The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (34 page)

I knew Romaine’s “profile” pretty well, I thought. I had struggled with my own, though. The baseball incident had prompted me to mention it to my therapist the following
week.

“Julia, this isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned feelings toward Romaine. Maybe there’s something there worth examining,” Seamus said, eyes full of mischief.
Mischief. From a therapist.

“When you say ‘worth examining’, you mean that I should consider whether I’m bisexual or a lesbian or something?”

He smiled. “Something. If you’re feeling an attraction to another woman, especially one who’s not only a friend but also a lesbian, this might be an ideal opportunity to
explore a new side of yourself.”

“Oh, God. I wouldn’t want to explore this stuff with somebody I
know
!” The idea mortified me.

Seamus chuckled. “Oh heavens no!” he teased. “That would be too pleasant!”

Exploring my feelings for Romaine with Romaine herself had never crossed my mind until Seamus forced me to think about it. I had no idea how to seduce a woman. And I had no idea whether my
friendship with Romaine would survive a failed attempt at seduction. It was all too risky.

“If Romaine is interested, she can let me know. I wouldn’t know how to come on to her,” I told Seamus, who, wisely, let the subject drop temporarily. I then steered the
discussion back to my woes with the married man I was seeing; safe territory that had been the focus of my therapy sessions for the past three years. Besides, Romaine would never make the first
move and it was useless to explain that to Seamus. She’d lamented her shyness to me on more than one occasion, blaming it for her uneventful love life. She considered me an incorrigible flirt
with men, so I would offer tips but they sounded silly when I put words to actions that were second nature to me.

“You’ve just got the knack,” Romaine told me. “I don’t.” It was the only area in which Romaine ever expressed disappointment with herself.

“What are the vendors showing?” Barbara asked. “What’s hot?”

Romaine now yielded the floor to her assistant, a mousy girl with a low threshold for stress, who began talking about the intimate apparel she and Romaine had seen in New York last week. Romaine
busied herself with her papers, keeping her eyes lowered.

So, what was Theresa showing that made Romaine hot?

My eyes roamed in my assistant’s direction, hoping to discover what the woman possessed to discombobulate the eternally practical and unerringly grounded Romaine. Seeing Theresa – a
sexy, petite, and delicate Filipina with a real aptitude for both spotting trends and hounding uncooperative vendors – as the object of Romaine’s affections was a startling revelation
for me. Theresa’s desirability was not in question, but Romaine’s judgment certainly was.

Romaine once told me lesbians often fantasized about seducing straight women. I had initially felt hopeful about the remark but now felt merely foolish for thinking Romaine considered me
seduction-worthy. Apparently, straight and married with children was more of a turn-on than uncomplicated heterosexuality.

Should I have rubbed my desire for men in Romaine’s face? Was a confirmed, unflinchingly straight woman what it took to get Romaine’s motor running? Had she caught me stealing
glimpses of the swell of her breasts in those silk sweaters she favoured? I thought I’d been careful about admiring Romaine’s trim, athletic body, but maybe not. Maybe those selfish,
stolen glances made me seem less straight to Romaine, and therefore, less desirable. Maybe I had ruined my chances to feel Romaine’s thin but sensual lips on mine simply because I longed for
it too visibly. But I wasn’t even truly aware that I longed for it, so how could it be visible?

But maybe it was something else. Maybe Romaine liked the subservient position Theresa was in as my assistant. Romaine had a strong personality – maybe the whole dominance thing flipped her
switches. Theresa would have to do what she told her, unlike me, who was a colleague and an equal.

I assessed Theresa more boldly now while Romaine’s assistant droned on. She was so unlike what Romaine had shown interest in previously. Her ex-girlfriend was a dykish, semi-overweight
sports enthusiast who probably knew as much about intimate apparel as an eight-year-old boy. Theresa, with her size four frame and smooth black hair, was a walking advertisement for cocktails and
luxury. Her skin glowed with a natural, subtle bronze hue and her legs comprised an enviable portion of her height. In contrast, my size twelve body, with breasts that always entered a room before
I did, might not be Romaine’s cup of tea. Perhaps something less . . . feminine . . . was what she wanted. But Theresa oozed femininity, despite her lack of pronounced curves.

I wanted to slap myself for objectifying myself and my assistant like any man would have done. What had my jealousy reduced me to?

Jealousy. There it was. The heat between my legs since lunch, the urge to yank Theresa’s perfectly conditioned hair from her skull strand by strand, the compulsion to lay Romaine on the
boardroom table, kiss her, and finger her until she screamed – all these reactions were the verdant, vile outgrowths of an emotion as useless and debilitating as the attraction itself.

“Julia, are you with us? I need your report, too,” Barbara said, loud enough to jar me from my silent epiphany.

“Oh, sure. Sorry.”

I paused. I’d originally planned for Theresa to present some of the information today, but now I hesitated. Theresa talking meant Romaine looking. Could I stand to witness Romaine’s
desire for another woman right now? Yes, yes, of course I could – changing plans would look suspicious and disappoint Theresa, who’d been eagerly awaiting her opportunity to impress
Barbara.

“Theresa, why don’t you go ahead and fill Barbara in on our findings and then I’ll close with our strategy.”

Theresa’s eyes lit up and she smiled with gratitude at me. I squelched the urge to spit at her. I refused to watch Romaine’s reaction to the sex kitten’s presentation.

Instead, I sat back and tried to think about strategy. As my mind reeled, my posture remained controlled. I slid my hands under the table and picked at my cuticles. Strategy, I realized, was
precisely what I’d overlooked where Romaine was concerned. Because I’d ignored this essential element of gamesmanship, my fate hung before me now like an enticing bra – full of
sexual promise but limp and hollow for the moment.

Based on what I knew about myself and Romaine, both separately and together, what could I have done to seal our fate or at least direct the course of our relationship?

Scenarios ran through my head, not exactly in succession because my brain was so addled with pent-up desire and newly introduced confusion.

Scenario One

I imagined myself sitting Romaine down and confessing my attraction, much the way Romaine had confessed her interest in Theresa today at lunch.

“I don’t know how else to say this, Romaine, so I’ll just come right out. I’m very attracted to you and suspect that you might feel the same way. I just don’t
know what to do about it.”

Romaine looks at me with pity and a smidgeon of revulsion.
“Oh, Julia. I’m so sorry if I ever did anything to make you think I was interested in you in that way. Anyway,
we’re friends and, if we fooled around, who knows what would happen? I would never want to lose your friendship.”

So much for confession.

Scenario Two

I’d read a lesbian novel once, a very long time ago, before I even knew Romaine. The women had an interlude that began in the ladies’ room. Though it had
seemed implausible and contrived at the time, maybe that was how women stole intimate moments together. Maybe I’d been too quick to scoff.

“Oh, no. Look at this stain on my blouse. This will absolutely never come out.”

“No, I think it will, Julia. You just have to pretreat it a bit,” Romaine says, moistening a paper towel and adding a teeny bit of soap to it. “Here, let me show
you.”

She dabs at the stain sitting smack in the centre of my cleavage. To get better access, Romaine unbuttons the area closest to the stain and slips one hand inside to provide a base for the
area to be treated. With Romaine’s face so close to mine, I inhale the scent of her lavender-scented shampoo and brush my lips against her hair. In response, Romaine moves her fingers subtly
to caress the gentle slope of my breasts. My skin is instantly warmed by Romaine’s touch.

Romaine then seeks out my mouth and we melt into a scorching embrace. We are interrupted by Barbara bursting in on us on her way to complete her morning constitutional.

“What are you two up to? You’ve got a weekly sales report due to me by ten!”

Ladies’ rooms are private love shacks only in books. In real life, they needed locks.

Scenario Three

I saw a scene in a porno film once where two women were happily baking in the kitchen. One thing led to another, and well, the piecrust wasn’t the only thing that
got the rolling pin treatment.

Romaine giggles as I pour the milk meant for the pie filling down the front of her sweater.

“Well, I can’t wear this now!” she exclaims. “It’s making me cold because it’s so wet!” Her pout is irresistible.

“You’d better take it off, then,” I say as I coax her nipples further outward by rubbing them through her drenched sweater. It clings to her as seductively as any
bimbo’s in a wet T-shirt contest. The little pebbles her nipples form are so adorable, I can’t wait to see how they feel in my mouth.

She is uncharacteristically compliant as I peel her sweater from her soaked torso. The slick heft of her pert, round breast in my palm sets my imagination reeling. I impulsively grab a
handful of butter and slather it over both her perfect tits. The butter melts easily when it meets the elevated temperature of her skin. As I knead her breasts, they are so slippery, I have trouble
keeping them in my palms.

Inspired by another impulse, I reach for the flour and move to sprinkle some on the buttery sheen I’ve created. But I miscalculate and several cups of the stuff hit her breasts in an
enormous powdery plume. We are both stricken with coughing fits and are forced to leave the kitchen for relief. We take separate showers because the mood has been unalterably broken.

Knowing that the only thing Romaine ever made for dinner was reservations destroyed my culinary fantasy as quickly as it was conceived. Anyway, we both adored our wardrobes – neither would
be willing to sacrifice any garment to such silly kitchen antics, even for the sake of carnal pleasure.

So, what remained? Should I just “be there for her” when the day came when Theresa rebuffed Romaine’s advances? Was that bastion of female strength, Consolation, the only
weapon I had in my seduction strategy arsenal? And what if Theresa didn’t object to Romaine’s invitation? Then there’d be no need for consoling.

But if Romaine was shy about making the first move, as she’d always been with others, the likelihood of her making a pass at Theresa was slim. My heart skipped a beat at the thought.
Perhaps I was blowing all of this out of proportion. Romaine would be intimidated by the very act of flirtation and knew that a straight, married woman with two children was far from a slam dunk
proposition.

What was I worrying about?

Did I still need a strategy? Yes, clearly I did, but whether I needed it right now was an equally important question. I could wait a while, at least until my feverish brain quelled a bit.

“. . . with that, I’ll turn things over to Julia,” I heard Theresa say.

“Well done, Theresa,” Barbara said with unprecedented sincerity.

“Yes, that was just great,” Romaine beamed at my exotic assistant.

Good lord. What on earth could Theresa have said to make both these hardened retailers so effusive with their praise? I’d never gotten a “well done” from Barbara in all the
years I’d worked for the old crone.

I attempted an expression that approximated pride in my little vixen of an assistant and proceeded to disclose Robes and Loungewear’s buying strategy for the coming season. The words came
easily; this wasn’t rocket science and I’d been doing it for years. The disconnect between my words and my thoughts today didn’t concern me nearly as much as the disconnect
between me and Romaine.

“I love Theresa’s idea for joint merchandising,” Barbara said to the room at large at the close of the meeting. “You’re sharing several vendors this season and we
could save some money if you coordinated marketing efforts.”

“I can’t believe we never thought to do that before,” Romaine said, smiling.

“Thanks. It just seemed to make sense,” Theresa said. “Would you like to meet sometime this week, Romaine, to see what we can work out?”

I watched open-jawed as Romaine eagerly agreed to Theresa’s suggestion. I stared as they walked out the door together.

“That Theresa is a real gem, Julia,” Barbara observed. “She can make you think you always wanted something you never even considered. And then she knows how to implement her
idea the moment she gets buy-in. A natural strategist.”

All this time, I could have been taking strategy lessons from my very own assistant. Now, all that appeared to be left to me was emulation and imitation. I had let too many opportunities pass
and, as I’d learned from my buying experience, once a trend had passed, it was gone until someone revived it again twenty years later. I wasn’t big on retro, neither in fashion nor
affairs of the heart.

While I was focused on appearances, Theresa dealt with realities, strategizing to get what she wanted, which just happened to be the very same thing that I wanted: Romaine. I thought I was
preserving some sort of professional image and had blamed my lack of action on everything from Romaine’s shyness to her rigidity. With the right strategy, I could have countered that shyness.
But I didn’t and now it was too late.

“Yes,” I said to Barbara. “She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” I was the epitome of composure as I left the meeting, fighting back tears that only I would ever know
about.