Fool on the Hill
Chapter 1: Thunderstorms and Other Moist Encounters
The stars are so far above the earth that we’re usually oblivious to what’s going on up there. While we brush our hair, comets dart through galaxies and sunspots dance into inky space. We grow bored in grocery lines as meteor showers sparkle and novas burst on the scene. We rarely know when we’re being star-crossed.
But that captivating spring Saturday night, I knew one star would cross my path: I had primo tickets to a Gabrielle Leatheross concert! I’d soon hear the lovely growl and fiery riffs that gained her popularity not only with fellow lesbians but among rock lovers everywhere.
I picked up no negative vibes before the concert, no evil feelings at all. Oh, I had odd feelings. At least that’s what some folks would say about a lesbian still living with a straight housemate she once had an affair with. Odd would be a kind word.
It’s not that I haven’t had honest to goodness lesbian romances. It’s not that Lana hasn’t been involved with men and still dates whenever she meets a decent prospect.
It’s that we’re true friends. We know each other’s third grade teachers, ATM codes, breakfast food preferences, and birthmarks. We care more deeply than hormones run.
It’s that San Diego is more affordable when housing costs are shared.
It’s that nothing better has worked out long-term for either one of us. And it’s the memory of an animal passion that used to course just below the surface of everything we did or said.
Eighty-twelve years ago, we’d hooked up when Lana was flirting with bisexuality. We entertained each other in bed and out for almost two years. Then, while waiting in line at her credit union, she connected with an unusually beautiful man, both a poet and a boxer, and decided that she had, after all, only been flirting.
Unlike many women my age who complain of diminished hormones, I am as sexually interested as a sailor on shore leave. And every once in a while, the sub of sexual tension between Lana and me raises its periscope, searching for trouble. Because I really do care for her, I keep all hands on deck.
I checked out my image in my bedroom mirror. The black boots and jeans looked right, but the red pullover didn’t work.
I yanked a loose fitting white pirate-style shirt from a hanger and put it on. Loose fitting is important, because a while ago, my trans-abdominal rectus muscle bought a condo in my left breast: belly now resides where boob used to be. My ankle bone may still be connected to my leg bone, but my belly button has been resected; some innards turned outward, and my nerves have undergone numerous nasties, leaving strangely numb nether regions on the front half of me.
But it was better than dying of advanced invasive breast cancer.
Cobalt Web Designs