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From: Nicholas Urfe <nickurfe@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP James 04 [Urfe] (FF, F, Ff, inc, voy)
Date: Thu, 22 Jun 2000 16:10:04 -0400
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The James Sisters

by Nicholas Urfe
activities described herein: FF, F, Ff, inc, voy

Fourth Chapter: Leah's Journal

   Jasmine dumped me today. I think.

   It was weird. She took me to go see "Fire," which was playing at the
Twenty-one, because, as she said, "Indians, lesbians, what's not to
like?" It was an okay movie. The two women were sisters-in-law, which was
a little weird, and the thing with the husband who wanted his wife to
climb into bed with him and tempt him with her body so he could be strong
by not having sex with her--that was a little too close to, well, stuff,
for me. I got a little weirded out when I figured out that was what was
happening, and I grabbed Jasmine's arm and squeezed her hand tight. And
there was only one sexy scene--they were kissing on the bed, slowly, real
slow, and Jasmine squeezed my hand and leaned over and said, "Nipple!" in
this goofy little voice--because that was about all you could see,
through all the gauzy mosquito netting--but her breath was warm in my
ear, and on my neck, and I turned my head and kissed her. We were both
wearing sundresses, only with sweaters, since it was so cool despite the
fact that it was June and anyway, the Twenty-one always has its air-
conditioning on too high. But I wasn't wearing any underwear, because
Jasmine had already pulled it off.

   Before we went in to watch the movie, we went up to the girl's
bathroom on the second floor by the entrance to the balcony like we
always do, and once this grossly fat woman had left and was wheezing back
down the steps we both ducked inside at once and Jasmine twisted the
deadbolt.

   "You're a pervert," I said.

   "Yeah, but I'm your pervert," she said. "Look at this." She wasn't
wearing any stockings at all, and her long brown legs went all the way up
from her sandals to the hem of her short little sundress--which she was
lifting, slowly, teasingly. Her grin widened. I expected some racy pair
of underwear to be revealed--something sheer, lacy; some outrageously
tiny thong. Instead, there was nothing--the hem went up, and kept going
up, and my mouth opened as I saw her pubic hair, trimmed neatly into a
thin strip above the small, pursed lips of her cunt.

   "Jasmine!" I hissed.

   "Look," she said. She kept raising her dress. There, on the taut brown
skin of her belly, off to one side of the gentle curve between her navel
and her black curls, a pair of lips painted, in lipstick or in henna, a
red kiss, a pouting pair of lips pressed there.

   "Your kiss," she said.

   I don't know how she does it. Every time I think she's crossed a line,
done something so outlandish, so crazed, I'll die of embarrassment, she
turns it around, puts some spin on it, leaves my knees weak, makes me
wet. Loosens my limbs. And I don't think about it anymore, I don't think
about anything; my head spins and things happen. Like then, when she
stood there, the hem of her dress lifted up above her waist, her grin
nearly splitting her face, beaming, and she says "Your kiss," and before
I know it I'm walking across to her and I'm kneeling before her and I'm
kissing the lips that have been painted there. And I could feel the heat
coming off her, and I could smell her musk. And the movie was about to
begin any minute, and I hate walking into a movie once it's started, even
the previews, and lots of times the Twenty-one doesn't even show
previews, but her belly was trembling, and she said, "Oh, Leah," and I
just about melted. I kissed the henna lips one more time and then I
stood, and her hem fell as she grabbed me, her hands sliding around to
grab my ass ("Oh, Leah," she says again, and she squeezes, and her
fingers slide between the cotton and my skin) and we kiss and kiss until
I just can't stand it anymore, the movie's about to begin, so I pull back
(her hands slide out of my underwear, though she digs in a little with
her fingernails as I pull free, and I feel the sting on my butt, "Oh,
Leah," she says, completely different from how she said it before, and
I've flopped over into present tense again, dammit, I hate it when I lose
track like that) and that's when she grabs--grabbed--my dress and pulled
me back, lifting it to slide her fingers around the waistband of my
panties. "Jasmine," I said, "we don't have time--"

   "Shh," she said, and she yanked, pulling my panties down my thighs,
kneeling to jerk them down the rest of the way, so hard and fast she
pulled one of my stockings down over my knee so that it half-fell down my
calf. There's no arguing with her in one of these moods. Still, as I
lifted one foot, then the other, I said, "The movie..."

   "Don't worry about it," she said, as she pulled my little white
panties free and held them up, grinning. "Bare as me," she said. "Easy
access."

   "Jasmine!" I gasped, as she unlocked the door with one hand, stuffing
my underwear into her little tin purse with the other. But I couldn't
help grinning.

   "Come on," she said. She knows how I get when I walk into a movie
that's already started. But she's still Jasmine--she grabbed me for one
last kiss, and I couldn't help but kiss right back, so the first preview
was rolling by the time we got settled in the back seats up on the
balcony where the usher never goes. But this time I didn't care.

   Anyway. I wasn't wearing any underwear, is my point, so that when the
two sisters-in-law had finally figured out that their husbands were
complete losers and that really they found each other a hell of a lot
sexier (and the younger one was really sexy), and when Jasmine leaned
over to whisper "Nipple!" in my ear when they had finally climbed naked
into bed together with the mosquito nets all gauzy around them so it was
all arty and quote erotic unquote instead of clear and, well, honest, but
we saw her nipple anyway, and I turned to kiss Jasmine, and her tongue
was hot and wet, like she'd been waiting through the whole movie for an
excuse to do this (which she had), anyway, when all that happened, we
both "assumed the position," which is what she calls it when we lean back
in the seats and rest out feet up between the backs of the seats ahead of
us, my right foot and her left foot (and we'd both already kicked off our
shoes, so her bare dark foot could stroke my white stockinged one)
wrapped around each other in the same notch, up there, and she reaches
over between my thighs as I reach over between hers, and then we lean
over again (which is awkward, because of the armrest--the Regal over at
the mall has these armrests that can flip up, which is, like, heaven, but
they only show crappy movies there--still, we went to go see that crappy
crime movie with the dyke crook in it, like, three times last weekend,
until the usher found us between shows cause we hadn't noticed the movie
had ended and we were still making out. Because, I mean, not "cause." I'm
getting sloppier. And I'm digressing) and so--where was I?--leaning over
the armrest, so we can kiss each other, little nipping kisses, as her
finger slips inside me, and mine slips inside her. No underwear. Easy
access.

   She was hot and she was wet and so was I, and maybe I moaned, a
little, and I know she did, because I heard it, though we tried to keep
it quiet (because of the ushers and all), and anyway there was an older
couple ahead of us, maybe three rows, but I'm pretty sure they were dykes
and they would have thought it was cute. Not that I would've wanted them
to watch or anything. But I was still kind of weirded out, I mean, it
felt nice, it felt really good, but I guess even though I moaned (I bit
my lip, maybe it was more of a whimper) I wasn't exactly ready for it, I
was horny, I'd been horny since she jumped me in the bathroom like that,
but my horniness had turned on me, and her heart wasn't really in it,
anyway, she was almost totally lost in what my finger was doing inside
her. Which was making her come. Twice. So I stopped watching the movie
and I was just watching her, in the dark, the flickering movie light
washing over her, bouncing off her glasses, as she threw back her head
and her lips opened and her eyes squeezed shut, "Mm," she said, biting
back, "mm," and she came, and she came again, I could feel her fluttering
against my finger, my fingers, because after the first come I slipped a
second finger in her as she scooted forward a little in the seat so I
could, because it always drives her crazy when I do that. And it did. But
the whole time her finger was there, inside me, and I held her hand with
my other hand, there on my cunt, in me, and it was a pleasant, warm
feeling, it helped against the weirdness. But that's all.

   Somewhere in there we both came back to the movie. The older sister-
in-law was cooking something for her ungrateful father--husband, I mean,
the weird guy who wanted to prove his celibacy all the time like Gandhi
or something for some stupid religious reason, and if that was really the
case, what did he care if she was off fucking his brother's wife? Anyway.
She was cooking, and of course her sari caught fire, and Jasmine squeezed
my arm, because they do that a lot in India, you know, burn ungrateful
wives to death and strange girls like us, and nobody ever does anything,
and I felt cold, and her finger slipped out of me, and she flipped her
skirt down. But she still held my hand, and we sat there, chilly, and
watched her burn.

   I'm going to spoil the movie for you, because it would have been
really stupid if she'd died, but she doesn't, she runs off in the rain
with her sister-in-law, and that's the end. And we sat there for a bit,
both of us feeling weird except for different reasons, and then I kissed
her, and we got up and walked out, a little unsteady, hand in sticky
hand.

   Anyway. "When Night is Falling" is better. And "Ice," that stupid
crime movie, has much hotter sex.

   But that isn't what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about
what she did after that, after all that stuff. I mean, she painted my
lips on her belly, and she still--

  Anyway. In good time.

   We'd gone to go see an afternoon matinee, so it was still light out,
and warmer than it had been inside, though the clouds looked like they
wanted to rain again. It was all greyly green. We walked down the street,
still hand in hand, and because we always do, we stopped in Haagen Dazs
and bought some ice cream. They had the big front windows open, so we sat
at a table there. I curled up my legs so my skirt hiked up a little, and
from where she was sitting Jasmine could see all along my legs from the
tops of my stockings, rolled up over my knees, along my thighs to my bare
ass, and maybe even a little slice of my cunt. I was feeling frisky
again. I wanted her to look. I wanted her to get horny again. I wanted
our eyes to meet and burn until we had to get up and run to her car and
drive somewhere, anywhere, away. I wanted us to catch fire. I watched her
lick her ice cream, but she looked away.

   There was this girl walking past, our age, or maybe nineteen or
twenty, with long brown hair and wearing a tight white spaghetti-strapped
top over a black bra and what I thought at first was a tiny little
miniskirt in floral print denim. Cheap, yes, but I was looking at her
legs going all the way down to her kind of battered Teva sandals and
feeling my lust suddenly being tickled, my itch teased, that shiver of
loose-limbed Aphrodite, when Jasmine said, "Yeesh, a skort."

   I looked, and there was the tell-tale flap across the front of the
skirt. Skort. Damn. "Hello," I said. "I shop at Target."

   Jasmine giggled. Still, I couldn't quite tear my eyes away from the
girl's ass as she walked past, loose limbs indeed, and I felt a little
guilty.

   "Let's go," said Jasmine.

   I looked over at her, but there was no spark. Still, I grinned a
little, and shifted a little in my seat. "Where?" I asked. "The park?"

   But she was shaking her head. "No," she said. "Let's just go home."

   "You want to go rent a movie or something? 'Bound' is out. Or we could
rent 'Two Girls in Love' again..." She was shaking her head and saying
"No," but I kept going. "Or maybe 'Cynara.' Those hands, squishing all
that wet clay..." We'd giggled a lot at that scene, it was so--
transparent. But the sex at the end is pretty hot. "If the Hottie's
working, we could flirt with her, shamelessly--"

   But "No," she said, "I think I should just take you home."

   And she did.

   Maybe I wasn't following her mood quickly enough for her. When we got
to her car, I turned on the CD player and cranked it. I was restless, and
she'd had Kenickie in, and I queued it up to my favorite song, "Classy,"
and as she pulled out into traffic I was singing along: "Watch your back,
hide the knives! I'm the fastest man alive! We make things out of sin, of
blood and human skin, we never see the sights, we're out too late at
night," and that was when she said, "You know," and she reached over and
turned the music down. "I was thinking."

   "About?"

   "About nature and nurture. I was thinking," she said, "that maybe
there are nature and nurture dykes."

   "You mean like JayCee?" JayCee is this girl who's a year ahead of us
who's taken to wearing hemp fiber and long flouncy patchwork skirts and
too much patchouli and she shaves her head but not her legs or her pits.
And she listens to Phish and Sky Cries Mary. So maybe calling her a
"nature dyke" is a dumb joke--actually, it was a stupid joke, because
JayCee was Jasmine's first girlfriend. Before she shaved her head. But
Jasmine said, "Stop it," without looking over at me, "I'm serious," she
said.

   "What's up?" I said, and that was when I finally started to feel cold
in my stomach.

   "I think," she said, "that there are nature dykes, and nurture dykes,
okay? Girls who are born to it, right? By nature. Like you."

   "Like me," I said. That cold feeling just got colder.

   "And nurture dykes. Girls who don't necessarily like girls. Until they
discover they can. You know what I mean? I mean, I'm your first, right?"

   "And only," I said, my guts a knot of ice.

   "But you've been dreaming about it since you were six, right?"

   "Five. I've known what I was ever since I was five."

   "Right," she said. "And I didn't even know it was possible, until that
party at John John's."

   Which was my cue to collapse into immediate self-loathing. "You're
saying you don't like me," I said.

   "No!" she said, and there was some pain in her voice. But.

   "You're saying I make you do this," I said.

   "No," she said, "Leah, please--" But it was too late; the self-
loathing had turned in my hands, and I lashed out, I'm afraid.

   "I'm not the one," I said, "who's fucked four different girls. I'm not
the one who practically raped Cindy Barnes in the girls' locker room just
before a pep rally."

   "I didn't rape her," she started to say, but I wouldn't stop.

   "I'm not the one," I said, "who was the first girl to ever kiss me and
tell me how beautiful I was and how there was nothing in the world I'd
rather do than kiss me again." It was true. She'd said those things, at
another of John John's parties, on the couch in his basement while
"Sleeping Beauty" was playing on a TV somewhere behind us. And she'd
kissed me, again and again, and that was the first time I'd ever kissed
anyone like that.

   She sighed. She drove for maybe a full minute before she said, "I've
also fucked guys."

   The knot of ice in my gut exploded. My skin pricked hot and cold all
along my legs, my arms, my neck. My fingers, I swear, went numb. Words
have never had such an immediate, such a profound physical effect on me.
Which I might consider ironic. Someday.

   "Oh," I said. It was all I could say, really.

   "Leah," she said. "Wait. Stop. It's not like that."

   "I," I said, "just want to know what you mean, Jasmine."

   "I just," she said, "I don't know. I mean, you are. You are what you
are. You don't like boys. You'll never like boys."

   "And you do?" I asked.

   "Yes," she said. Then, "I don't," she said. "I don't know."

   She pulled up in my driveway.

   "I'll call you," she said, as I got out. I didn't look back. She
pulled the door shut behind me and drove away.

   But she painted that kiss, on her belly, for me.

   Oh, fuck.

   I tried doing a reading for us, with Grandma's cards, to see what was
going to happen, but it was to creepy. No matter how I shuffled, I kept
getting the King of Beetles, staring up at me with all those eyes. I was
so rattled I couldn't make heads or tails of the other cards in the fall;
every time I'd turn him over the whole structure I was laying out would
collapse in my head.

   God.

   Of course, I've been crying.

   She loves me. I know she does.

   I should--

   I just--

   I'm going to try and get some sleep.



   It's been three days and I haven't heard from Jasmine yet. But I had a
dream last night.

   It was so weird. Jasmine.

   And Jessie.

   I'm so weird.

   I don't know why I write these things down. Yes I do. I swore. I swore
I'd never hide anything, not from these pages.

   Anyway.

   It was all bright and plasticky, all brilliant artificial colors, like
a Japanese cartoon. And we all had big eyes and sharp pointy chins and
really, the whole thing was just like a Japanese cartoon. And I was
there, only I had long pink hair, and I was wearing this weird uniform
like a band uniform, or something from some comic opera made-up European
country at the turn of the century, all buttons and epaulets and
lanyards, and I had a sword. And Jasmine was there, in this long red
dress. And Jessie was there, too, and she was wearing a uniform, too,
like mine, only yellow. And she had long black boots that came halfway up
her thighs. And she had a sword, too.

   I don't know why, but I was supposed to fight Jessie, for Jasmine. I
don't remember how it went, but it went fast, with lots of crashing of
metal and grimaces and in the end I stuck my sword through her, ha! right
between her breasts, and she blinked, and sank to her knees. There wasn't
any blood, just a lot of light, and rose petals swirling through the air,
as she looked up at me, tears in her big blue eyes, her long blond hair
swirling in the wind. The hilt of the sword bobbing there in her chest.
And I turned and took Jasmine's hand and pulled her to me, and we kissed,
and I felt so wonderful and happy.

   Only it wasn't Jasmine. Jasmine wasn't there any more. It was Jessie,
Jessie my sister in the red dress, and there was no sword anymore, and we
were kissing, and the light grew brighter and brighter as we kissed, and
kissed, our arms around each other, and I heard a heat beating somewhere
louder and louder and faster and faster until I woke up with a start.

   I think--

   I think I came.

   Jessie. My sister. Eew.

   Weird.

   Like I said, I have no idea why I'm writing this stuff down.

   But as I write it down, I remember something else about the dream.
There was someone or something watching it all, from afar. I don't know.
Maybe it was me. Me asleep, I mean, me doing the dreaming, not me in the
dream. Ouch.

   Eew again. This is creepy.

   I'm a creep.



   So I went and rented some movies, right? And I got "When Night is
Falling," and I got "Heavenly Creatures," because, well, I was feeling
all obsessed and stalker crazy (I rode by Jasmine's house and sat outside
for, like, an hour last night, but I couldn't see her room from the
street, and I never saw her at all, though I saw her Dad taking out the
garbage, and I ducked down and hid so he wouldn't see me--and she still
has my underwear, dammit).

   And anyway, the Hottie was working the counter. She was wearing a pair
of baggy overalls and a tight grey tank top and her hair was down, a
chaotic tangle of blond curls, and as I put my tapes on the counter I
could see through the gap in the side of her overalls the thin strip of
her underwear, also grey, crossing her bare hip, but since all I wanted
to do was tell Jasmine about it, to giggle with her over it, to turn and
kiss Jasmine, to have her tell me she wanted me to wear exactly that same
outfit--I didn't feel giddy inside, the shaking, loose-limbed feeling. I
just felt like some giant swollen bubble of blue was filling me up,
squeezing my lungs, my throat, my eyes. Except not a bubble, because it
was sharp, too. I could feel it cutting me, inside.

   "Hi," said the Hottie, as she dropped my tapes on the counter.

   I just nodded and signed the slip and got out as quickly as was
dignified.

   Jasmine...



   Oh my God, Jessie is such a creep! I can't believe her!

   I was in my room. In my room! Mine! And she just walks in.

   Fuck her.

   Okay. Okay. I was watching "Heavenly Creatures," because of the
aforementioned reasons and I was filling up again with that big blue
swell. They love each other so much, those two girls, but it's such a
desperate love, so edgy, so--so impossible, but so pure. So blue.

   So. There's that scene towards the end where they finally, you know,
consummate things. When Kate Winslet and whatshername Melanie are kissing
on the bed, finally, and, well.

   You know, I bet she was watching for a while. She walked in--

   Anyway. So I rewound the scene and watched it over again, from the
beginning. I was sitting on my bed in an old T-shirt and shorts, and,
well, okay. So I started to feel myself. Right? I almost didn't even
realize I was doing it, but I was. Christ. "Feel myself." This is so coy.
Okay. I'm sitting there watching these two girls kiss on a bed and I'm
frigging myself. Jilling off. Double-clicking my mouse. Masturbating.
Okay? I was so--sad, so full of this blue feeling, this color that
pressed against everything in me and felt like it was going to squeeze
tears out of my eyes but it's also squeezing something else, and I
suddenly wanted somebody to touch me, to kiss me, to make me come, make
me forget about all of this just for a moment, so I did it myself. I
rolled over on my stomach with my hand in my shorts and I spread myself
open and they were kissing (I rewound, again, with my other hand) and I
ran a finger along my sex, my cunt, my pussy, and I kept my eyes open
even though I wanted to close them and think of Jasmine, kneeling behind
me, her hand on me, her finger in me, her breath on my ear. "Hey," I'd
say. "I was at the video store today, and you know what the Hottie was
almost wearing?" And that's when Jessie, the little creep, says "Hey."

   I flipped over fast, tugging my shirt down, sitting up, flushed. I
think I shrieked at her. My legs were all tense and shaky from the come
that had just been about to start settling in, and it wanted to keep on
coming. But Jessie was standing there in the open doorway (and I'd closed
and locked the damn thing!), smirking, in what passes for pyjamas for
her: satiny camisole and matching panties.

   "I just wanted to know if I could borrow a dress or something." And
she struts over to my closet before I can say anything.

   "Why don't you come back in the morning?" I said. "I want to get to
sleep." I scrambled on the bedspread to find the remote and stop the
movie.

   "I'll bet," she says, pulling out a sundress, my favorite blue-green
one, that comes close to matching my eyes. "But that won't work, cause I
won't be here in the morning."

   "Oh, really," says Virginia from the door to my room. "Hello, Leah." I
managed to pull a blanket up over my knees. Not that I think it made any
difference.

   "Hi, Virginia," says Jessie. She held up the sundress and smoothed the
sundress over herself as if she were modeling it. "What do you think?"

   Which is when I felt something shift in me. Like the bubble had
loosened something, like there were emotions chelated up inside me,
frozen in place like scales of rust from disuse, and the big blue swell
had pushed up so hard and so relentlessly that it had shaken them loose.
I could feel it, a physical sensation, a swoop in my belly, a lurch in my
heart, which suddenly started to pound. I was remembering my dream. I was
remembering kissing her, kissing Jessie, and my hands were trembling, and
my legs were shaking. My God.

   But they didn't notice at all. "I think we should talk," Virginia was
saying. (And now that I'm thinking about it, now that I'm writing it
down, and I'm not staring at my sister like some creepy pervert--I think
there was something weird there. I know there was something weird there,
something unspoken that flashed through the air between them, words
passing between eyeballs that I could hear but not understand--something,
anyway.)

   And Jessie, with one last smirk, sauntered back across the room,
sashaying her hips more than a little (maybe she does know, she did
realize--no, she can't, she didn't, she doesn't), my sundress still in
her hands. She stopped in the doorway, Virginia standing behind her. "You
don't mind, do you?" she asked.

   "No," I said.

   "Thanks," she said. And she blew me a kiss! (Maybe she does?) "For
everything," she said.

   Creep.

   I haven't written any poetry in days.

   Just scribbles in this journal.

   Jasmine...

        For whom shall I rouge my lips now? For whom shall
     I polish my nails? For whom perfume my hair?

        For whom shall I rub my breasts with rouge, if they
     can no longer tempt her? For whom shall I flush my arms
     with milk, if they never again can hold her!

        How shall I be able to sleep? How shall I get to
     bed? Tonight my hand, in all the bed, has not found her
     own warm hand.

        I dare no longer enter my home, into the room,
     frightfully bare. I no longer dare open the door again.
     I never dare open my eyes.

   How on earth, I wonder, do you flush your arms with milk?

   I'm going to try to get some sleep.



   Standing there, in that uniform, with my long pink hair again. The
same dream again. Only different.

   Jasmine walked up, in her long red dress, her eyes cast down. I took
her in my arms. I felt strong. Confident. Assured. I knew what I was
doing, and I was doing it for her. She leaned back against me, resting
the back of her head against my shoulder. I waited. The air was filled
with blowing flower petals. The ground was grey and silver, like open
water under a lowering sky. Someone was watching. Just like before.

   Jessie appeared.

   She looked like herself, of course. Except her eyes were so much
bigger, her chin sharp, like a blade. Her hair was tied back in one long,
thick braid, and it whipped and lashed, like the tail of an anxious cat.

   She drew her sword.

   I drew mine.

   And whoever was watching smiled. We couldn't see whoever it was, but
we all know that somebody was there. Except I think Jasmine was gone at
this point. It was just me and Jessie. Me and my sister.

   I don't remember the fight, or anything about what happened. We
fought, though. It went fast. And at the end of it, there was my sword
hilt, bobbing between her breasts. She sank to her knees, tears in her
eyes. The air filled with rose petals, blowing. Her hair come loose,
undone, flying in the breeze. I reached out, put my hand on the hilt of
my sword. She put her hand on mine. It was small, and hot.

   I thought of millions of tiny black eyes. The King of Beetles,
watching.

   Together, we pulled the sword out of her.

   She gasped, and would have fallen. I caught her. It was vivid. Very
real, much more real than the fight. I could feel her weight in my arms.
Not much. Fragile. Insubstantial. The heft of a dream.

   The sword dropped from our hands and clanged to the floor.

   We kissed.

   Her hair blew about me and enfolded me, and mine rose up in the wind
and met and tangled with it. Something like that. It was a long, deep,
sexy kiss. My confidence was leaking away. My sense of purpose that I'd
felt. Where was Jasmine? Why did this happen this way? I was starting to
feel desperate. I didn't want to. But I had to.

   Maybe Jessie and I are supposed to get together and kill Virginia,
like Kate and Melanie do in "Heavenly Creatures." Ha.

   That isn't even funny.

   Besides, they weren't sisters.

   We fucked, in my dream. Made love. It was, it was love. Her clothes
had melted away, and mine, and it seemed like our kisses segued
seamlessly from mouths to cunts, our arms wrapped around our legs, her
kneeling over me, my legs wrapping tightly around her slim back, her
mouth on me, mine on her, endlessly, all night long, kissing, sucking,
licking. Crawling into each other. Whirling away in a tight Ouroboros
knot of desperation that ate itself into nothingness there on the grey
floor. Me and Jessie. Me and my sister.

   I know I came last night, during the dream. I woke up, three in the
morning, soaked and trembling. Aftershocks.

   Why?

   Why?



   Maybe it's just as well I haven't really seen Jessie or Virginia for a
couple of days.

   Virginia's been busy with something having to do with Andi's
pornography business. Jessie's been doing I don't know what. And I've
been reading. "Moonwise"--Greer Gilman--and Elizabeth Hand's "Waking the
Moon." And the Poet. Of course. Every day.

   Jasmine still hasn't called. Five days...

   I dreamed again last night.

   Will I dream it again, tonight? Three nights in a row?



   "Wanna go shopping?" she says. Just like that.

   So Jessie and I went shopping this afternoon.

   First, of all places, we go to the library. "I've got to check
something out," she says, and she disappears off into the fiction stacks,
her silly Badtz-Maru backpack dangling from one shoulder. I went to
computers to try and find out what I could about dreams.

   But before I can find out what Freud or Jung have to say about what it
means when you dream about screwing your sister, or blowing rose petals,
or being watched by somebody with too many eyes (and red hair. Whoever he
is--and he is a he--he has red hair), Jessie comes up, frustrated.

   "Let's go," she says.

   "What?" I said.

   "Let's go," she says, tugging on my arm. "I got what I want, but they
won't let me check it out."

   I cocked an eyebrow at her. "What are you trying to check out?"

   She looked off to one side, then the other, exasperated, then she
holds up "Lolita." Nabokov's "Lolita."

   "The woman at the counter said I was too young to check it out. I
tried to tell her it was for school."

   "And?"

   "She didn't believe me."

   I held out my hand. "Give me the book."

   She bit her lip, looking down, then grinned a little, and slapped it
into my hand. "Thanks," she says.

   So she went straight to the library to check out "Lolita." I was dying
to ask why, but I could tell she was dying for me to ask her why. So I
didn't. Still. That's what she wanted.

   Weird.

   So I gave up on finding out what old dead white mostly straight
Austrian men would have to say about my dreams, and I checked out her
book for her, and we left the library, and "Come on," she says. "I want
to buy some stockings."

   But instead of going to Nordy's she dragged me in the other direction,
up to the part of downtown the drag queens and party boys who hang out at
Roxy's like to call "the Glamour District," with, of course, tongues
firmly in cheek. She dragged me to this store called The Future, which
I'd never heard of before. "Good clothes for bad girls, bad clothes for
good girls," said the sign in the window. "Ask about our dancer's
discount," said a smaller sign, near the cash register. It was all black
vinyl and feather boas and shoes with thick soles and spike heels. I
didn't have to think hard about what sort of dancers got discounts here.

   "Cool store, huh," says Jessie.

   "Come here often?" I asked, arching an eyebrow at her.

   "Hey, Jessie," said the woman behind the counter. "That your sister?"

   "Yeah," said Jessie. "Sweeney, Leah. Leah, Sweeney. Back here." She
dragged me to a rack filled with stockings in all manner of colors and
styles. Thigh-highs with ruffles; zippers; lace; bows; with stripes and
dots and fake tattoos; hip-high stockings with lacey collars that would
tickle your butt whenever you walked; over-the-knee white school-girl
stockings; fishnets (of course) in an outrageous neon rainbow; plain
black stockings, smokey nylon and lycra, with garter belts to hold them
up. Jessie grinned at me, then plowed in, looking for her perfect pair.

   It was weird. Despite the naughty atmosphere, it was suddenly like us
a year or two ago, before Dad died. Shopping for miniskirts and lipstick
and really bad music at the Lloyd. (Imogen Heap and Fiona Apple, my God.)
Maybe because of the naughty atmosphere. Yellow rubber miniskirts and
black leather corsets and these hooded mask things hanging on the wall
over the register--like pieces scattered about from some bizarre
superhero's costume. Slutwoman. Exotica. Wonderwhore. "Look at that," I
said, poking her.

   "Yeah," she said. "There's ball gags and furry handcuffs in the
counter."

   "Furry handcuffs?" I said.

   "Pink furry handcuffs," she said.

   And we giggled, and it felt good. We were hanging out together. And
I'd forgotten the weirdness of the past couple of days, and I'd forgotten
my dreams, and I'd even gotten to the point where I wasn't thinking about
Jasmine.

   Jasmine...

   But we were having fun. A good time. "Pick something out," said
Jessie. "Try it on." I was nervous. I mean, I didn't want to buy
anything. It was all so... explicit. Nothing subtle in this store. But
"Go on," she said. "Sweeney doesn't care. It's fun." So I poked through
the racks, and found a goofy little outfit in shiny black vinyl, a tight
little catsuit that cut off at the shoulders and hips, with a wide belt
and a shocking chrome zipper whose pull tab was an enormous Venus symbol,
her handmirror. Jessie giggled. "Emma Peel," she said. Her hands were
full of something lacey and white, like froth or sea foam.

   "No trying on the stockings," said Sweeney, in a bored voice.

   "Course not," said Jessie. She winked broadly at me. Tucked in her
handful of lace were a couple of stocking packages. "Meet you in a
minute," she said, as she ducked into a fitting room.

   So I tried on my silly catsuit. Kittensuit, maybe? I felt like Heather
Graham, or whatshername, Hugh Grant's girlfriend. It was tight, and for a
moment I thought I'd gotten a size too small--the zipper, though, had to
be pulled all the way down, pretty much, and I kind of had to climb into
it and pull it up and mold it around me. It bunched my underwear up--if I
were going to buy this thing, I would have to wear it without,
definitely--as if I were going to buy it. I tugged up the zipper, slowly,
careful of my skin just below it. "I need some go-go boots," I muttered
to myself.

   "So I'm seeing this guy," says Jessie, from her dressing room, as I'm
voguing in front of the mirror, pretending to draw my Walther PPK or
whatever gun it is Bond uses.

   "You have a boyfriend?" I say, tugging the zipper down between my
breasts, pursing my lips at myself.

   "No," she says. "I'm just fucking him. His name's Carter. He's living
in the Poundstone's house. I went over to use the pool and, well, things
just started happening. Hey, can you come take a look at something?"

   It's hard to write down everything that was racing through my head at
that point. The Poundstones? Carter? My sister, my little sister, fucking
somebody? Some guy? I was so thrown for a loop that I just ducked through
the curtains of my fitting room and pulled hers open and ducked inside
without really thinking about it, or saying anything. Actually, I did say
something: "You're having sex?" I said. Real smooth, Leah. Great. I
should have looked up, first; I would have been knocked speechless and
saved from saying something so stupid.

   Jessie was wearing--barely--her handful of lace.

   It was a slip-chemise kind of thing, with thin straps, that fell maybe
an inch past her crotch. It was little more than a spattering of lace
clinging to her body, thick enough in strategic places to hide nipples,
pubic hair; thin enough elsewhere to show her golden skin, lots of it,
making it quite clear that she wore nothing under it, which I imagine
Sweeney would mind even more than the fact that she'd also pulled on a
pair of stockings, opaque white ones that pulled halfway up her thighs
and were held up by tiny red ribbons. She stood there, on her toes, hand
on her hip, her eyebrow arched at me as I stared at her, eyes wide, mouth
open. The dream rushed back to me, full force. Roses, fluttering through
the air. Our hair, tossing in the breeze. The hilt of the sword, bobbing
there, between her small breasts. The kiss. The kisses. I--

[Ed. note: three lines scratched out heavily. Journal resumes.]

   "Leah?" she was saying. "Hello?"

   "Huh?" I said, or something equally witty.

   " 'Duh,' I said." She turned before me. The dress--the lace--swooped
down her back, leaving it open almost to the top of her ass. The lace was
thin here, too; she would not have to bend over for anyone to get a
glimpse. She held up her hair. The price tag dangled from one armpit. I
looked at it, twisting a little with the motion of her arms. It was safe
to look at. "What do you think? I was thinking white, virginal..."

   "You look," I said, "like you forgot to put on a dress."

   "...absent minded," she said, grinning.

   "You're kidding, right?" I said. "You're pulling my leg. Fucking with
me." I winced inwardly at my choice of phrase. I think I kept my dismay
off my face, but Jessie knows me. She knows me terribly well. Her grin
widened. She reached up, patted my cheek.

   "I'd never do that," she said. Her hand fell to my shoulder, her
fingertips brushing my throat, thoughtlessly, just a touch, but it
burned, it hurt. I was terrified she would press the palm of her hand
there, above my breast, feel my heart pounding like some bird that wanted
out of its cage. "But I am kidding. Sort of. I won't wear this out. But I
still think he'd like it. What do you think?"

   I swallowed. "It's nice," I said.

   "What are you supposed to be?" she asked, turning away. She pulled the
dress over her head in one swift motion and stood there, naked, except
for the stockings. "Jane Bond?" Jessie trims her pubic hair, I
discovered. I--

   "I was thinking maybe Heather Graham," I said.

   "Shag very well by nature, eh?" she said. She sat on the fitting
room's bench. There wasn't much room at all; I crowded back against the
opposite wall, but there was nowhere else to look as she lifted one leg
and began to roll the stocking down it. "How's whatshername? Jamshid?"

   "Jasmine," I said, and suddenly it all crashed in on me, that blue
swell suddenly ballooned up in me, like a lump in my throat but all over,
and I turned away. "She hasn't called."

   "Oh," she said. Then, "Oh, Leah." She stood, one stocking on, one
stocking off. Her hand lay on my shoulder. She pressed closer. "Leah, I'm
sorry. I didn't know."

   I turned back to face her. She looked up at me, her face free of
guile, her eyes clear, her mouth quirked in a small half-smile, half-
frown of sympathy. She reached up, brushed my hair away. "That sucks,"
she said. And I watched her lips, her--

   We hugged.

   I held my sister, naked, pressed to me.

   Her heat, in my arms.

   Her weight. I felt dizzy, febrile. Feverish. Her weight, pressed
against my body, insubstantial as a dream. Her skin.

   My hands--

   My hands touched the small of her back. No lower. I swear.

   I--

   I couldn't say. I couldn't say, "It doesn't matter, Jessie." I
couldn't say, "I don't miss her anymore." I couldn't say, "I know what I
want now, Jessie. I know what I've missed. I know." I couldn't say any of
that. My God, I--

   She pulled back from the hug a little and stretched up, on her
tiptoes. I almost shrank back in fear, in terror, but I held firm. She
pressed a kiss to my forehead. Her lips burned my skin. I almost felt it
pucker under them, searing, smoking, burning away from shame and terror
and fear. My sister. I--

   And then she was bending over, unrolling the other stocking, standing
up, pulling on her underwear, her miniskirt. Snapping on her bra. "You
want to change? You want to try on anything else?"

   I shook the fog from my brain. Or tried to. I had to get out of this
place. She was stuffing the used stockings under the bench, peering at
the price tag on the chemise. Slip dress. Whatever. "You know why they
call this The Future, right? Cause that's when you'll be able to afford
the stuff."

   "No," I said. I backed out of the fitting room. "No, I don't, I don't
want anything. It's all so... sordid," I said. "Sordid." My hands fumbled
with the zipper, tugging it down, as I almost fell through the curtains
into my own fitting room.

   "God," Jessie was saying. " 'Sordid.' Live a little, girl. Have some
fun." She yanked open the curtains to my fitting room as I stood there,
stepping into my skirt. I yelped. She ignored me. "Sometimes," she said,
"you are such a dyke." She yawned. "Hey, you know? I was thinking." She
stretched up a little, pressing her hand to the skin between the low-
slung top of her skirt and the bottom of her midriff-baring tank top.
"For my birthday, maybe a tattoo. Right here. Or maybe a little lower,
really. What do you think?"

   What do I think? Lips. A kiss, painted on a brown belly. Gold. I--

   I--



   Dreaming.

   Swords. Roses. Hair, blowing in the wind. Jasmine, now, rushing at me
in red armor, her skin dark against the white sky. Our swords flash.
Light glints from her spectacles. She's gone--

   Jessie.

   Kissing her. The eyes. Thousands of eyes. The King of Beetles,
somewhere far away, watching.

   I rise up, out of my body there, looking down. The floor is patterned
like an enormous Art Nouveau rose, pink and yellow and green and black.
We lie in the center, naked, entwined. My face between her thighs. Her
face between mine. Our arms wrapped about each others' hips, hands,
caressing skin, backs, asses. Backs swaying, undulating. Breasts pressed
to bellies. Legs lifting, lowering. Rolling over, and over. Cries. Moans.
A little mewling sound, like a cat. Like a cat. And everywhere, rose
petals, blowing...

   I.

   Jessie.

   We came and came and came...



   There is something dreadfully wrong with me.

   There is something dreadfully wrong with my family.

   If I can even call it that.

   I swore I would hide nothing from these pages.

   "If you are squeamish," says the Poet, "don't prod the beach rubble."

   I. I. I woke up this morning, and walked downstairs to the kitchen. I.
I saw. I looked out, past the trees, and caught a glimpse. The
Poundstones' yard. What was his name? Carter. Carter's yard. I saw.
Virginia. Jessie. I.

   They were--

[Ed. note: two pages ripped out. Journal resumes.]

   I swore I would hide nothing from these pages. Squeamish or not, I
prodded the beach rubble. I saw--I wasn't sure what I saw. Someone
moving, in Carter's yard. A flash of blond hair. I remembered what Jessie
said. I went over to use his pool, she said, and things just started to
happen. So. I didn't even get dressed, in my sleep shirt I just snuck
outside, sliding the door open quietly, crept up to the low bushes
between our yards, peered through. I saw.

   Jessie, in one of her Badtz-Maru T-shirts and a skimpy black thong.
Unfolding a deck chair. And Virginia. In her short black kimono, the one
with the creepy dragon on the back. Which she unbelted and let fall.
Revealing that she was naked. My step-mother. I'd thought she was still
out of town. She must've flown back, last night. I--

   I'm digressing.

   She stepped up behind Jessie, as Jessie pulled her T-shirt up and over
her head, and I could see her back was bare. Jessie leaned back against
Virginia, tilted her head back and up. Virginia leaned over her. My
sister. My step-mother. They.

   They kissed.

   It was a deep kiss. Long. I--

   They broke a moment. Then kissed again, almost frenzied. I saw the
shadows shift along Virginia's thighs, the cheeks of her ass, she
clenched, relaxed, clenched, kissed, kissed. Her hands. She had hooked
the waistband of Jessie's thong and tugged it, down and down, Jessie
stepped out of it. Naked. Both of them. They kissed again. Virginia's
hand was between Jessie's legs, her finger dipped in, out, she held it
up. Jessie licked it. Jessie licked herself from Virginia's finger. Then
Jessie turned, dove into the pool, swam towards the back door. Virginia,
naked, lay down on a deck chair. Her hand reached over, picked up a
bottle of sunscreen, as if nothing had happened. I. I--

   Time passed. I knelt there, behind the bushes, on the grass, my mind
empty. Jessie. Virginia. I.

   I stayed still. Squeamish or not, I had prodded the beach rubble, and
I stayed, fascinated, appalled, to watch what else would wriggle out.

   There is something dreadfully wrong with me. With all of us.

   The door slid open. Jessie, naked, stepped out, walked around the
pool, hips swaying. "Well?" called Virginia.

   "Just us," said Jessie. She stood before Virginia, staring down at
her. At her step-mother. A hand shading her eyes from the sun.

   "Then what are you waiting for?" asked Virginia.

   Jessie knelt before her, and.

   Jessie knelt before her and began to.

   My sister got down on her knees and I watched as Virginia spread her
long, bare legs and my sister's head disappeared and I heard Virginia
chuckle and then say, "Oh, that's nice. That's sweet." Wet sounds, soft,
quiet. Then, "Oh, oh. You little. Fuck. Oh."

   And more.

   I--

   I swore I would hide nothing from these pages. I, quietly, turned. I
went back to the house. I.

   I made it to my room. My legs weak. My cunt wet. I was shaking. Hot.
Febrile. My skin, flushed. I. I must have. I. My hands. My head spun.
Things happened. Were happening. I--I fucked myself. I plunged inside
myself. My hands. Things happened... My dream kept flashing behind my
eyelids, me, Jessie, I, I felt that blue feeling swell up until I burst,
tears pouring down my face as I came and came and came.

   There is something dreadfully wrong with my family.

   There is something dreadfully wrong with me.

        I dare no longer enter my home, into the room,
     frightfully bare. I no longer dare open the door again.
     I never dare open my eyes.

nicholas urfe
nickurfe@yahoo.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/www
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/

"Nature and nurture" ripped shamelessly from Ariel Schrag. Lyrics from
Alvah C. Bessie's translation of "Songs of Bilitis." Shouts out to Willy
Pogany, for the drawings; the incomparable Utena; and that delightful old
faker, Pierre.

--
DICK. That happened in the reign of queen Dick, i.e. never: said of any
absurd old story.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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