Chapter 69 Classic

Somewhere, June lost her flannel shirt and the black girl had lost her jeans and shoes. She had circled her big, hard nipples with hot kisses as she squeezed June’s cunt through her own jeans like a trick fondling a John. June couldn’t keep the hissing moan in, so she had let it out into the girl’s mouth – feeling it echo through her as her own hand cupped a shaved and slippery cunt. With Wendy it had been walking on eggs. Her first real lover, June had treated Wendy like she was priceless, fragile – even though Wendy was five years older than June’s 26. June had barricaded them in June’s tiny place against her being alone again and tried to do whatever it would take to keep Wendy there. If Wendy liked something, June did it. If Wendy didn’t like it . . . it never happened again After a point, June followed Wendy everywhere. Never led. Tried not to want, desire, anything. But then, there, in the kitchen that night something different was happening – it was June and her. No top, no bottom, no give, no take. Just kissing and tits and cunts and heat. The girl had sat down in one of June’s battered old wooden chairs and spread her legs as if to let some of the heat escape. June had sat down herself, surprised into almost squealing by how cold the linoleum floor was on her bare ass (lost her own pants and shoes somewhere). Since she was down there already (yeah, right) she kissed the girl’s thighs; that delicious, all-but-invisible belly; and then rummaged in her hot, hot slit with her nose: playful rooting and tickling like a frisky puppy. She had sighed and spread her legs wider. June gently brought one hand up and pulled her cunt lips apart, spying with almost childish delight a pink clit the size of a marble in a sculpture of black and pink lips, almost smoking in the cool air of the kitchen. Of course she had licked. Of course she sucked and kissed and stroked it with her tongue. June had forgotten her name almost the instant it had been told her. She called her Betty because she looked kind of like a black Betty Page. In the same, now empty, kitchen: Betty came. Now empty. June got up and wandered back into the rest of her apartment. Not the same, but the same kind – pair of slightly yellowed panties on the hardwood floor next to her stack of Bay Times newspapers. The same old, barely working Mac Classic her father had bought her. Same old futon on the floor. Same Pier One rattan blinds. Same sketch Fish had done of her at the Folsom Street Fair. Same tiny stack of playbills with her name on it. It kind of scared June when people reminded her that they were only together for two months. It seemed longer. Lots longer. Betty was the kind of girlfriend she thought she always needed. Looking at the futon, with its discolorations, stains and lumps, it was too easy to feel her again. Standing, as she always seemed to, so that she was just touching June’s hip or arm. June sat and absently flashed through the newspapers, trying not to think about the bed. Betty. Lots of luck. One night – oh, boy – that night: it was their second week together so, naturally, Betty had hauled over most of her stuff. They had gone long into the night prowling through her records, books, tapes, clothes, sharing stories about them or June’s similars – when this thing of plastic and nylon webbing had come out of one box. “Haven’t you ever?” Betty had said, digging in another box for the main part of it. June hadn’t. Wendy had been a kind of old-world dyke.