This story just came to me in one of those waking dreams. I have no idea if a Black Tie club exists in New York, or anywhere else for that matter, but it seemed like a good backdrop for two women to meet and eventually fall in love. As the story is written by an American, I've had to change the spelling of some words to add authenticity. Finally, in editing the story I've paused over two minor characters, Dottie and Joan, who met in the 1950s, I may do a story on their first encounter at a later date. In the meantime though I hope you enjoy undressing Tamara.
*****
A couple of weeks ago I was asked a very familiar question. When did you two meet? Tamara my other half was sitting in a chair with a laptop balanced on her legs and a camera positioned to record this momentous occasion. She looked very elegant in a short purple skirt and white blouse, her purple jacket slung over the back of the chair.
Yours truly was lying on her back in a very inglorious position with my legs in stirrups while the ever efficient Dr. Caroline Wilson performed the procedure. All I was thinking up until then was thank God for modern medicine. In the bad old days if a lesbian wanted to get pregnant she had to get inventive and find a suitable donor willing to supply the necessary fluid. There were always donors now I think about it but they thought contributing semen involved inserting their man bit inside and doing their duty.
Why is it that men think a lesbian just wants a bit of cock? The clue is in the label you so thoughtfully gave us!
I looked at Tamara when Dr Wilson asked the question and she spoke through the surgical mask the clinic had provided.
"We used to work together at the Black Tie club."
I found myself telling Dr Wilson a little more. She has this lovely bedside manner and because of the situation I opened up a little more than usual. Tamara offered up very little information, not out of embarrassment, she was busy taking notes for a blog on IVF procedures, but afterwards when I was lying on the couch at home she perched on the edge and looked down at me.
"You should write about it, how we met."
When Tamara suggests I do something it's a code for just do it. I don't always do it straight away and some things I still don't do, but most of the time I find myself doing what she suggests even though she's a whole seven years younger than me. I'm the street fighter who only just managed a high school diploma but Tamara is now a doctor of literature. She's the studious type and one night for a joke we dared her to sit one of those online IQ tests. She scored just under genius level, which prompted Kerry to say, "it's the last time we'll dare you to do anything."
So here I am with my laptop and a blank document. Tamara has given me carte blanche to lay it all out, the good, the bad and the ugly.
So here goes nothing.
My name is Anna Jane Smith and I'm a native New Yorker, born in Queens and by the time I was sixteen I knew I was different to my girlfriends. I gravitated towards girls but not for the usual reasons, I loved their bodies and those slippery fumblings in the back seats of cars soon earned me the title of the Dyke. It was a title I wore with pride for many years right through high school and during my early twenties, but when I started working at the Black Tie club I had to tone down the butch side and modify my wardrobe a little.
My hair is natural blonde and it was always short back then, I'd started cultivating the Ellen DeGeneres look but when Tamara turned up that night my hair was a little past my collar.
The club was run by Dorothy, may she rest in peace, she was in her seventies when I started there and died in 2008, the year an African American entered the White House. Say what you want about Dottie, but she died with a smile on her face, she was a woman who lived through the Stonewall era but up until her dying day she was first and foremost a lady. I never saw her at the club without makeup and the outfit to match.
When I first met Tamara it was a cold November day in 2007, the day after the Democrats won the election and the atmosphere in the club was considerably lighter.
The Black Tie club wasn't exclusively for lesbians, Dottie always maintained that straights of both sexes should be allowed entry but she insisted on a strict code of etiquette. You could tease the patrons but don't push it too far and if you were caught making out in the bathroom you'd make it all the way to the street, which was one of my tasks.
Nevertheless, despite Dottie's open mindedness, it had the reputation of being a lesbian bar and for the most part the only straights in there were women, the curious and the women who just wanted a place where they wouldn't be subjected to inappropriate touching. The name Black Tie came from the uniform we all had to wear, a black tie, black trousers or skirt, and black jacket. The dress code varied throughout the year and we did theme nights where the staff would dress in period outfits. We had '50s, '60s, '70s, '80s and '90s nights as well.
Tamara turned up that evening just on opening time in a camel overcoat, woolen scarf, hat and boots. She was carrying a shoulder bag that didn't look cheap and she took out a plastic folder with a job application form neatly filled out, including references and peered around the room before focusing on me as I stepped away from the bar.
"Hi, I'm Tamara," she held out the folder, "I'm here about the bar tending job."
"Anna Smith," I took the folder from her, "and it's waiting on tables," I opened the folder and looked at a copy of her driver's license clipped to the front, it had a Chicago address.
"How long have you been in New York?"
"Three and a half months, I'm studying literature at university, I was out at Chicago State but New York was my original choice. My professor managed to get me a transfer here."
"Nice guy."
"Professor Keating is a woman," she played with the wooden beads around her neck.
I merely shrugged and told her to wait at the bar while I got Dottie.
"If you can survive ten minutes at the bar you're in with a chance," I smiled.
By the time I arrived back at the bar she'd draped the coat and scarf over the next stool and was smoothing out the hat while one of my friends talked to her. By the body language it was obvious Kerry was testing the waters. It was only then I got a good look at Tamara.
She wore a white silk blouse tucked into a black skirt and thanks to the position of the lights at the bar I could see the outline of her bra underneath. She had a perfect hourglass figure and when she stood up a few minutes later I judged her to be five feet five. She had one of those heart shaped faces and bow shaped lips, and when she smiled she exposed perfect white teeth. Her hair was jet black and fell in soft waves to her shoulderblades, her complexion was light brown and I felt a slight twinge of lust. I've always liked dark women.
She was listening to Kerry talking about the club as if Kerry was the only person in the room. Tamara has the ability to make you feel as if you're the only one there. My eyes fell to her hands and the engagement ring. My suspicions were confirmed when I casually asked the question as I led her back to Dottie's office.
"I'm engaged, to a man."
But of course she was and yet she seemed almost naïve, asking rather obvious questions about the clientèle and our rules and ethics. I told her what she needed to know and introduced her to Dottie and left them alone.
Tamara has always said it was just a standard interview and I believe her, but there's a part of me that thinks she cast some kind of spell over Dottie. We had women like her applying for waiting jobs and while she hired some she preferred the bisexual/gay women or gay men. Perhaps Dottie, despite her firm commitment to her partner, Joan, looked at Tamara and fell for her hook, line and sinker.
One of the women working the bar summed it up a few days later as she watched her taking drinks to a table of women.
"She's a lesbian's wet dream."
When I asked Tamara a few weeks after that why she wanted to work here she was a little more succinct.
"I have to live on tips and if I'm going to be tipped by customers I'd rather they were women than men, at least I won't have them slapping my ass."
And she got tips all right. The girls had to work hard to try and beat her to a table because she could pick when customers might be ready to order another round, but that's because she stayed sober the whole night. Tamara rarely drinks, I've only ever seen her drink twice.
"It fogs the brain and makes me forget things."
Because of her sweet demeanor and good-natured charm, the girls protected her from some who might try to push their luck, and some of our more out and proud patrons were always on the lookout for a curious straight. Tamara would step lightly around the 'friendlier than usual' types and serve them with a smile but I'd always signal one of the others to step in. She got on well with all the girls and more than one of our staff quietly murmured they'd love to be her first, but that ring was on her finger and Tamara is not the cheating kind.
Dottie died suddenly in her sleep on July 5th, 2008. It was funny that the woman who'd fought hard all her life for gay rights, and even been bugged by the FBI during the Hoover era should just slip quietly away in her sleep. For a few weeks the club was closed while management issues were sorted out, Joan was taking over so our jobs were secure but she wanted the place closed for a few weeks out of respect for Dottie.
I took the time to repaint the apartment and it was while I was out on my bicycle coming from the hardware store that I first met Tamara's fiancé. His name was Roger and he lived in England part of the time but he was based in New York working for a stockbroker. He seemed pleasant enough. They lived on the Lower East side and when the club was eventually reopened by Dottie's partner, Tamara told me Roger actually liked me.
"It's nice he likes at least one of my friends."
It was the first sign I had that their relationship was not as perfect as it seemed, although Tamara never spoke about her personal life. About all I knew was that she was from Chicago and studied literature, she lived in a tiny apartment with her fiancé but because he worked long hours, she spent most of the time with her cat. On her breaks she'd sit in a little dinner room up next to the office and study.
One time I came up to get something out of the microwave and found her studying Chaucer, in the original Middle English. When I asked her what the hell kind of language that was she looked annoyed and told me it was Middle English.
"So you can understand it?"
"Not how it's spoken, we can only make an educated guess but I can read it."
She could also read Latin and was studying Japanese, although she was just starting her studies in Introductory Japanese. Another thing I should mention is that while Tamara is polite, she doesn't do small talk very well. Talk to her about literature, history, politics, psychology or any other subject and you can be there all night, but talk about the weather or the antics of some reality star and you get the feeling she's not really there. I call it the thousand yard stare.
And now I think it's time to save this and go do my cooking routine. Tamara has gone shopping and I'm under orders to prepare the vegetables for when she gets back.
***
Okay, I'm back, potatoes are peeled, carrots peeled and sliced and peas shelled. It was one thing I was never good at, cooking but I've become quite the gourmet cook since we got together and now that I'm here I'd better get on with how we got together.
It was right after I broke up with Denise. I'd been with her three months and what had started as promising became problematic when she bought a dog, without even telling me. Now I've got no problems with dogs or cats, I love our dog but this damn mutt used to chew socks, underwear and anything else he could reach, which was pretty much anywhere. When he turned one of my work shirts into streamers I hit the roof but when you picked on that miniature horse you crossed the line with Denise. She loved that dog as much as me and as it turned out, more than me.
