Do You Trust Me Lesbian Version

Smokey Saga #57:

"

Do You Trust Me?

" (lesbian version)

*****

This is a polished-up gay girl rendition of a story from 2014, my first tribute to Halloween. Lately, this is one I've been wanting to try to "Sapphize." About half the first fifty Sagas are hetero stories, featuring gents as main characters alongside the ladies, and because of character/plot points, most of these would not work with lesbians. "The Babysitter" did, so I split that into two versions. And with a little retooling here and there, this one I believe can also. If you haven't read the original—or if you simply prefer girl-girl stories to girl-boy ones—feel free to read this instead. It is not a sequel, it's the same thing. But better. TRUST ME!!

*****

Don't You Want Somebody To Love

Wednesday, October 30th, 2013, 3:06 p.m.

Off the elevator and out of the medical building stepped 32-year-old Phyllis Dixon, following the most recent appointment with her therapist, Dr. Isaac Jameson. It'd gone okay, or as well as could be hoped for, Phyllis supposed. Most appointments were more or less the same nowadays. Now it was back to her house to do...whatever. She'd decide when she got there.

Every other week she was afforded forty-five minutes to discuss her life and issues, which didn't consist of very much baggage. There wasn't a lot that could be considered wrong with her. She was securely employed at First Federal Bank, kept herself in reasonable shape physically and hygienically, was 5'6", 125 pounds, gay, and didn't lead the loneliest social life. Yet for all her visible good points, she was alone. Oh, she always had her family, of course, but she'd never exactly been very fortunate meeting women.

It wasn't as if she'd never been on a date. She'd gone out with a few girls in high school and college, but nothing more. The percentage of the female population she met never seemed extremely keen on her, but then, being in the lesbian minority put her at something of a disadvantage. There were women in her bank who were attractive, who were nice, and who were both, but they were all very straight, and very happily married. In fact, Phyllis was pretty sure her male colleagues were married also. And while she wouldn't want to date someone she worked with, she did grow the slightest bit weary of colorful co-worker stories which began with, "My husband..." or "My wife..." Having nothing to contribute, she felt a bit left out.

And so her love life—or lack thereof—was the subject that came up most frequently during her therapy visits. Dr. Jameson had mentioned to her that her chances of meeting someone would be undoubtedly improved if she tried visiting a lesbian bar—a venue specifically designed, after all, for the purposes of meeting gay girls with whom to strike up a romantic connection. She agreed with the logic, but...she didn't know. Much as she wanted to meet someone, her adult-long scarcity of female company had depleted her confidence—even if her solitude had naught to do with her personality.

Phyllis did not consider herself especially beautiful. And it was apparent to her that not many others did either. She boasted a nice body and full, thick hair, but her own facial features frankly struck her as awkward. Oh, a gentleman might tee up on her now and again, but being gay, she was unable to return his fancy. She couldn't pose for modeling, but at least she didn't make her mirror crack. But even if she was alone only because everyone else was already snatched up, wonders weren't done for her self-esteem. And the environment of a gay bar daunted her. She didn't know if she could contend with hotter or more experienced women to court a cute girl, and the idea of a threesome—or even more involved orgy—freaked her out.

The therapist suggested to her that it couldn't hurt to just go, walk around, peek about here and there and get a feel of it. She didn't have to talk to anyone if she was intimidated; she could just have a look, and depart anytime she wished. It was essentially the equivalent of window shopping for store merchandise. "Just keep in mind," he'd said, "Gay bars have raised a lot of batting averages. There are no guarantees; you may still strike out, and you may not. But it can't possibly lower your odds, and if you don't try, you'll never know. Remember, you miss 100% of the shots you don't take." Dr. Jameson was quite fond of his sports metaphors. Phyllis was about to say that taking a shot wouldn't help if she didn't even know where the goal was, but her doc went on.

"I mean, there're lots of women out there, that're not only okay with meeting a nice gal with a lot to offer like yourself; they

want

to," he continued. "And besides, even if you don't meet anyone today, nothing says you can't go back and try again tomorrow. You

never know

whose fancy might be struck by your presence."

You'll forgive me if I think that's just a little easy for you to say

, Phyllis thought, as her doctor was happily married too. But she really liked him. She enjoyed confiding in Dr. Jameson, because he treated her like a friend, gave her good advice, and could relate to her in at least one important way. He knew a few things about courting women. And the ol' shrink was making good sense. Phyllis was starting to think she should forget her fears and inhibitions and just give it a shot. What the hell, she thought, allowing herself to be convinced. Really, what's the absolute worst that could happen?

Actually, she knew what was the absolute worst that could happen: she could be shot down at every turn, thereby obliterating the few remnants of self-worth on to which she'd managed to hold. But she had a feeling that probably wouldn't happen. Like her doc said, she shouldn't have so much difficulty just getting a conversation started. Any woman she'd see could be looking to meet a lady just like her—otherwise, what was she doing there?

"Let me ask you something, Phyllis," said Dr. Jameson. "Just hypothetically: if you did meet a girl—at a bar, or anywhere else—and supposing she might be interested...what are you looking for? What do you want in a woman?"

Good question. Phyllis had to think about it awhile. She

wanted

to say, "Well, everything you usually look for in a girl," but didn't think that a good or narrowed-down enough answer. She wanted someone who was sweet, kind, pretty, funny, with a good personality, good heart, good sex drive, for starters...but it seemed to her those were standard on the checklist, basically par for the course. But as she pondered a bit, she arrived at the conclusion that she wanted someone who could...challenge her.

"Challenge you how?"

Better question. She admitted this being an opinion to which she perhaps wasn't entitled, but...frankly, she was just a little tired of making all the effort. In the case of each date in her teen years, it was she who'd laid the groundwork, initiated things, and set up all the arrangements. And being that none of these encounters went anywhere, she speculated there was something she wasn't doing right. It also seemed she couldn't get a girl to show more enthusiasm than she felt obligated to, that they only regarded her to keep her from thinking them impolite. She had no way of knowing if they were actually interested or not. And she was frankly losing the will to try. It was a fair deal of pressure to go through each time, she told the doctor, the whole exhausting courtship ritual. It was taxing on her, as well as her budget, and it wasn't paying off, so...why bother?

This pattern generated great frustration through its consistency. Life became duller with each passing day of loneliness, and the more tedious things became, the more she desired someone to come lift her from the rut and spice things up. That was what she needed, some spice and pep to get her love life running. Being the aggressor proved a fruitless solution. Something of a catch-22, as girls—herself included—liked to be pursued and play hard-to-get, which she found cute and charming...at first. Why shouldn't they like this feeling, she thought. Clearly, on the receiving end of attention, having the signal raised of someone being intrigued, who

wouldn't

enjoy that? One day she thought,

What if

I

were the one to be picked up on? What if someone showed interest in

me

first, or asked

me

on a date? What if

I

was given the choice to accept or reject an advance?

Not only would it finally indicate to her that a potential mate was interested, the dating ball would be dropped into

her

court for a change, for

her

to do with as she would. It was quite a feeling to imagine, but she couldn't see it actually happening. Even so...

What if someone were to challenge

me

for once?

Supposing—theoretically, of course—a woman approached her, began conversing and opening herself up, leading perhaps to something more. What would happen...she had nary a clue. It was something she'd have to experience to find out. And so Dr. Jameson said he'd see her in two weeks, and Phyllis left. And on the way back home, the boredom of solitude went on wearing on her, finally producing just enough courage that she decided...

Y'know what?

Why not? Why the gosh-darned hell not? What really have I got to lose, after all?

She made up her mind to find a local lesbian bar and go. She had one errand to take care of, and then her path would be queer. She just hoped she didn't chicken out on herself.

*****

Where Every Lesbian Knows Your Name

Wednesday, October 30th, 2013, 5:39 p.m.

She felt her heart beating harder on the way. She was nervous, even though she hadn't yet arrived. She had her suit on, a blue ascot around her neck, a modest layer of makeup touching up her semi-awkward face, was freshly perfumed, and empty-bellied. She'd wait on eating, at least until something happened...or didn't.

There it was, LesBeers. A large, loquacious banner with a rainbow background hung beneath that read, "Where EVERY night is Ladies' Night! C'mon in out of the closet and have some fun!" Phyllis double-checked the address, even though she could clearly see the sign. 6511 Bellerive Boulevard. Yup. Okay, no excuse left now. She located a space, paralleled in, took out some change, fed the meter and locked the car. She took a breath, straightening her suit, and made her way across the street.

Once she got inside, she was a little surprised to see how crowded it was—not so much because it was a weekday, but because, well, she guessed she didn't expect to find this many single lebs in town in the first place.

Wow

, she thought,

Are there this many chicks here

every

night?

There were probably even more on the weekends. For a moment she considered going back outside to make sure she'd come into the correct establishment, but she wasn't that addle-brained.

She shyly wandered in, relieved to see most gals this evening dolled up like herself. Being the only dame in a suit, she'd feel a little out of place. She passed around a few friendly smiles and waves as if to say, "Hey, yeah, I'm new here, what's going on," and so forth. She made her way around the bar, looking for a place to sit. Another pleasant surprise presented itself as she took in a closer view of the clientele. There were comely women everywhere, smiling at her as she passed—some quite flirtatiously. Eventually, she located some unoccupied stools, next to one of which sat a very cute, very blonde mademoiselle in her 30s, close to Phyllis' age, sipping provocatively from her glass. Her brows arched cordially as they made eye contact. Phyllis slowed to a cautious halt beside her.

Just loudly enough for her to hear, Phyllis unassumingly motioned to the vacant stool to blondie's right. "May I?"

The woman smiled and nodded without hesitation. "Please!" she welcomed enthusiastically, patting the stool with her palm.

This put Phyllis' mind a good little bit at ease.

Wow, this might be easier than I thought!

she told herself. But just as quickly, she added,

Yeah, but whatever you do, girl, don't get cocky. Don't get overconfident

.

Hey, this is

me

I'm talking to, remember?

she reminded herself, ordering a soda.

Cocky? Overconfident? Me? Be real. And at the same time, try not to get too nervous, or

under

confident either. Try to keep it at a good, balanced medium

.

"I'm Phyllis," she said, matching her introductory tone, offering her hand.

"Hi there!" called the blonde, returning hands with a sitting curtsy. "Veronica."

"Oh, pretty name!" Phyllis smiled back, thankful she couldn't go wrong with sincere compliments.

They exchanged friendly chitchat, easier said than done—no pun intended—over the din of the crowd. Her full name was Veronica Anna Upland, and she lived fifteen minutes from the bar, towards the southeast end of town. She was a freelance writer-calligrapher, and was just about to turn 33. Wow, they were almost the same age, remarked Phyllis, her own 33rd birthday approaching in January. The more she looked at her, the more she thought, she's a lovely girl. She had soft blue eyes, blonde hair flowing in locks around her cheeks and ears, slinking down her shoulders and back. And she was wearing a bright red cocktail dress which beautifully offset said hair and eyes. And when she turned to the side, the shape of her nose and cheeks made Phyllis think,

...My God, you're Heather Locklear.

Being a reserved introvert, Phyllis wasn't prone to approaching the deep end courting a woman. But after a few more flirty smiles and coy glances, she might go so far as to call this woman a superbabe. To herself.

She couldn't help wondering if Veronica thought she was attractive at all. But she told herself not to get her hopes up; they were still only chatting, after all. And she kept the thought in the back of her mind that even if nothing played out with this lassie fox, there were plenty of others here. But eventually, they finished their drinks and ordered a few more, keeping the conversation going. Phyllis was really liking the direction this was headed. She decided she'd underestimated the advice Dr. Jameson had given her about coming here, as well as her own worth as a person. This girl Veronica seemed to genuinely like her. Still, she made herself refrain from pressing her luck.

This is not a game show. Just wait and see

, she told herself.

Just wait for more conclusive evidence, and don't push it. Look before you leap, honey, just look before you leap.

In the meantime, it was sure fun getting acquainted with her. Veronica'd moved to the States from Canada when she was 18, and spoke fluent French—"Je parle la langue de l'amour." Phyllis had no idea what she said, but was wildly enchanted by it nevertheless. Her career spawned from her love of not so much language itself, as of the written letters, numbers, symbols and other characters used in written communication, and she could expertly craft any alphabet in a hundred different hand styles. And so now, she explained, she designed fonts, as part of her craft.

"...

Wow

," an impressed Phyllis finally replied. "And I'm just a teller at the bank."

"But I'll bet you make a good living," Veronica offered. "And it's solid, honest work."

Gosh, this lady had charm, thought Phyllis. She noticed a pattern in the doll's speech, that her eyebrows tended to raise at the midpoint of each sentence, and lower back down by the full stop. Her smile curled the edges of her lips up, forming lovely dimples at the corner of each cheek. Phyllis had to admit, when Veronica smiled, she had

just

a little trouble concentrating on what she said.

My goodness!

she thought.

Are there more women like this? Is

every

girl in this bar so friendly? Have these dollies been here this whole time and I never knew it??

Right now, though, she wasn't concerned about other women, here or anywhere else. For Phyllis—who, again, hadn't enjoyed her share of lady companionship to this point in her life—the enthusiasm at locating a girl who seemed to fancy her was overwhelming. Despite all the things she'd told Dr. Jameson, she found herself wanting to ask Veronica out. But the intimidation of being rejected stood in her way.

Amazingly enough, she didn't get the chance. She'd been enjoying herself so much in Veronica's company, she was losing track of time, and when Veronica consulted her phone for this very information, all Phyllis did was study her magnificently sculpted face. It was safe to say that the next thing that happened utterly

blew

her mind. Veronica turned back to her.

"Listen, Phyllis? I'd better be getting back home...um...would you like to come with me?"

Phyllis' eyebrows leapt to attention, mouth dropping open. She couldn't believe she'd heard those words come out of Veronica's mouth. It seemed in the midst of all this desire for a woman to hypothetically ask

her

out for once, fate at last heard her, and stepped in to lend a hand. Against all odds, she was being presented with a proposition she could before have only imagined. It was unbelievable. She had to double-check to make sure she'd understood.

"Did...you just ask me if I wanted to go to

your

place?"

Veronica paused just a moment.

"...Yeah," she nodded matter-of-factly. "But...I mean, if you don't wanna, that's fine too."

"Don't WANNA"??!

"Y-YES! Yes, I definitely

do

wanna!" Phyllis insisted, trying not to sound overzealously eager.

"Okay, great!" Veronica smiled. "Let me just run to the ladies,' 'kay? You don't have to go with me; I may be a little while. But don't worry—I promise I

am

coming back." She giggled and patted Phyllis' hand before she trotted off.

Ten minutes later, Veronica returned to the bar and unsnapped her purse. "Lemme just pay for my drinks here..."

Phyllis quickly reached for her own. "Oh no, please, let me," she insisted, digging out some cash before Veronica could decline.

"Oh, why, how sweet!" Veronica thanked her. "There's just one thing, though. I came with someone else, but I'm pretty sure she's gone by now. Would you mind driving, Phyllis, and I'll show you the way?"

She could barely believe this was happening; it was almost too good to be true. "Well, of course!" she automatically agreed. They joined hands and threaded their way back out, to the now half-dusky, chilly exterior.

WOW

, Phyllis thought breathlessly.

My first time visiting a lesbian bar, and not only do I meet someone, I'm actually going

home

with her!

Her doctor had been absolutely right; she never knew

whose

fancy might be struck by her presence!

*****

Cent-I-Meters

Wednesday, October 30th, 2013, 7:12 p.m.

Phyllis led Veronica across the street to her car. They opened the doors and started in.

"Excuse me, ma'am? Is this your vehicle?"

Phyllis stopped in mid-climb and turned in the direction of the voice. She saw something startling.

A meter maid had appeared, right in front of her driver's side mirror.

"Uh...yes?"

"Ma'am, you only inserted an hour's allowance in the meter. You're more than half an hour over. I'll have to write you a ticket."

"What??" she exclaimed. "But, tha—...that's impossible! I...I could've

sworn

I put in enough for two hours!"

The maid showed her. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry, you see?" She indicated to her that it had in fact expired. "

One

hour."

It was getting dark, but the streetlights were on, and Phyllis could clearly make out the "expired" status on the meter.