob on her way to the bathroom so she can hear the music from the other room and watches the hot water gush from the faucet, climbing in without even waiting for the tub to fill. If Graham were here, and if things were the way they used to be, she would be sitting on the bath mat talking to her right now. Maybe there would be bubbles in the bath, and she would tease- sitting up strategically to show off her chest, watching Graham pretend not to stare.
Her hand finds her clit again, and she starts moving her fingers with more intention as she imagines it. She would sit up and invite her into the bath with her, and Graham would blush, but she would do it. Damia isn't sure if she would actually take all of her clothing off, and she falters for a moment, but she lets the fantasy unfold. There's something appealing about imagining Graham being so eager that she just climbs in, soaking her t-shirt and underwear in the bathwater and leaning down to kiss her. She holds her breast in her other hand, imagining that it's Graham touching it, instead. Another cramp grips at her insides and she hisses. If Graham were here she would probably whine about it, an exaggerated, pained cry, and Graham would pull away- still holding her breast- and say I can help, y'know. It's supposed to be good for the pain, when you- yeah. She would weakly protest for a bit, first. Tell her she really didn't have to, she's fine, really, you don't want to do that…She takes hold of the tampon string and pulls it out, aiming for the bin and wincing when it hits the tile instead. Blood immediately gushes out of her, red and cloudy in the shallow water below her, and she sighs, irritated at her own impatience for not at least waiting until she was submerged.
Still, she does her best to ignore it, slipping two fingers inside herself and trying not to cringe at the slick feeling of her own blood. She tries to imagine that it's Graham's fingers, instead, but she can't stand the feeling of her hand twisted around awkwardly, and her other wrist is starting to get sore. No amount of imagination can save her from the fact that she's sitting in a shallow puddle of warm water mixing with her own blood, alone. She just wants to give up and start crying again. She pulls her fingers out and rinses them under the faucet, pulling the plug and rising to her feet. It's been about a week since she's touched the box in her nightstand drawer. That feels like long enough. She's been careful (as careful as one can be with that kind of thing) not to get addicted. She knows it won't solve her problems, but it's a break. A reset. Just a moment she can take for herself, when she's tired of feeling everything, to feel nothing at all. She wraps a towel around herself and doesn't bother to put a new tampon in, leaving wet footprints on her way to the bedroom. No more guilt, shame, resentment, no more fear about the future. Nothing at all: a way of bearing the unbearable.
***
Graham is in rare form today, more like her old self. These days, Damia thinks, every time Graham smiles she wants to freeze time and make it last forever. It's about noon, now, and they're getting wine-drunk, and probably they shouldn't be, but why ruin the moment with a reality check? Listen, we've been having a lovely morning, but I just remembered you're an alcoholic, so we ought to call it quits. And last night had been so unpleasant. Graham had been nasty, and gotten short with her, and she'd just stood there and taken it. It stings, always does, no matter how much she reminds herself not to take it too personally, that Graham still loves her, that she's only lashing out because she's like a caged animal and it's the only thing she can do. She hadn't reacted until Graham had said something- she can't even remember exactly what- about her shooting up, and how it made her a hypocrite.
It did strike a nerve. And she had said: it's not the alcohol, it's YOU.
And that was when Graham started crying, and there they were, the familiar cycle, playing the same game over and over. And she'd immediately regretted it, taken her in her arms and said I didn't mean that, love, I know it's hard for you, come on, don't cry, I didn't mean it- felt Graham gasping and hiccuping into her shoulder, soaking her shirt with tears and snot, held her until the sobbing lapsed into quiet snuffling. And then Graham's lips on her skin, softly mumbling against her neck: I'm gonna be sick. This, too, is a familiar part of their routine now. Holding her hair back when she vomits, helping clean her up, bundling her into the backseat of a taxi.
Let's go to yours this time, Graham had pleaded. Just this once. As if it was wrong of her to ask, as if they weren't best friends, as if Damia wouldn't drop everything and move into a single room with Graham if she just asked.
So. Giving her what she wants might not always be the best idea. Graham's arm snakes out past the shower curtain, making a grabby motion with her hand, and Damia passes her the glass.
Graham is in the bath. When she'd pulled the curtain closed, she'd wanted to tease- Nothing I haven't seen already- but she's trying to be tactful. Ever since they were young she hadn't liked to change in front of her. Just 'cos we're both girls doesn't mean we're the same. I'm too skinny in all the wrong places and too fat in the others and you're…
It just makes her sad. "Oh…" Graham says from the bathtub, and she sounds very suddenly despondent.
"What's the matter?"
A deep sigh. "There's a bit of vomit in my hair."
"Just rinse off in the shower afterwards," Damia suggests. Then- "Sorry. I tried to make sure that didn't happen."
Faint splashing, it sounds like she's lying down. "Don't be. It's my own fault I'm like this."
She doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to talk about it. Not today, not when it's noon and the sun is pouring in through the bathroom window onto the tile, not when she's leaning against the tub and Graham is just on the other side of the curtain, not after she'd suggested Graham might feel better if she took a hot bath and received a genuine smile in return, not when music is drifting in from the record player in the other room, when the wine is settling into her body and making her feel warm and fuzzy all over. She sings along with the music for a few bars- here's your reward for working so hard…gone are the lavatories in the backyard…
A moment of silence, more faint splashing. Graham's voice sounds tired, quiet, defeated. "It's not your job to take care of me."
But it is. "Put on your slippers and sit by the fire, you've reached your top, and you just can't get any higher," she sings. Then: "You should cut your hair again, you might not get sick all over it if it wasn't so long."
"Why, so people could laugh about it?" Graham had never said so, but Damia's pretty sure the only reason she'd grown her hair back out was because people- not many, but even one was one too many for Graham- had implied that it lent her some kind of inherently ugly masculinity.
Damia likes the long hair well enough, but- "Why laugh? It suits you." She supposes it does make her look a bit like a boy. She supposes that might be why she likes it.
"...Right."
She finishes her drink, sets her glass on the tile. "That's a good thing, though. I mean it's…sexy." She pours another glass.
A weak, bitter laugh. "Come on." She hears the bath begin to drain. Then the shower turning on, and she goes and curls up on the sofa and listens to the Kinks while she waits.
Graham comes out in a towel, dripping puddles onto the floor. "Erm. Sorry. My clothes…"
"We'll put them in the wash," Damia says. "Just go borrow some of mine."
Graham opens her mouth to say something. Closes it. Nods. Disappears down the hallway. She comes back in pyjama pants and a large jumper.
Damia feels warm all over, can't help but smile. The pyjama pants are really what does it, because they mean she'll at least stay a little longer. It's the end of the album: she rises to her feet and walks to the record player, sings quietly to herself, I want a short-haired girl that sometimes wears it twice as long, looks at Graham again as she puts the record back in its sleeve. "Put something on."
Graham rubs at her face. "I can't find my glasses."
“Oh, sorry! I put them in my pocket last night, you almost lost them.” She crosses the room and fishes in her jacket pocket. Ignoring Graham's outstretched hand, she places them carefully on her face for her. Graham mumbles a quiet ‘thank you,’ and Damia ignores this as well. “Put a record on.”
Graham is silent, turns, begins flipping through her records. Puts on Best of Blondie. Back still turned, she sways back and forth as the opening notes to Heart of Glass pour out of the speakers.
Damia feels her face split into a grin. "That's it!" The music surrounds her, drains all the tension from her body, and she shakes her hips, floats to the middle of the room and spins around in the patch of sunlight hitting the rug.
Graham turns around, dances lazily around the room, the sort of self-conscious dancing that could be written off as pacing, vague motion, but she seems to be settling into the feeling, Damia thinks, by the time the song ends. During In The Flesh she pours them more drinks and Damia accepts hers without question. Then sets her glass aside as soon as Sunday Girl begins, bounces and shimmies on her way back to Graham, holding out her hands. Graham looks at her, hesitating, then takes her hands.
"You're a terrible dancer," Graham says when they stumble.
"Hurry up, hurry up and wait," Damia sings, swinging their clasped hands back and forth aggressively. "That's why I dance with you."
"I'm even worse than you are."
"Yeah, makes me look good in comparison." Graham lets go of one of her hands, and she feels the palm of said hand on the small of her back instead. She leans back and tries to let Graham dip her- awkward but somewhat successful. She thinks about the first time they listened to this together. Did you know this was about Debbie's cat that ran away? Graham had asked her. No, she didn't know. His name was Sunday Man and they really missed him.
They dance through the song, then the next. When Damia moves to flip the record, Graham says, "My dream last night. Promise not to laugh?"
"I won't."
"I, erm. I was onstage. Naked."
"Ah," Damia says, nodding as she places the needle. "Hate those ones."
"Right. But I had, y'know, my guitar. And I just wished I could hide behind it but it. Wasn't enough. And I couldn't leave, and put clothes on, I had to stay and play." She looks down awkwardly, sinking to the carpet to sit with her legs criss-crossed. "And I just felt so hopeless and trapped. Because, I. I couldn't get away from myself. And- and hundreds and hundreds of people out there staring at me." Her fingers trace patterns on the rug. "And then I looked over, and you were there."
Damia sinks to the floor next to Graham and feels her stomach lurch in anticipation. There's just this crawling dread that she did something awful in the dream, that she was in the crowd of people all staring. That she laughed, or said something cruel. Or that, in some abstract way, the dream was prophetic.
Which leaves her unprepared for what Graham says next. "And you were naked, too. And you didn't have anything, no guitar or anything to hide behind. And I think- it seemed like you were scared, too. But not ashamed like I was."
"What did I do?" Damia asks, quietly. Not a whisper, not quite, but quiet like she's in a church.
"You sang."
"I suppose that is what I'd do. Did you play?"
"I woke up," Graham says, finally looking up at her. The unspoken: I woke up next to you. "But it reminded me of one I never told you about."
"What's that?"
"We were…fifteen…I was fifteen. And it was, you know. Everyone has dreams about going to school naked."
"You were having them every night, though," Damia remembers. It had been the summer holidays, and it at least felt like Graham had been sleeping over every night.
"Yeah. Well, the night after I told you about them, I had another. I was at school, and I was standing in the classroom doorway, didn't have a stitch of clothing on. And the hallway behind me was crowded, and in front of me everyone in the room was staring at me, except for you. And then you turned around and spotted me, and you smiled. And you stood up and started taking your clothes off, too."
It feels like her chest is threatening to burst open. "You told me the dreams stopped."
"They did. After that, they did. It felt too weird to tell you why."
"I was having some like that, when I was sixteen. I mean, dreams I never told you about."
"Like what?"
"Well," Damia says, only slightly teasing, "you were naked in my dream, too."
"Fuck off," Graham laughs. She's got that expression on her face, the one Damia's memorized over the years: a barely perceptible shift from 'shy' to 'coy," sometimes accompanied by a shift from 'irritated' to- 'amused'. Affection tinged with- probably- arousal. She studies her face in silence for a moment, until a faint blush creeps into her cheeks and she says, "Well don't imagine it! Tell me about the dream."
Damia puts out her hands defensively. "That's not what I was thinking about!" It is now, though. "I woke up in the middle of the night. I mean I thought I did, I didn't realize I was dreaming. You weren't next to me, so I thought you'd left. Somehow I knew you hadn't gone home, though, so I went outside to look for you. Without even stopping to put shoes or trousers on, just in my shirt and knickers…I don't even think I was worried, I just really wanted to see you." She pauses for just a moment, tries to read Graham's mind by looking at her face, but she can't. She never really could, but there was a time when they were younger that she thought she'd be able to one day, that it was inevitable. "You know how in dreams it's all different but it's the same? I walked over to this little pond thing. And in the dream I knew it was our pond…it was where we went to swim. And you were in the water, and you were naked. I couldn't really see your body, though. Just your head and shoulders, and it was right after you'd cut your hair, but I must not have remembered that in the dream, because your hair reached the water…you were like." She giggles in spite of herself. "Like a mermaid. And you didn't see me, you were facing the other way. I called but you didn't hear me. So I just went in the pond. I didn't take off my clothes or anything, just waded in." She falls silent and listens to the music. Debbie Harry is singing in Italian. In French.
"...And then what," Graham says, not a question but a prompt, like she already knows the answer.
She scoots closer. "I put my hand on your shoulder, like this," she says, and then does.
"And?"
"And," Damia says. She's close enough to feel her breath. "You turned 'round to face me." Then she leans in, and they're kissing, breaking apart only for a moment to set Graham's glasses on the coffee table. She feels her leaning in, pressing closer, runs her tongue through her mouth like she's trying to memorize her teeth; a sensation that should be alien but feels like the most natural thing in the world. I want a love that's right- she probably has memorized her teeth- but right is only half of what's wrong- she runs a hand through her hair, almost down to her shoulders now. I want a short-haired girl who sometimes wears it twice as long. And then before she knows it she's on her back, and Graham's mouth is on her neck, right where it had been last night, only this time instead of mumbling about being sick she's giving her a love bite, gently sucking her skin into her mouth.
It's easy to get lost in it, when they do this, to forget everything else. At first it had been easy to forget that most best friends didn't do this, that it was beyond normal girl stuff; eventually it became so natural that there was nothing to forget in the first place. These days she forgets other things, forgets about Graham, drunk and mean, drunk and crying, forgets it the way a nightmare fades from memory as soon as it's over. How could she possibly think of anything else when Graham is like this, sweet and eager to please, reaching under her shirt to touch her breast. "We were kissing," she says, the dream still vivid in her mind's eye. "And I led you out of the water." She feels Graham tug at the hem of her shirt and sits up to take it off, kicks off her pyjama bottoms while she's at it. "I knew what I wanted to do, but then I woke up," she says, laying back down again.
Graham settles back on top of her and says, "What did you want to do, then?"
She ignores the question. "I woke up, and you were there." Graham has begun kissing her chest, and she's struggling to remain coherent. "And you looked the same…you were asleep, and you looked just like you did in my dream- your hair was short, but your face." Graham is straddling her thigh, bearing down just above her knee; Damia can feel her pelvis grinding into her flesh with the steady roll of her hips. She adjusts her position to make the angle easier and Graham moans in a quiet, clipped-off sort of hum. "Your face," she says again. The memory is so vivid, she thinks, because it had been a moment of incredible emotional clarity. They had shared a bed countless times before, on account of the fact that they were friends; and, of course, that she only had one bed. Upon waking that morning the thought occurred to her that spending the night next to Graham was a far more extraordinary thing than she had ever realized. It was as if suddenly her thoughts and feelings all combined to form one true emotion, too large to see the whole shape of it. 'Love' didn't quite cover it.
Graham moves further down her chest, face between her breasts, tongue hot against her sternum. Sharp in her memory, also, is fear- for the first time, the possibility had crossed her mind that she might not have this forever. She knew the moment was special but could not determine whether that was because it was eternal or because it was temporary. The longer she had stared at Graham's peaceful face, the more it frightened her. She had woken her then, watched her open her eyes and screw them shut again. The sun had just begun to rise. Go back to sleep, Graham had said, and Damia had ignored it, prodded at her side and said Wake up. I missed you. And instead of being annoyed Graham had laughed and sat up, stretching, and said, I haven't been anywhere.
Graham kisses her right below her navel and she gasps, feels a swooping sensation in her gut. "Wait," Damia says. Graham's fingers are hooked into the waistband of her underwear, and she takes them in her own hands, clasped together. "Wait, wait," she says, and then rushes to explain when Graham freezes up, staring at her anxiously. "Not- I mean just not yet, I mean-" She pulls her back up to murmur quietly into her ear: "I didn't tell you what I was going to do. In the dream." She wraps her arms around her tightly and rolls them over. Propping herself up on her forearms, she looks down and says, "Take off your shirt?"
Graham scrambles to obey, revealing the pale skin of her torso, her breasts, her shoulders. She's staring at Damia, dark brown eyes wide and unblinking, vulnerable without her shirt or her glasses. Her hair is still slightly damp, Damia notes, twisting a lock of it around her finger. She wants to touch her all over, and she's letting her hands wander until Graham squirms self-consciously and mumbles, "You still haven't told me…"
Damia bites into the soft flesh of her belly.
"Ow!" she exclaims, and swats at the back of her head. "You're like an animal."
Damia ignores her and scoots down further. Graham helps her pull off the pyjamas, but then lets out a nervous-sounding little Oh, and she hesitates. "Can I-" she says, looking up at Graham.
Graham is biting her lip nervously. "I don't- I mean. You don't have to do that. It's alright."
Now comes the tricky part: trying to figure out what Graham really wants. If she's just too embarrassed to say so, or if she genuinely wants to stop. "You never had to do it for me."
Her eyes dart around the room like she's trying to find something else to look at; eventually she just closes them. "It's- that's different. I wanted to."
"I want to. That's why I'm asking." She massages her hips reassuringly, and repeats, "I want to."
Graham's eyes remain shut. "You- I mean I don't even really- not even my boyfriends, really-"
"I'm not one of them, though. Look at me," she says, suddenly feeling terribly serious. "Look at me."
Graham looks.
"If you don't want me to. I won't. But you know I-" She can't find the right words. I'm not like them, she wants to say. I'll always be here. I love you more than any of them ever will. Instead, she settles on: "...You don't have to take off your underwear. If you don't want to. I can just…"
"I- oh," Graham says, her face flushing red at the implication. Damia stares silently at her and presses down, briefly, gently, between her legs, feeling where the fabric is already damp. Graham is wearing her knickers- pale blue and comfortable- and she'll remember this every time she wears them. "Yeah, you can- I want you to-"
"Just tell me," she says. "Anything you want." Then she's spreading her legs, pressing her tongue against the cotton, and Graham twitches beneath her. She's got an idea of what she's supposed to do, but it's a bit more difficult when she can't actually see what she's doing, and she decides to just feel around with her tongue for a bit. She presses down on what she assumes is probably her clitoris, drools intentionally, soaking the fabric. She assumes right, and Graham moans, high pitched and surprised. She begins to lick at the spot with intention, and the wetter the pale blue cotton gets the more she can feel everything, can almost taste her. She sucks and kisses, feels Graham's thighs closing around her head; which turns her on, at first, until she gets frustrated that her ears are covered and she can't quite hear all the noises she's making, and comes up for air. "Hello."
Graham lets out a frustrated little groan, but still responds- "Hi." She's breathing heavily, and Damia takes a moment to stare at her breasts as they rise and fall with her chest, then leans back down, about to resume, until Graham says "Right. Alright," and reaches down to pull off the underwear.
Damia helps, dragging them the rest of the way down her legs. As soon as she casts them aside, she's got her mouth on her again, and at this point any reservations she might've had before have completely dissolved. Graham is moaning again, at once both restrained and desperate. She feels her hands settling on her head, fingers threading through her hair. She pulls away, just a centimeter, just enough to speak. "That's it," she says, feeling a tug at her scalp, "just like that," and then she's trying to perfect the way she moves her tongue, trying to speed up, but she wonders if she hasn't quite exercised that muscle enough yet.
Graham isn't complaining. She keeps attempting to speak and then dissolving into incoherent noise, pulling her hair so hard that it hurts. "Damia," she gasps out between whimpers, "make me feel so good, Mia-" She knows what she wants to hear, those words that it feels like she hasn't heard in ages- "Love you, you know I do, so much, so much-" When she finally comes, Damia crawls forward to kiss her, settles on top of her, tries to touch every inch of her bare skin with her own. Forever, she thinks. I love you forever.
***
"Hello?"
She doesn't know why she's calling. "Hi. It's, er. Me."
She feels stupid at first, but Lee clearly recognizes her voice. "Hey, you."
"Are you busy?" She hears a man's voice in the background say who's that? "Never mind."
"No, no, I'm not busy…me fella's away. He's in America, doing a movie."
"Who's that, then?" she asks curiously.
"His name's Ricky. I dunno. Come over." When she doesn't immediately reply, Lee adds, "He was just leaving." She hears him again, more indignant this time- who's that?- then Lee's muffled reply (wouldn't you like to know!)
"Don't send him away on my behalf."
"No, really, he was just leaving."
When she arrives at Lee's place, the door cracks open and a hand snatches at her arm, dragging her inside. "What-"
"Sorry," Lee says sheepishly. "Ever since me and Paul got engaged they've been circling. Anyone see you?"
She shakes her head. "When's the wedding?"
"Soon enough," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "Why'd you call?"
"Who was that, earlier?"
"You're nosy. I told you, he's called Ricky. Found him at a pub."
"And you brought him home because…?"
"There you go, getting all pot, about to call me the kettle, I'll not have any lectures from you."
"I was just curious," she says, but it comes out sounding flat and sour. She lapses into a glum silence.
"Why'd you call," Lee says again. "What's got you so miserable? You're no fun like this." She doesn't respond. "Trouble in paradise?"
She sighs. It's upsetting, how obvious it is. "It- yeah. You think you know how it's going to go, and then it all just…" Lee is nodding. "It all…it's just, I didn't realize. But it's too much for her, and it's too much for me, and it's all fucked…"
"Woah, hold on, who's 'she'? What are you on about?"
It seems as if she's made a mistake, but it feels too late to stop. "Fuck. I'm sorry."
"No, wait, what's going on?"
"Nothing," she sighs. She hates telling people about it, hates that she can't control their response. "I mean it's not nothing. It's Graham, but it's not her fault."
"How's that?"
"I just don't know how to fix it. She just can't handle it. And nobody else- I mean I'm the one who knows her best. And she's always drunk, and when she's drunk she's- just awful. It's terrible." She needs to stop before she says something she regrets, but she keeps choking the words out anyway, feeling her throat grow tighter, tears hot behind her eyes. And Lee is listening. "I don't know how to protect her. Everything- it's all too much." Really, she thinks, the only way to fix it would be to go back in time, to before Graham left for school, and make sure they never got separated. "I love her so much…" The tears begin to spill. "I mean she's my favorite person in the entire world and lately we can't stand to be in the room with each other. I constantly have to be…apologizing for her, explaining to people." Lee shifts, turning to face her, but remains silent. "She's a genius. I mean." Holding back a sob, she says, "She's so incredibly special and I can't even show the world because I'm too busy making sure they don't think she's crazy, or a bitch, or. I just want her to be happy. I mean I want us both to be happy, but she's not, and so I can't be, either. It's just-"
"Hey, you're alright. You just need room to breathe, know what I mean?" Lee reaches over and places her hands on her knees, a comforting pressure. "You're you, and she's her own person, too."
Frustratingly logical. "It's not that simple."
"It could be. She can take care of herself."
"It's- I wouldn't expect you to understand," she says, sniffling. "You're heartless."
Lee stiffens but doesn't move, doesn't stop touching her. "You're dead wrong. You don't know me. You think you've got it bad, try being in a band with your sister. You've gotta look at it from her perspective, man, how do you think she feels? Fucking suffocated, that's what, can't even have her own fuck-ups to herself."
"That's not-"
"You know what it's like when you fuck up and now you've got someone breathing down your neck like you're not a fucking adult."
"It's more complicated than that," she says uncomfortably, but Lee has definitely hit upon something, and it seems like she's speaking from experience.
"You're suffocating her, man. She's suffocating you."
"Somebody needs to take care of her," she says, voice small and shaky. "If not me, who will?"
"You've gotta- I mean how can you do that, when you're trying to be the same person. You connect with someone, and it feels really special, right, but you're still your own person, know what I mean? It's not-" She's withdrawn her hands and is rocking back and forth, ever so slightly. "I mean like you want to take care of people you love, yeah, but you can't do that if you're…"
"Yeah." She drags her sleeve across her face, soaking up snot and tears. It feels really freeing, being able to talk about it. "You're being really nice to me," she says, unable to contain her surprise.
"I am nice. Anyway I've spotted the track marks on your arm. That can't be making anything better, either."
The gratitude she's been feeling crumbles slightly. "You sniff cocaine, you hypocrite!"
"Well…yeah," Lee responds, as if Damia's just pointed out the obvious for no good reason. Which she sort of has. "That's different, though." An awkward silence ensues, until Lee speaks up again: "We could take some now, if you want."
Damia stares. "Are you fucking insane?"
Lee stares back. "We don't have to. Might cheer you up a bit, though."
Hard to argue with that. Ten minutes later, they're listening to The Jam, and she's dancing, watching Lee as she paces around the room excitedly. "When you hear a song so good, like, that you can't even explain how it makes you feel. I mean it makes you feel fucking good, man, but it's more than that. It's something you can't express, know what I mean?"
"For me it's like, I wish I'd written it." She feels relaxed and wound up at the same time, can't stop moving.
"But that's why people make music," Lee says. "That's why I'm in a band, man, and look, I'm fucking doing it!"
"I wouldn't have written There's No Other Way if not for the Stone Roses," she says. "And I'm pretty satisfied with it, I mean, there's lots of songs I've written that I'm satisfied with. But I still wish I'd written Fools Gold."
"Oh, shit," Lee says, making a wiggly sort of jump. "We've gotta hear it." She gets on her knees and starts flipping through a pile of CDs. For one brief moment Damia has the horrifying thought that she might be about to put on Leisure, but then she holds up The Stone Roses triumphantly, immediately stopping the last CD and replacing it. "You just, you just do what you do," she says. "You didn't write Fools Gold, Ian Brown did. But other people wish they wrote what you did." She stops, contemplates. "Not me, but other people might."
"Thanks for clarifying."
"Don't take that personal, either, I just don't wish that, know what I mean? I mean there's things you can't express, but that's why I sing, man, that's it. I can do what I want, in a band, and I'm not gonna waste my time wishing I were someone else. You need to be yourself." She laughs, loud and contagious, adding, "Can't be no one else," and dissolving into laughter again.
The conversation rambles aimlessly but manages to be twice as fast. It feels like she's turned around and the album is already over. Whenever she opens her mouth to speak it feels like she can't stop, but she doesn't want to, anyway. The only times they pause are when they're doing another line. There's a foul taste in her throat, a horrible nasal drip that isn't helped by the fact that she cried earlier.
Lee is talking so fast that she keeps stuttering and repeating herself. They're in between albums, right now, and they've started shooting their favorite lyrics back and forth. "Black, white, green, red, can I take my friend to bed," she says, half-singing.
"That's a good one," she says. "I want a short-haired girl who sometimes wears it twice as long."
"Yeah, that's good…all of I Am The Walrus."
"I was waiting for you to say that."
"It's like, the lyrics are nonsense, they should be funny, but instead it's right creepy."
"That's true. It's sinister."
"Dripping from a dead dog's eye…pornographic priestess, that's cool, know what I mean? It just sounds cool."
"Right…And 'don't you think the joker laughs at you.'"
"Yes. Exactly! Exactly."
Despite all the Beatles talk, they end up putting on The Who Sell Out.
"Let's have some more," Lee says.
The bitter taste drips down her throat immediately, before she even sits back up. When Lee straightens back up from where she's hunched over the table, she's got a trickle of blood oozing from her nostril. "Ooh," she says in mildly horrified sympathy, and taps her own nose when Lee cocks her head in confusion.
Lee wipes at it with her sleeve and grins sheepishly. "Rusty pipes." She tilts her head back and pinches the bridge of her nose. Then, seemingly unprompted, she says, "You and your guitarist. You are getting off with her, then?"
She's finally decided that she's having fun, but the possibility of returning to the conversation from earlier deflates her a bit. No point in lying about it, though. "Sometimes, yeah."
Lee is silent for a moment. Then she says, "What's it like?"
"What?"
"Y'know."
"What, the sex?" she says, dumbfounded. "You can't just ask about that!" She gets asked far more invasive questions by journalists pretty regularly, and she normally answers pretty honestly. But still.
"Why not?" Lee says stubbornly.
"Because. Why d'you think I'd want you to know? Pervert." Then she ruins it by laughing.
"I'm just curious!"
She thinks about Graham in the light blue underwear, the same pair she's wearing right now. "It's- good. Really, really good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. She just knows me, knows how to make me feel good. I don't even have to ask for anything." Lee stares at her, lips slightly parted, eyes dilated. "She loves it. That's why she's so good at it." She sighs in spite of herself. "And she's so. I mean just looking at her. When she looks up at me, while she's- you know. And her mouth is all wet, and she just looks so-" She makes a vague well-you-know type of gesture. "It's just…cute," she finishes lamely.
"Wow," Lee says. Then: "Is she…"
"What. Lesbian? We've talked about it. We're both…sort of bisexual."
"Sort of."
"It's not really a lesbian thing…we're really connected. Like, not experimenting, either. We're just really close."
"You ever sleep with any other girls?"
"A few. Aside from Graham, there was this one girl…sort of butch, you know. She really looked like a lad. But she was better with her tongue. Better than a man would be, I mean. I don't label myself, though. I'm just sexually liberated, I guess. A modern woman."
"Yeah, that's what posh birds say. The rest of us all have to be dykes. And you say 'sort of', but we've been having sex."
"Is that what we've been doing," she says dryly.
"We ain't exactly making love."
"Making like, maybe," Damia suggests, and Lee laughs. "I dunno, I guess I really don't think about it much." It appears that her coked-out mind failed to register Lee lowering herself to the floor by her side, and she's once again mere inches away. "When someone touches me…"
Lee scoots closer.
"When someone's fingers are inside me. My body can't tell if they're attached to a man or a woman."
"That right?" Lee says, hand settling on the back of her neck.
They kiss for a little while, and then she remembers something. "We have to put something else on. We can't be listening to Sell Out during sex."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to hear fucking Silas Stingy, that's why not."
She snickers. "We can skip it, then."
"Absolutely not. I'm not letting you do that again."
"Do what," Lee says, giving her a light shove.
She shoves back, and Lee retaliates in turn, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her down onto the floor. Damia struggles beneath her for a minute, managing to wriggle out after jabbing her in the stomach. They roll around on the floor, a tangle of limbs. At one point Lee gets her in a headlock and then releases her when she sinks her teeth into her forearm. She twists and pins her to the floor, looking down triumphantly as Lee struggles beneath her, eventually going limp. "That's what I thought." Her guard is down. Lee surges up and reverses their position. Time freezes. She feels a palm connect with her face, a hard, stinging, slap, and she gasps.
Lee scrambles off her. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to go that hard." She looks anxious, now. Guilty.
The stinging has subsided to a dull sort of warmth. "That's alright," she says. "You can slap me around a bit."
"What?"
"Y'know. It's alright if you're a little rough with me, if you slap me. I like it."
"You're completely mad," Lee says, but she looks relieved. "That's fucking weird, that is."
"If you say so," Damia says, mildly disappointed. When Lee moves to kiss her again, she stops her. "Can we move to your bed? I don't want my back to be sore later."
"Sure. I forgot you're ancient," Lee says, rising to her feet.
"I'm only twenty-eight!" she protests, following her to the bedroom.
"That's almost thirty," Lee says. Damia doesn't get a chance to get a good look at the room because she's almost immediately pulled down onto the bed. "And thirty is almost forty. And forty is almost sixty."
"What about you," she says. Lee has begun kissing her neck. "Twenty-three is almost twenty-five. And twenty-five is almost twenty-seven, which might as well be twenty-eight."
"Huh," Lee says into her collarbone.
She drops the subject. "Wait," she says, when Lee reaches for the hem of her shirt. "Last time, I didn't get to see your tits, and I took all of my clothes off. That's not fair." Then, anxiously, she amends it with, "I mean if you don't want to you don't have to."
"See," Lee says, "that's how I know you really are a lesbo, you want to see my tits. They're small, like." It isn't self deprecation, just a tease.
"Please?" she asks, without affectation, and looks her straight in the eyes.
Lee blinks. "Jesus, you're beautiful. No wonder you get everything you want." She begins pulling her shirt off, saying "Some of us get whatever we want because of our personalities," while she struggles for a moment to extricate herself from it.
She ignores this and circles back- "If it makes me gay to want to see your tits, what does that make you?"
"No idea," Lee says, finally managing to pull the shirt off her head. "I'm just me, like. I mean it would be stupid not to like girls, I've got eyes, man, 'course I like girls. But I'm gonna marry the love of my life."
She wonders how long the love of Lee's life will tolerate her cheating but doesn't bring it up. "You were pretty quick to kick out that guy Ricky earlier."
"Yeah, well. I wanted to put me finger up his arse and he got in a right state about it. Really killed the mood."
"That's a shame," she says, eyes on Lee's breasts. They are small, she thinks, reaching out to touch. "That's why you invited me here, instead?"
She exhales, soft and shaking. "Yeah." Then, hesitantly: "You really mean that? About being slapped?"
"Yeah," she says eagerly. "It's…fun."
"Okay," Lee says. "Right."
Then she's reaching again for the hem of her shirt, and Damia props herself up to take it off and starts fumbling with the button of her jeans. She wiggles out of her jeans and then pulls Lee back down to kiss her again, chest pressed up against her own. The feeling of their tits pressing together might make her crazy, she thinks, and then Lee reaches down to touch her and she thinks about how her tongue was on Graham through those very same underwear just the other day, and that might make her crazy, instead. Lee slips her hand past the elastic, and she moans into her mouth, turns to bite lightly at her jaw.
That goes on for what's probably a few minutes, but feels like just a few seconds. Then Lee is sitting up, scooting down the bed as she pulls off her underwear. Then she leans back in, holding her fingers up to Damia's lips. "Suck," she commands.
She opens her mouth for Lee to slip her pointer and ring finger inside, closes her lips, and sucks. She tongues at them, and then feels them exploring the rest of her mouth, sliding across her gums, pushing at the inside of her lower lip, and she misses them when Lee takes her hand away, but not for long, because then she's sinking them into her, curling upwards to apply pressure right where she wants it.
Right when it starts to feel really, really good, Lee stops. "Turn over."
She does, letting Lee help guide her into a new position. She's kneeling on the bed now, the side of her face pressed into a pillow. She feels a bit unstable, but Lee grips her hip tightly, and then she's pressing her fingers in again, and the change in positions feels like she's able to get them even deeper than before. It's still not enough. "More."
"You want more? I'll give you more." She's driving her fingers in harder, now, deeper. She gets so lost in the feeling that the slap comes as a complete surprise, Lee's palm connecting with her arse, and a choked-up moan escapes her.
"Yes," she says. "Again, do it again, please-" She does it again, then reaches around her thigh to touch her clit, matching the rhythm of her other hand, thrusting into her. She's getting close. Really close, and then Lee slaps her again. The pain sends a wave of pleasure through her body, sweet and hot, and she orgasms, whimpering into the pillow. When she comes to her senses, Lee is already putting her shirt back on.
"You don't want me to do you?"
Lee shakes her head, lying down next to her. "Wish I could've recorded that. I'm replaying it later. In me head."
She feels good- really good. Too relaxed to get up, but too awake to sleep. She pulls the bedsheet up and snuggles into it. A thought crosses her mind, seemingly from nowhere. "I just remembered my favorite Beatles lyric. It's 'listen to the music playing in your head.'" She thinks they might be friends, now. Maybe.
"Oh, yeah?" Lee says, turning on her side to face her. "Good one, that."