They had been kissing for a few weeks and that was it. Bridget was used to going further, faster. Fleeting, frivolous fun was the extent of her willingness to indulge her desire for women, and the women she chose had no problems with the arrangement. Angelette was used to going slower. Everyone expected her to be an eager beaver—the young dark-skinned Instagram model, ready to spread for the lowest common denominator like butter on a hot day—but she took pride in bucking stereotypes.
They had kissed for the first time on their third night out, in a laneway off the National Gallery during the steamy mid-February White Night festival. Angelette had found her fists in Bridget’s crisp, starched white shirt when their lips finally parted. Her deep red lipstick had left messy streaks on Bridget’s pale face. Bridget, with her wide mouth and mischievous eyes, would have looked a bit like the Joker from Batman were Angelette not so aroused.
Angelette did not have a great history dating women. The first time she had been intimate with a woman, she wasn’t sure it counted as sex. Eliza had been a friend from yoga, a professional dominatrix, and a boxer. A tall grey-eyed redhead, six years older. She had invited Angelette over for handstand training. After half an hour of balancing drills, she got Angelette to model for shibari techniques she needed to practise for an upcoming booking. Twenty minutes later, Angelette’s back was on the ground, her arms bound to her chest and legs suspended from a rig. Eliza’s left hand was on Angelette’s right thigh, where fairy floss pink shorts ended and exposed skin began. With her right hand, Eliza pulled the rest of the rope between Angelette’s legs. Angelette’s legs were clamped together because of the binding, so the rope was snug between her thighs. Eliza noticed Angelette squirming and blushing.
Soon Eliza was stroking Angelette’s skin. Angelette’s back arched, craving closer contact with the rope between her legs. Eliza leaned in and pressed damp lips on Angelette’s neck, above her racing pulse. A high-pitched sigh escaped Angelette’s throat. Eliza hovered above Angelette, lips poised to meet. Then the doorbell went off.
Eliza swore. The air above Angelette felt lighter and colder.
“It’s my boyfriend,” Eliza said.
“Oh shit.” Angelette couldn’t tell if she was dizzy from being upside-down or from something else. “El, I had no idea—”
“It’s OK.” Eliza concentrated on freeing Angelette from the rope. “He knew I had to practise. It’s just, he didn’t know about, I didn’t tell him, well, in the first place, I didn’t know—”
“You do take female clients at your job though, don’t you?” Angelette had heard some of her friend’s awkward stories about unexpected sex with friends. She hadn’t anticipated appearing in one such story herself, at least not like this, not out of breath and somewhat unsatisfied after what may or may not have been unpaid sex with a sex worker who only meant to use her as a practise rope bunny.
“I do. I have.” Eliza was not meeting her eyes. “It’s not common. Haven’t done so for a while.”
“I should probably go,” Angelette said.
“No, please, at least stay for a cup of tea.” Eliza’s hand was on Angelette’s wrist. Their eyes did not meet. “You should meet him. He’s very nice. And maybe we can catch up another day.”
Angelette never saw her again. Never thought about her again until one night in her car, in Bridget’s arms, catching the sea breeze at sunset three weeks after their first kiss, which for many people was more than high time to go beyond kissing.
“You’re distracted,” Bridget said. “Should we slow down?”
“Sorry,” Angelette said. She stared into Bridget’s green-grey eyes. Thumbed the lipstick marks on Bridget’s face. “I suddenly remembered someone I had sex with. It was before I met you. Is that weird?”
The fading light danced pirouettes on Bridget’s blonde locks.
“Sex is always weird, Ange,” she said. “No matter who you’re with, the moves are usually the same and it’s impossible not to remember people you’ve done them with first. Even if they’re not in your life anymore, sex is essentially a throwback number.”
“Sometimes I feel bad about not being as experienced as my friends,” Angelette sighed. “Everyone I know has done it heaps and they always manage to land on their feet. With me, things always end with my face in my hands.”
“Hey,” Bridget grabbed Angelette’s hands. “Look at me. Those experiences are what led you here tonight. They taught you everything you know. What you like. What you don’t like. What you never want to do again. So what if it didn’t always work out like you hoped? When something’s going right, you’ll know.”
“I’m still scared, Bridge.”
“What’s scaring you?”
Angelette hesitated. “I really like you. And if we do this, I don’t want it to mean heaps to me and nothing to you.”
The second of silence seemed to last a thousand years. Angelette suddenly noticed the sun had dipped beneath the horizon.
Bridget turned Angelette’s palm in her own. “I’m not great with feelings,” she said. She remembered how fiercely she’d argued back when her therapist had suggested that she was terrified of emotions. But maybe she’d had a point.
She swallowed her dread and looked Angelette in the eye. “You know my deal. I’ve told you about my dying mum who’s homophobic and racist. I’m in the closet and I’m not coming out anytime soon. But even if I were, I don’t like labels. Never have. But I really like you. I like you more than I’ve liked anyone else. I hope that’s enough.” She bit her lip. That terror, again. Probably shouldn’t have lost her shit at that poor therapist.
Angelette’s eyes were teary but she worked to keep calm. “You know my deal, too. I’m probably the opposite—too deep in my feelings. I lean into labels like ‘queer’ and ‘people of colour’ and ‘body-positive’ because they help me figure out where I’ll fit in, and where I shouldn’t bother. I’m so afraid of being abandoned or taken advantage of again. And I don’t like feeling like I’m wasting my time with people.”
Angelette squeezed Bridget’s hand and continued. “But I want to learn how not to be scared all the time. And if you don’t do labels or talk about feelings much, that’s okay. You’re so different from people I know. I really want you in my life.”
Bridget leaned close. “And I want to learn how to let my walls down with you.” She moved closer, so close that their lips were almost touching. “I want to know what it’s like to really let go. To sleep with someone, sober. To wake up next to someone without regret. To sleep with the same person and get more excited than the first time.”
Angelette leaned her head on Bridget’s shoulder. Bridget brushed her lips against Angelette’s forehead. Angelette glanced up and lightly caressed Bridget’s lips. Bridget sighed and licked down Angelette’s finger, to the middle of her wrist where her pulse was quickening, and suckled suddenly. Angelette gasped, and Bridget pulled her in so that she could taste that pouty mouth with her tongue.
Angelette rested her head on Bridget’s shoulder. Their hands met. The scent of salt was in the air. They looked at the sky as the stars began to appear.
Cover art © Peo Michie
About the author
Angelita Sofia Biscotti is a Spanish-Filipino-Australian fine-art model, photo-artist and writer who used to publish work under the name 'Angela Serrano' and tweet as @angelita_serra. She was a 2017 Hot Desk Fellow at the Wheeler Centre. Her words have been published in Archer, The Lifted Brow, Overland, Peril, Cordite Poetry Review and elsewhere. Her erotic poetry chapbook Else But A Madness Most Discreet is available through Vagabond Press. Her modelling work has appeared in Pencilled In, Hot Chicks with Big Brains, We Are Something Else, and Demasque. Her photography has been exhibited at Midsumma Festival's Queer Economies St Heliers St Gallery and the BlackCat Gallery's Square-Circle show. She is an alumna of the Footscray Community Arts Centre's West Writers Group.