A View Of The Lake

You know what it's like in the morning after one of those funky parties, the dawn light coming in through the windows to show the stains on the cracked walls, the assorted crap scattered on the wooden floor, a fat butch sleeping with her mouth open, the girl beside her with torn nylons and a face smeared with mascara and lipstick, maybe a dozen other women lying around like rag dolls in a junkyard, big and small, fat and thin, one femme lying on her belly with her skirt pulled up to expose her ass. All the rag dolls.

And I'm one of the rag dolls. I want to go home. I don't want to go home. I want to be out of here and I don't want to be out of here. I don't know which is reality, the world outside the grimy windows or the collection of rag dolls in this huge room that I was told was once a sweatshop brassiere factory. But maybe that's just a story, some dyke fantasy about tits and bras.

I came here with someone, but I have no idea where she is. Maybe she went home. Maybe she flushed herself down the toilet. I'm thinking about getting up and finding a bathroom, when I feel an arm sliding over my waist. I turn my head and look. I don't know her. She has brown hair, high cheekbones, a wide mouth, and brown eyes that stare at me as though she can see all the dark corners in my head.

"You slept a long time," she says, her voice husky, as if it's midnight and she's ready to get into my pants.

But it's not midnight, it's six o'clock in the morning, my mouth feels wasted, and I have a slight headache after too much red wine last night. Red wine always wrecks my head; one of the problems of my life is that I love red wine and it always wrecks my head.

So I sigh and try to appear nonchalant. Should I push her arm away from my body? "Did I really sleep a long time?"

"Three hours," she says, her voice still husky.

Maybe it's her natural voice and she's not putting it on. But then she does have her arm on me, which I suppose means she's interested in more than a discussion about whether it's better to sleep a long time or a short time.

"I guess I needed the sleep," I say. She has a gorgeous butch face, no makeup at all, hair sleek and short, and those dark eyes still so familiar with the inside of my head.

"I'm sorry if I tired you out," she says.

Now I'm listening hard, trying to remember. But I don't remember her, nothing at all. So what went on last night -- or just a few hours ago?

"Tired me out? What does that mean?"

When I turn my head to look at her, she smiles at me. Perfect white teeth. What does she do, walk around all day with brightener strips on her teeth? The way she's looking at me, I think I know what she means.

And she says: "You don't remember?"

"Nothing at all."

Her arm moves on my belly. "That's delicious."

I'm annoyed. "Maybe to you, but I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come home with me," she says.

"Why should I?"

"If you come home with me, I'll make breakfast for us and we'll talk about last night. Or we'll talk about the weather. Or the lake. Or whatever you want to talk about."

"Promise?"

"Of course."

"What sort of breakfast?"

"Eggs, bacon, toast, jelly. And the best espresso in town."

My stomach grumbles. What the hell. A few minutes later she's holding my hand as she leads me out of the rag doll room.

* * *

She's past forty and she says her name is Fran. She drives a black Corvette, which of course impresses me, since what I drive is a ten-year-old Toyota with a severely bent fender and a heater that doesn't always work.

"We'll be at my apartment in no time," she says.

As if to encourage me not to fly away.

She knows how to handle the Corvette. After a few minutes, I slump into the bucket seat, close my eyes and think about breakfast.

Then I feel her hand patting my thigh. "Are you hungry?" she says.

"I'm starved."

She pulls her hand away. "Good, so am I."

I want to tell her that I have a red-wine headache, but instead I remain quiet. I look at her. She wears black. A black Corvette and black clothes. Tight black sweater that shows a large bust, and tight black jeans that show a full ass. I have nothing to complain about. She's my type. I don't know what we did last night, but she's my type. A butch with curves. And breakfast is in the offing. I close my eyes again.

* * *

On Lake Shore Drive, we pull into a basement hi-rise garage. She parks the Corvette and we ride an elevator to the twentieth floor and a sprawling apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the sun rising over the lake.

"Make yourself comfortable," she says. "I'll get breakfast started."

"Could I possibly have a shower here? I need it."

"Sure, honey, come with me." She leads me into a large bathroom. "It's all yours. I'll get you a robe."

A robe? Am I here to stay? She turns and walks out, closes the bathroom door and I'm alone.

I want the shower. Maybe a hot shower will help my headache. And a hot shower will get me clean in case I need to be clean later on. I know there will be a later on. She did not bring me here to chat about the weather while we have breakfast. I know all about that. I do know all about it.

So I strip and climb into the shower, and it does help my headache, and it gets me clean and I'm happy. It's Sunday morning, and I can relax, have a tasty breakfast and see what happens with this butch with curves. I still don't know what I did with her last night, but last night is a fading memory and I'm certainly better off here than yawning on the floor with the other rag dolls.

When I finish the shower and step out onto the bathroom rug, I find an aqua silk robe waiting for me on the commode, and sitting squarely on top of the silk robe a pair of cute high-heeled mules.

Cute, indeed. She wants me femmed up. I know all about that too. I do know all about it. I dry myself, use some of the cologne I find on a shelf, then open my little purse and start making up my face. Fifteen minutes later the high heels I'm wearing are clicking on the parquet floor as I make my way down the hall to the dining room. Now I'm starved, really needing some breakfast. And I'm getting turned on because I'm thinking this Sunday morning may turn out to be interesting.

* * *

In the dining room, I find Fran in a short chenille robe and barefooted, fresh from a shower in another bathroom. She looks good, not a sign of fatigue from the night before. I enjoy looking at her.

Fran is not pushy. She does not push me one way or the other. We have a lovely breakfast and delicious coffee. My belly is full and I'm happy, content, glowing. Of course it doesn't take long, not more than ten minutes after breakfast, when we're at the enormous window looking at the lake, that she slides her arm around my waist and then drops her hand to squeeze my ass.

She says, "Don't you remember last night?"

"No, what happened?"

"You made love to me and you were very good."

I don't miss the meaning; I'm blushing. "All right, I'll take your word for it."

She laughs and kisses my ear. "I think you're bluffing."

"About what?"

"About not remembering. I think you remember everything."

Then she turns me and she kisses my mouth, first a tender kiss and then with more fervor. Now it's a real kiss, my mouth open, her tongue sliding over and between my teeth. She gets her fingers in me, one finger, two fingers, three fingers, I'm stretched wide open, probed and fucked by her hand. She knows how, all right. Some curvy butch this is.

She pulls away and she asks me what sort of work I do. When I tell her I work part time as a catalog model for one of the department store chains, she smiles. "Oh, I adore models," she says. Then she adds: "Show me."

Show her what? When I look doubtful, she urges me to remove the robe I'm wearing (her robe) and show her my body.

Of course now I'm turning on to a maximum and I don't mind at all. It's not as if I expected another outcome. Showing my body is always the general result. I was not provided the lovely silk robe for any reason but to remove it. So I untie the robe and remove it, casually drop it on a chair and stand in the morning sunlight as she looks at me.

She looks, she asks me to turn, she asks me to walk a bit in the high heels. She evidently likes to look. I wouldn't mind looking at her, wouldn't mind seeing those big tits in the open, but for the moment her robe remains tied.

She tells me she has clothes in her shop that would be perfect for me. What shop? I learn she owns a boutique on Oak Street. She mentions the name. I know it. We're talking real money here; we're talking about Oak Street and not some dinky suburban dress shop.

She's had enough looking and she moves in and kisses me again. This time I'm naked and her hands are all over me, stroking, pinching, fingers probing, palms patting my ass. Am I to be cooked in a pot? I manage to get a hand on one of her breasts and I squeeze it. She laughs and kisses my mouth again. "Come on, baby, go down on me. I love what you did to me last night." She pulls away, unties the robe and drops it.

She does a turn to show me everything. She says, "Not bad, am I? Not bad for forty-six."

Not bad at all. She's twenty years older than me, easily old enough to be my mother, except my mother, who still lives in a house in Dubuque with a flag on the porch, would have a heart attack if she ever saw this.

Hello, Mother. If you're reading this, don't pretend you don't know me.

Fran wants me. She thrusts her hips at me, offering herself. I'd rather suck her big breasts, but instead I kneel on the parquet floor and I suck her cunt. She puts one foot on a chair to make it easier for me. She hunches at my mouth, fucking my face. Oak Street fucking the girl from Dubuque. It doesn't matter, I like it. This is me. Out of one corner of my eye I can see the lake through the enormous window. Miles of blue water and a clear sky. The view is breathtaking.

End