Lesbian Ghosts Ancient Curses Etc

Look. If you happen to be antique shopping with your best friend Marty in that shitty hole-in-the-wall alcove behind the convenience store on 5th, don't take home any mysterious haunted artifacts, even if Marty says "oh my God, this is some Scooby Doo shit... you so totally have to buy it!"

If you decide to disregard my advice and purchase the grimy rhinestone ring anyway, definitely don't clean it off with toothpaste until it shines and you can read the words "2013 NATIONAL WOMEN'S BASKETBALL ASSOCIATION CHAMPION" emblazoned around a small silver basketball. And if all of these directions are still too hard to follow, at least make sure you don't proceed to wear said ring. If you do, you might end up with permanent houseguests. I did.

It all begins one evening in September. It's 'roommate night': the bi-weekly event that my best friend mandates in an effort to keep the peace around our small Seattle condo. We didn't get along at first, Marty and I. He's a neurotic scientist with a six figure salary who works on curing body dysmorphia in rabbits. I have a degree in mid-century Swedish poetry, so I'm a barista at Starbucks. I may be a twenty-seven-year-old single lesbian without a 401k, but at least I look like a supermodel in those little green aprons. So that's our arrangement: Marty brings in the rent money; I bring in the vibes.

Anyway, one minute we're standing in a Shell, debating which is the superior Sour Patch Kids flavor (grape, obviously), and the next, I notice a strange glow from somewhere behind the fridge of Coors Light.

"Let's go check it out," I say.

"Let's not," Marty whimpers.

I watch my reflection scoff at him as I open the glass refrigerator door. Behind us, the kid at the counter is totally zoned out, already smoking his third Camel since we walked in. He barely seems to notice as I squeeze inside the fridge and carefully maneuver around some cases of beer. It's a Costco-esque setup, where instead of shelves in the refrigerated section, there's just a tower of boxes.

Icy condensation floats around my eye level. As my breath weaves in foggy tendrils through the stacks of Heineken and Corona, I'm struck with the notion that I've just entered some kind of post-modern consumerist labyrinth. I feel my heart picking up with the sort of excitement I haven't felt since this powerlifter with gray eyes and huge traps let me eat her out in the gym locker room (and then proceeded to invite me to a throuple with her husband! Ew! As if!)

"Nessa, if you take one more step, I'm going to crush your Stanley cup in a hydraulic press," Marty cautions.

"Oh yeah?" I turn back to glare at him. "Well, I'll replace Flopsy Rabbit's prozac with tic tacs."

He gasps. "You wouldn't! She's really struggling right now."

"Then get your ass over here!" I tell him. Defeated, he follows me inside.

After weaving through the maze of beer for what seems like forever, we find the source of the glow: a strange oil lamp perched precariously atop a stack of old parchment. I'll be honest, it looks like something out of the Witcher 3, and it definitely doesn't belong in the wall behind a gas station, but I'm mainly concerned about the fire hazard. I rack my brain trying to remember all the safety courses I had to do in college. Can you use water to put out an oil fire? Do you need sand? I don't remember. I mostly spent those lessons playing MASH with LaShawna Markson, who was president of Delta Delta Nu and so hot.

"Good evening," croaks a voice.

Startled, I look around. I don't see anyone other than Marty, who's sort of hyperventilating in the corner beside me. After a moment, I think to check behind the stack of parchment.

There's a very short old woman standing there, swathed in a velvet shawl which swallows her up and drags on the cobblestone floor beneath her. Her eyes are huge behind her tortoiseshell lenses, and her arms are raised in apparent supplication to the wealth of cheap beer surrounding us.

"I am Madame Vabavushka," she informs us. "Welcome to my shop of trinkets."

In the dim lighting, I can make out some shelves behind her, filled with various knick-knacks.

"This is an antique shop?" I wonder in disbelief. "How do you even stay in business? You're not on Google Maps."

Madame Vabavushka grins. "The glow of my everlasting lamp lures in lost souls seeking the thing they most desire."

"Right," Marty says. "Let's get out of here, Nessa. This is definitely some kind of organ harvesting ring."

"I assure you, it is nothing more than an old woman's hobby. Tell me, child, what is it that you most desire?"

"Um," Marty stammers. "Peace of mind?"

"Ah, but of course," Madame Vabavushka says slyly. "And you, young lady, what does your heart want more than anything?"

"A hot butch girlfriend with chiseled abs," I reply instantly.

The old woman looks slightly annoyed at this, but she nods at us after a moment.

"Very well," she says. "Then follow me."

We make our way back to the shelves of knick-knacks, where the old woman hands me a grimy ring. It doesn't look much like a muscular PWHL player to me. I frown.

"And for you, young man," Madame Vabavushka announces, "I have the relaxation and comfort you seek."

She reaches into the shadows and pulls out... a bong? I can't help it; I burst out laughing. Marty soon joins me, paranoia apparently assuaged.

That's when all the trouble begins. But I guess I already told you about Marty convincing me to buy the ring as a joke, Marty convincing me to clean it off and put it on. So it's back in the comfort of our condo, as we laugh about our bizarre encounter in the backrooms of a Shell, that the ghost appears.

She's translucent, but just a bit; she looks enough like an ordinary human to fool you on first glance. She's not floating. She's not sheet-white with glowing eyes. And she's definitely not Casper-shaped or anything. Really, she's just a tall woman wearing an oversized jersey, with her hair in mussed-up plaits and a sort of dopey grin on her face.

"Look," says the ghost after our screaming has died down somewhat, "I really don't know what you expected. This ring was clearly a haunted artifact. Anyone who's ever watched a horror movie would know that."

I shiver. "My therapist told me not to watch horror movies. He said it would only encourage me to buy more crystals for my room."

I notice my knuckles are white as I clutch our pasteboard IKEA kitchen table for support. My toes dig into the sample rug beneath my feet. Beside me, Marty is sobbing softly into the sleeves of his oversized sweater. The ghost rolls her eyes.

"I'm hungry," she says. "I hope you keep the fridge stocked."

"Are you going to haunt us?" Marty asks, eyes wide.

"Oh, no doubt."

Our personal phantom walks over to our small kitchenette. We have a minifridge, a microwave, and a bunch of ramen on the counter. The ghost opens the minifridge. And look, I said she was tall, so it's not my fault that her ass is right in my face when she arcs down to peer inside. It's not like I'm ogling her, either. It's just that her basketball shorts cling to her hips in this position, and the jersey fabric falls just perfectly over them, and I can see the tops of her thighs and her glutes working in beautiful tandem to support her. Her ass is perfect, okay? That's not. my. fault. It's just an unfortunate series of coincidences which leads me to imagine grabbing it and rolling the taut muscle between my hands.

"What the fuck is 'Olaplex?'" says the ghost from inside the fridge. "Some kind of electrolyte drink?"

Marty digs his fingers into my side and sniffles messily, leaving trails of snot on my shoulder. Sighing, I pat him on the head. I totally just got this blouse dry cleaned.

"What do you guys even eat in this apartment?" our intruder asks, raising her eyebrows at me. "Dry noodles? Dust bunnies?"

"... Takis?" I offer sheepishly. The ghost frowns. I've never been so simultaneously inconvenienced and turned on.

"What about protein?"

I shake my head.

"Carbs?"

"Not really."

"Nutrition of any kind?"

"Sometimes I put creatine in a straw and eat it like a Pixi stick," I tell the ghost. "Mostly we just Doordash, though."

She eyes me with displeasure. "You're too pretty to be eating like a feral raccoon," she says. "Good thing I'm here now. I went to culinary school on a D1 scholarship."

"Oh, so now you're going to be my live-in chef? You haven't even told us your name. Shouldn't you launch into some kind of speech about an ancient curse or something?"

The ghost shrugs. "Dunno. I just remember dying and then waking up in an old Russian lady's antique shop as a ghost. I'm Teri. Since you asked."

I stick out my hand, exhaling. She gives me a dubious expression and does not take it.

"Vanessa," I say by way of introduction. "Hey, how did you die anyway?"

"Um, well, my teammates and I were celebrating-- I had just hit this sick half-court shot earlier that day and won us the national championship-- and they dared me to do a backflip off the top of a Wendy's."

"Oh. That's stupid."

"Yeah, well, then I landed in a hot tub and water went up my nose, so I contracted this rare brain-eating amoeba."

I frown at her. "Ew!"

"Then while I was in the hospital, my ex-girlfriend gave me a two liter bottle of moonshine as a goodbye gift, and I chugged the whole thing in 45 seconds."

"So you died of alcohol poisoning?"

"No, I died because the IV of B12 and potassium had an air bubble in it... what's with the twenty questions? Nosy, aren't you?"

"Excuse me! You just broke into my apartment! I have a right to know why!"

Marty, seeming to snap out of his trance, glares at me.

"Don't talk to the ghost!" he hisses. "That's Evil Spirit Logic 101!"

Oh my god. He is such a scaredy-cat. Besides, Teri doesn't look particularly dangerous. I mean, sure, she's definitely muscular, and certainly over six feet tall, with long, slender fingers which could easily pin me down. Preferably on a soft mattress with silk sheets covered in rose petals. Maybe with some low-fi R&B playing in the background. Obviously there would be candlelight reflected in her dark eyes and dancing across her tanned forearms, accentuating the veins and freckles. She'd whisper to me in a raspy, low voice; her chestnut curls would fall, tickling my nose, as she leaned down and said...

"Um, I think your friend just passed out."

I snap to attention. "Huh?"

"Yeah," Teri says, crossing her arms. "You should tell him not to lock his knees."

Indeed, Marty has fallen unconscious onto the floor. I grimace and kneel down next to him. He's still breathing. His eyes are open in apparent shock, his mouth forming a tiny 'oh'.

"Damn," I exhale. "You know, as much as I'd love to turn this place into a haunted house, you need to go, Teri. This is all too much for Marty. He's terrified of ghosts."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," says Teri, though the sound is sort of muffled. I look up-- she's found my non-dairy peach yogurt and is currently slurping it up like she hasn't had a decent meal since... well, 2013, I suppose.

"I'm serious!"

"So am I! Since you brought me into your home, you invoked this ancient magic... yada yada, I'm bound to the apartment now. Ghost rules."

"I never agreed to this," I huff.

"Madame Vabavushka literally made you sign a contract with a disclaimer on it. Didn't you read it?"

"No?" I tell her indignantly. "I have dyslexia."

"Jesus fucking Christ." Teri looks down, sighing. "You know, I was real excited when someone bought the ring. I thought somebody finally wanted me... that I'd finally get some real friends. You know, friends who wouldn't tell me to jump off a roof. I remember one time when we were in Sacramento..."

She launches into this whole monologue about how lonely it is being a D-list celebrity; almost as lonely as being a ghost. And honestly, it is sad that she's been forced to live a cursed half-life in an antiques shop for nine years with only a demented old lady to keep her company. But it's hard to focus on anything she's saying when her lips look so kissable.

"... and that's how I escaped from the pageant, with only a toothpick and a bottle of corn oil," Teri finishes some time later.

"Uh huh, totally," I say, entranced by the curve of her jaw. It's fascinating; her body is angular, but she looks soft enough to curl up next to on a cold winter night. Her small, full breasts would make perfect pillows. I imagine my hair spilling across her bare chest in auburn rivulets. I imagine giggling into her neck, letting her pull me back into bed, letting her make me late for work. (It's 2024. People should know how to make their own cappuccinos by now anyway!)

Beside me, Marty has recovered. He's sipping at a glass of water. Wait, when did he get that? Oh, who cares. Teri is sooo cute. It's been way too long since I had a sexy butch in my bed. I cross my arms across my chest in a hopefully-not-obvious ploy to bring attention to my breasts.

"Soooo, Teri," I say. "Do ghosts sleep? Because the apartment is a two bedroom, but if you wanted to share a bed with me... for financial reasons..."

Teri gives me an I-can-tell-you're-trying-to-get-inside-my-Woxers look. I make my way over to the kitchen sink, ostensibly to put on some lotion, but really I'm using the opportunity to brush past her. I've never met a real ghost before. I was a little worried she wouldn't be... you know, corporeal, but I feel soft skin grazing across my shoulder as I accidentally-on-purpose knock against her. She's definitely solid, if a little cold.

"You are shameless, aren't you?" Teri says. She's not chastising me, though. Actually, her eyes glimmer with barely contained interest.

Marty coughs delicately.

"Okay," he tells us, "I feel like this is my cue to go downtown and get shit-faced and forget this ever happened. And I'd better not come back to a bunch of ghost babies running around this apartment, or whatever the fuck."

I shoo him out the door. He's kicked me out plenty of times so that his weird boyfriend Joaquin could come over, so really, it's only fair.

Once we're alone, I offer Teri a glass of wine. I'm not sure if ghosts can get drunk, but I could certainly use a merlot.

"Usually I only drink White Claws," she tells me. "But that's one of the perks of being supernatural..."

She snaps her fingers, and the wine glass I've poured for her suddenly transforms into a hard seltzer.

"Whoa," I say. "So, all that bitching you were doing about our food-- you could've swapped it out for something better?"

Teri shrugs. "I was mostly just concerned about your diet, honestly. You live off Takis?"

"And Doordash," I remind her.

"Whatever." She cracks open the White Claw with a small smile.

Her fingers dwarf the aluminum can. I can't help admiring them again; her nails are short and neatly trimmed. Her hand is calloused. Rough. Masculine. It would feel so good gliding against my skin, palming my nipples...

Okay, so maybe I am fantasizing about being fingered by a cute ghost. Is that a crime? A violation of nature? Good thing I've never much cared about following the rules.

"What else do your ghost powers do?" I ask, glancing over her with lidded eyes. "I mean, I'm just thinking... if this is a date, I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion..."

"Oh?"

Teri snaps her fingers once again, and my off-white tee and jeans disappear with a flash. Instead, I'm suddenly swathed in red lace. The fabric feels more expensive than anything I currently own. I rush to the bathroom mirror.

The lingerie is beautiful. There's two crimson panels on the front which expose a whole lot more cleavage than would be appropriate for daytime TV. Each lacy panel is trimmed with embroidered detailing, a beautiful trail of red roses which follows the curve of my body down to a skirt which barely covers my ass. Damn, I think. I look hot. It's not a surprise, exactly. I look hot in everything. But the negligee gives me a graceful elegance which looks foreign on me. I like it.

"Wow," I say as Teri comes up behind me, eyes gleaming in the mirror. "Now look who's shameless."

Teri's fingers snake around my waist. I lean back into her.

"Still you," she murmurs, bending down to whisper into my ear. "You're not very self-conscious, are you?"

She's right; I'm not. I don't really see the point in ruminating. If I doubted myself more, I wouldn't have majored in literature despite having a pathological dislike of every book besides the Hunger Games. I wouldn't be living in a cozy condo in my third-favorite city. I wouldn't be in the arms of a slightly undead, but very attractive basketball player. I wouldn't be leaning back my head to brush my lips across hers.

It doesn't seem she's one for second-guessing, either, because she meets my kiss eagerly, sliding one of her hands up to my jaw. I was right: the pads of her fingers are a bit cold, but they hold me firmly, and her skin is so damn soft. It feels like satin against my cheek. Her lips move against me. She's not just kissing me-- we're dancing a gentle tango, moving in synchrony. Her body anticipates mine.

We slot together. Me up on the bathroom counter, legs wrapped around her waist. Her, pressing me back against the mirror, eyelashes tickling me as I laugh into her mouth.

We're a perfect contrast. My curves flow like waves against the angular planes of her body. My hips are supple. Hers jut hard into my hands, and her fingers encircle my wrists, but I welcome the rough handling. It feels good to be wanted. Guided. And when she slides those clever hands under my thighs and lifts me up, I fling my arms around her shoulders.

She doesn't need to ask which bedroom is mine, because my name is spelled across the door in cursive with a string of LED lights. She carries me inside. The mattress bounces as she drops me onto my daybed, which is piled high with pillows and blankets and soft things. Marty and I call it Nessa's Nest.

She sinks down over me, hair falling down to frame my face.

"Listen," she tells me. "I did mean what I said earlier, about wanting someone. About not wanting to be lonely."

"Well, I meant what I said about wanting a hot butch girlfriend with chiseled abs."

She laughs. "Isn't it too soon to..."

"We're lesbians. Three hours is practically three months for us."

"So?"

"So. We'll see how it goes," I tell her, grinning.

Teri moves her head down, nosing into my hair, pressing me into the mattress with her thighs. Her breath tickles the sensitive skin behind my ear and I squirm. I love the weight of her body-- the security of it over mine.

"You should strip," I say. "Wait, can you strip? Are your clothes part of the whole ghost-essence too?"

In response, Teri simply snaps her fingers, and her jersey and shorts are gone. It's sort of a shame. I do love a woman in uniform. But my half-formed protestations quickly die when I see her in the nude for the first time.

She's so fucking handsome like this. Her breasts hang over me as she props herself up on her hands, then lowers her body so our chests are flush. She kisses me again, slow and sweet. But I don't let her explore too long. I'm absolutely dying to get my hands all over that olive skin.

I push her up, gently, so that she's sitting back on my hips. God, she's perfect. Her breasts fit just so in my hands, and I rub my thumbs over her nipples, watching them stiffen beneath my ministrations. They're beautiful-- brown dahlia petals retreating into the comfort of their sepals as the moon rises overhead. I lave over one breast with my tongue. There, eclipsed inside the heat of my mouth, I feel the dahlia bloom once more.

"Jesus Christ," Teri swears. "You're going to kill me. Again."

"Still." I blink up at her with a grin. "It'd be a helluva way to go."