Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (30 page)

I spoke to the blonde. “Hi, I'm Stevie. I'll be leaving, but the door automatically locks.”

The group leader smiled and said her name was Cynthia and in the same breath asked, “Don't I know you?”

I looked at her, puzzled. She looked familiar, but damn if I could place her. I wouldn't have minded knowing her; she was kind of cute.

“Didn't we dance together before, at Wild Side West?”

I shook my head. I'd only been to Wild Side West once. I only remembered dancing with one person, and she wasn't blonde.

“I colored my hair; I used to be brunette. Now do you remember me?”

I remembered her now, but I felt embarrassed, so I barely nodded. I could see women looking at me with new interest. A few were smiling. A black woman who'd danced with a white woman was their friend. It was like I was Casper, the friendly ghost.

“Oh yeah,” I mumbled. “It's a small world.”

“I thought you were beautiful.”

I felt a surge of attraction. I couldn't help but blush. Hopefully, my brownness covered it up.

“Still do, as a matter of fact,” Cynthia carried on shamelessly in front of her group members. “Don't any of you worry,” she reassured them. “I have experience with guys too. I'm bisexual. This group is for women of all sexual preferences, just like the flier said. I know a lot of you are straight.”

“Yeah,” an older housewife type groaned. “Men are such lousy lovers.”

“I've heard there are no frigid women, just clumsy men,” a serious young woman wearing a polyester pantsuit and Coke-bottle glasses added hopefully.

Cynthia smiled. “Well, most men need to be trained. But first, you have to discover what feels good to you. That's what this group is about, doing it for ourselves.”

I watched as the new recruits trooped in behind Cynthia.

I decided not to leave after all. Why not catch up on some paperwork, read the personnel policies, and straighten out the brochure table?

Two hours later, I was thumbing through the annual report when the conference room door opened. “Remember, you have to take responsibility for your own orgasms.”

The air bristled with excitement as the group of chattering women entered the reception area.

“And also, remember to draw your vulvas for next week. And don't forget your clitorises.”

I stifled a laugh as the newly confident army marched out.

“You're still here?” Cynthia winked.

“I just had some work to catch up on.”

“All work and no play makes Stevie a dull girl.”

I glanced around the room. We were indeed alone. “I like to play.”

Cynthia walked toward me seductively. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna play with me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Damn, Stevie, we were on a roll.”

“It's just that we're at my work.”

“So?”

“I just thought it'd be nice to be more comfortable.”

“Fuck comfortable.”

“OK, repeat the question.”

“You wanna play with me?”

“If you think you can handle it,” I answered boldly. I was surprised by my own bravado. But I felt a rush of adrenaline. No more Ms. Nice Guy, I chuckled to myself.

Cynthia pursed her lips. I could finally relate to Sterling. I just wanted something hot.

“I think I can handle anything you can dish out.”

“Whoa,” I raised my eyebrows. “I'm scared of you.”

“Don't be, I don't bite. Unless you like that sort of thing.” Cynthia winked.

“I'm not into pain.”

“What are you into?”

I gave Cynthia a soulful look. “Right now, I'm into you.”

“What do you wanna do about it?”

Go for it, I told myself. This is no time to be coy. But my throat felt dry and I couldn't find my voice.

“You wanna get it on with me?”

I was speechless but I managed to nod.

“Then let's get it on!”

Cynthia put her arms around me and I kissed her. I felt another rush of adrenaline when I tasted her tongue. Cynthia sucked my earlobe and made me shiver.

My heart was beating fast. It was like a movie. This was so unlike me. I couldn't believe that I was doing whatever I was about to do, especially at the office. It was so daring, so brazen, so hot!

“Come on, Stevie, sock it to me.”

Cynthia had brought out the dog in me. I flicked off the light switch and backed her up against the wall. I rubbed my body up against her like my high-school boyfriend did to me in my basement.

Cynthia sighed. “I love being woman-handled by you.”

I kissed her, long and hard. She ran her fingers through my natural. I cupped Cynthia's plum-size breasts through her crinkly cotton shirt. I ran my thumbs across her firm nipples.

Cynthia helped me to pull off her top. She moaned when I lowered my lips onto her saluting breasts.

I rubbed my pelvis against hers while sucking her breasts.

“Yes! Stevie, you are turning me on! I am getting so turned on!” she gasped. Cynthia pulled my Afro so hard that I thought of reminding her that it wasn't a wig.

I ran my fingers down Cynthia's thighs. She kicked off her Birkenstocks and loosened her drawstring pants. I pulled them off, revealing a nice bush. She wasn't wearing panties and that was all right with me.

I couldn't get my clothes off fast enough.

I squeezed next to Cynthia on the couch.

“Look at us,” she pointed. “We look so beautiful together.”

I admired the contrast of our nut-brown and peach-ice-cream–colored bodies. Her blonde hair draped over my breasts.

“I wish somebody could take a picture,” Cynthia cooed.

“It's cold in here, let's warm each other up,” I suggested. I climbed on top of Cynthia and our vaginas made squishy sounds as I rubbed into her.

My hot fingers felt her soft, moist bush. I played with it for a while. Cynthia moaned as I inched my hungry finger inside of her.

I wasn't sure how many fingers she took. But when my middle finger moved easily, I inserted my index one as well.

“Yes! Yes!” Cynthia shouted. “It feels so good to have you inside me! It feels so good!”

I fondled Cynthia's clitoris while I finger-fucked her. She guided my hand. I worried that Cynthia thought I was inept. Then I remembered that she believed in taking responsibility for her own orgasms.

Suddenly, the building began to shake. I paused. I'd heard of feeling the earth move during sex, but this was frightening.

“Don't stop! Don't stop!” Cynthia begged.

“But the windows are rattling!” I protested.

“It's just an earthquake.”

“Just an earthquake!” I shouted.

“It's not the big one,” Cynthia panted. “Trust me, I'm a native. Don't stop, I'm just about to come!”

I continued to play with her, but I jumped when I felt a sudden jolt underground. Cynthia's body jerked into spasms as the earth shook for a few seconds. I could hear my heart racing.

Cynthia hugged me. “Don't worry. It was no more than a three-pointer.”

“I've never been through an earthquake before.”

“You'll get used to them. They're usually pretty mild.”

“It was a nerve-wracking experience,” I confessed.

Cynthia kissed me. “Thanks for hanging in there. I had a great orgasm. Let me make love to you now.”

“That's okay. I'll take a rain check. I'm still a little shook up. I don't think I can really relax right now. There might be aftershocks.”

Cynthia patted my shoulder. “I understand, it's your first earthquake. You need to process it.”

Sterling was so proud that I'd actually “gotten me some.” “It's a happy day!” He declared as he went around dusting the living room while I vacuumed. “Cynthia's orgasm registered much higher on the Richter scale than that earthquake,” Sterling insisted.

“You act like I won a lottery or something,” I shouted over the sound of the vacuum cleaner and the disco music.

Sterling attacked a cobweb with his feather duster.

“Admit it, don't you feel better? Less clogged up.”

“OK, I admit it, I'm human.”

“You worked it, girl!” Sterling yelled, popping his fingers with one hand while he dusted the windowsill with the other. “You knew how to ride! You got it up and down and then you got it from side to side!” he added, dropping his duster and doing a series of snaps.

“Sterling, you know you're the first man I've ever known who could see dust,” I marveled.

“I've been like this ever since I can remember. Being able to see dust was probably the first sign that I was gay.”

16

Bonnie was early for the Pre-Orgasmic group. She was putting the final touches on a crayon drawing.

“What do you think, Stevie?” I glanced up from my desk at the paper Bonnie held in front of me.

I glimpsed the picture of Bonnie's vulva and turned away. I was a little embarrassed to be staring at a drawing of her genitals. It seemed disrespectful. The woman was old enough to be my mother.

“My clitoris isn't too big, is it?”

I hesitated. “You're a better judge than I am. I mean, at least you've seen it. Not that I want to see it. I mean, nothing personal. I'm sure it's very nice.”

Bonnie giggled, “I meant as clitorises go.”

I glanced at the picture again. It looked like a hairy pyramid with a red jelly bean inside of it.

“I'm no expert.” And you're no artist, I thought to myself. “But I think it's probably in the normal range.”

“I just didn't want to overemphasize it and have people in the group think, you know, I was showing off. Although I doubt Fred could find it if it were a Mack truck.”

“Well, show him the drawing.”

“He's only interested in the Forty Niners.”

“At least your clitoris is red and the Niners have red uniforms.”

“I'll point that out to Fred,” Bonnie laughed.

Cynthia surprised me with a kiss on the cheek. I looked up from my novel. I'd been so engrossed in Zora Neale Hurston that I hadn't heard her come back into the office.

I smiled and laid
Their Eyes Were Watching God
facedown on the desk. “What's happenin'? Your group isn't over yet is it?”

Cynthia shook her head and leaned over me with her chin resting in her palm. Her peasant top revealed her cleavage.

“The women are looking at themselves,” Cynthia reported. “I thought I'd give them a little privacy.” She hoisted herself on top of the desk. Her short denim skirt showed off her legs.

“Looking at themselves how?” I asked with mild concern.

“They've stuck plastic speculums inside their vaginas. They're examining their cervixes with flashlights and mirrors.”

“Sounds so clinical,” I teased.

Cynthia shook her head. “It's really empowering for them. So many women are intimidated by pelvic exams. And some doctors are such assholes. They think they're fucking gods, with their big hands and cold metal speculums. A lot of them make women feel stupid if they ask questions.”

“I've never even thought about looking at myself like that,” I admitted.

“Maybe you should be in there. I have an extra speculum. I don't think they would mind if you joined them for this.”

“I'm not about to gap my legs open in a roomful of folks, I'm sorry.”

“What do you mean? We're all women. I'm surprised to hear you talk this way. Wouldn't you like to see your cervix?”

“I used to sell
Our Bodies Ourselves
in the campus bookstore. So, I'm upon the downstroke.”

“But, you've only seen pictures. Don't you want to see the real thing?”

“I don't have a burning desire to.”

“I wonder if your cervix is darker than the other women's in the group.”

I felt embarrassed. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Cynthia touched my arm. “I didn't mean any offense. I just thought you could add a little color to an otherwise pale evening, that's all.” Cynthia stroked my hand lightly with her fingers.

I relaxed a little. She hadn't meant any harm. She'd just made a stupid remark. “Look, I'm not tripping anymore. I just don't feel like playing show-and-tell. But, I wouldn't mind seeing my cervix sometime in private, if you wanna give me a speculum.”

“Do I get to watch?”

“Sure,” I shrugged. “You're my lover.” I was surprised to hear myself utter those words. After all, we'd only been together two weeks. I didn't want to scare Cynthia.

But she smiled and kissed my lips. So, I guess it was cool with her.

When the last student had gone, Cynthia and I went to Cordon Bleu. It was a hole-in-the-wall, but the Vietnamese food was great. It felt romantic, gazing into each other's eyes in the candlelight while feasting on five spice chicken. We could hear the clanging of the cable cars every now and then in the background.

“I'm starting a Pre-Orgasmic group in the East Bay next week,” Cynthia announced.

I glanced around the small, dark restaurant. I felt self-conscious discussing sexuality in public. Thank goodness, the few people remaining appeared engrossed in their own non-English conversations.

“Where in the East Bay?” I asked.

“Oakland, at the Women's Health Center. It'll be interesting, because there should be a mixture of women. I'm really psyched about it. I'll be back in my old stomping grounds.”

“You're from Oakland?”

“Bump City, born and raised.”

“They call Oakland Bump City?”

“Yeah and Oaktown.”

“Is your family still over in the East Bay?”

“My brother, Tom, is a Hare Krishna. He wears orange and plays drums on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley. He sleeps in People's Park. My sister and her boyfriend follow the Dead around the country. Paula calls me when they're at the Coliseum.”