Under Covers Page 2

  I graduated summa cum laude from journalism school, interned at the Miami Herald, and once shared an elevator with a Pulitzer winner. He wouldn’t give me the time of day, but we shared the same stale air—that had to account for something. I only took the job at the Spectator three years ago because it was available, and I was desperate to set out on my own, away from the constant vigilance of my pious parents. It was meant to be a springboard job until something more respectable became available.

  Three years is too long to be temporary, and I hadn’t realized at the time of my hiring that the jobs at the good papers would be clung onto with vice grips, their keepers carried out in caskets. That’s probably the one thing they don’t teach you in school; it’s something you realize later in life when you’re pouring coffee for your regular customers, the journalists.

  Deciding I had spent enough time exaggerating my skills and achievements on paper, I quit the office for the day. Taking the elevator to the ground floor, I lumbered past the closed doors of dentist and law offices to the end of one hall, where there stood a thick, solid door. One quick swipe of my card key through the slot by the knob, and I was granted entrance to the gym.

  Gym...huh. It’s really a small room with yawning gray walls, floored with black rubber mats. Two treadmills line one wall, facing a television bolted to the ceiling. The set is always tuned to a muted, close-captioned CNN—the remote having been lost or stolen months ago. An all-purpose Nautilus with all the bells, whistles, and weights sits in the opposite corner. Each gender has a small bathroom area with the bare necessities; toilet, shower, and a wooden bench. No lockers—leave your duffel unattended at your own risk.

  I had no duffel, just the clothes I was wearing, and my sandals seemed hardly appropriate for a round on the treadmill. My feet would be blistered and raw within five minutes and the idea of lifting weights proved even less appealing. I was ready to chuck the idea of exercise and head home when something caught my eye.

  I leaned to one side and peered at the tiled area lining the entrance to both bathrooms. There I spotted the corner of Mark’s duffel sagging from one bench, zipped open and revealing swatches of shorts and underwear. Yes, he had mentioned he was going to take a shower; my meeting with Yale and the anticipation of playing Libby Lesbo had clouded my other memories of the day.

  Yet, Mark wasn’t here. I heard no faint whoosh of a showerhead running full blast, no off-key singing bouncing against the tile. The room was small, and there was nowhere to hide. I didn’t know where Mark was, but I could easily eliminate finding him butt naked in the shower.

  To think, too, that I had refreshed the batteries in my camera phone. Damn it!

  I found a note resting on the bag, along with a fresh towel and an unused bar of soap. Cleanse your body, and don’t let the job pollute your soul. We’ll celebrate your masthead with curly fries and martinis, it read. I had to laugh; only Mark appreciated my fondness for alcohol and spiral cut potatoes. It nowhere near surpassed my fondness for cock, but I conceded to the bar of unscented soap he left for me. Hell of a reporter, he is, to have anticipated my being here.

  I let the steam fill my lungs as I soaped myself, or at least tried to. This soap was rather peculiar in that it didn’t lather, no matter how furiously I rubbed it against my bare chest in circular motion. I slid the bar up and down my bare arms then my legs. Nothing—not a bubble.

  The bar bore no indentations of a familiar brand. Smooth, white, and thick it, and defective. Mark needed to be here to give me instructions.

  I could only imagine what his body looked like wet. Water droplets beading on his ripped, tanned skin. Thick white lather—from a good bar of soap—sliding down the tight cords of his legs to circle the drain... Drool. I needed him to be here standing behind me, cupping my breasts and squeezing my nipples underneath the spray. Just thinking about it caused the sensitive flesh to pucker and tighten on its own.

  It was all I could do to keep from barging out of the stall, naked, to look for him. Of course, I stayed put. I didn’t want to give anybody in the building a heart attack, much less myself a cold. Besides, what good would he be to satisfy my sexual cravings if I were locked up for indecent exposure, photographed leaving the building for a future issue of the Spectator?

  Yale would do it, too. Whatever sold papers.

  So, under the spray I remained, convinced the soap in my hands was a prank bar of some sort. A spot check of skin and crevices confirmed that it hadn’t turned me blue, so I couldn’t imagine why Mark left it for me.

  Tired, I swiped the bar across my breast one last time...then I felt the vibration.

  The bar buzzed in my hand, low, like a pager. Odd. The bar had the feel and texture of soap. Apparently Mark had left behind some kind of high-tech shower massage device for my use, and as there were no visible buttons or switches, I had no idea what I did to trigger it.

  But I did know what to do with it.

  I skimmed the bar across my breasts again, feeling both nipples tingle in response. Between the valley, up and around my neck and across the top of my back, the massage bar left a light, prickling trail that could easily keep me in the shower until I crumpled to the tiled floor as a human prune.

  When I delved my hand between my thighs and pressed the bar to my pussy, the vibrations kicked up significantly. A special trigger designed for erogenous zones, perhaps? It was fine by me if science wanted to build a better orgasm.

  The stall had no grips for support, so I planted my feet as firmly as I could against the one wall and shower floor rim, and pressed one corner of the bar between my folds. The vibes hit my clit perfectly, much better than any of the arsenal of toys I kept under my bed. Wave after wave of pleasure rippled through my abdomen and burned through my thighs. It was almost as if the bar was specifically tailored for my desires.

  This, this, was Pulitzer material—Nobel, even. That Mark would let me have access to this super toy rather than write a piece about it himself, bewildered me. A bit of research, and much, much more testing for quality control, and I could have a byline in Time or Cosmo.

  Only, I know I’d never be able to write the story because I’d be spending the rest of my life in the shower. I’d conduct all my business from the stall, and buy stock in whatever company made the bar. Perhaps that had been Mark’s true motive, getting me out of the way so he could snag all the good stories.

  Hell, he could have them. Work hardly gave me this much satisfaction.

  A shift in the proper spot left me clawing at the damp shower wall with my free hand. My cunt constricted, my pussy swelled, the buildup of pleasure rumbled in my clit and spread the good feeling up my belly. The orgasm caused my knees to buckle, and my cries bounced from wall to wall and echoed in my ears. The bar continued to vibrate as I rubbed it roughly over my pussy, trying to prolong the good feeling. I swiped the broad side up my pussy lips, and could have sworn I felt the texture change.

  Holding it at eye level, I squeezed the bar gently. Perhaps the water made it malleable; as it responded to my touch I shaped the material into a long, thick rod. Slowly, cautiously, I teased my pussy’s moist opening with one end. The vibrations picked up again, and soon I was bent in a more comfortable position. I leaned against the wall and rammed the soap vibrator in and out of my pussy, tightening my channel around its smooth exterior. It seems to fit my body with every thrust, as if morphing to suit every curve and sensitive area. One long pull out of my pussy revealed that it had curved on its own, presumably for G-spot leverage.

  Incredible, and addictive. Much as I wanted to explore the possibilities of my new favorite toy further, I had a story to research and write. I’d thank Mark later for the gift, regardless of whether or not he intended for it to aid in the sabotage of my career and skin, and perhaps to ruin all men for me.

  With much reluctance, I yanked the shower handle and stepped back as the last of the water splattered to the tile floor. I dried off, dressed, and slipped the magic shower mate in my purse.
I had a date with Ellyn Grizzard at Club Virgo, and I had to wonder if she would likely be interested in such a toy herself. I’d have to think of an alternate conversation opener, just in case.

  Chapter Four

  When I pulled into the nearly empty gravel lot behind Club Virgo, I still had no idea how I was going to write this story. Usually when given an assignment, I immediately jot down a few staccato sentences in my pocket notebook, but given the nature of this topic, I couldn’t bring myself to think of anything. Not an introductory passage, not even a proper, sensational headline to serve a seventy-two-point font.

  I wondered if I even had the correct address for Club Virgo. Friday night, and the place was dead judging from the silence that greeted me. What else did lesbians do in this town to kick off the weekend, aside from the obvious?

  No streetlamps lighted my way to the non-descript concrete building perched between a dirt lot littered with burnt lumber and an auto parts garage lined with a barbed wire fence. Club Virgo, I’d learned, was something of an institution among the city’s gay and lesbian population, having operated in the days before Stonewall, when people of alternative sexual preferences were forced to socialize in the undercover of night and industrial camouflage. In a time when the Ricardos and Mertzes slept in separate beds on national television, this was a haven for people who risked physical and professional harm were their true selves revealed in the outside world. Made sense to me. If straight people back then had a thing about seeing straight people in bed together...

  Decades later, Lucy and Ricky gave way to Will and Grace, yet Virgo remained in her original location, forsaking mainstream acceptance for sentimentality. Or perhaps equity.

  As I rounded the building, I caught sight of the paint-chipped wooden sign bearing the image of Maisie Maple, the femme lumberjack-costumed mascot of a maple syrup company long since folded. The black, curlicue mustache painted on her upper lip by an anonymous jokester remained bold, as if touched up to serve as a beacon to newcomers.

  Right now, I seemed to be the only person heeding that call. Ellyn Grizzard’s Mercedes was nowhere in sight, but of course I didn’t expect to see it. It was early, and her car—which I knew bore the license plate GDSVES—might look a tad conspicuous next to the Jeep covered in rainbow stickers.

  Inside was a different story. Maisie must pay a hefty electricity bill for all the colored strobes and neon tubing blinking throughout the club’s interior like an epileptic’s nightmare. Heavy bass and synthesizers thudded through unseen speakers, vibrating the floor and humming an addictive beat through my bones. Once my eyes adjusted to the chaos, I noticed the place was packed.

  A tall, shorn woman with arms thick as tree trunks barked over the din for my ID. “Did everybody come in one car?” I shouted back, handing her a fake license.

  Her answer was an eye roll that easily implied my club virginity. That’s when it hit me—Maisie Maple may now be out and proud, but the neighbors didn’t have to like it. For all I knew, Virgo offered shuttle service from a safe area. I offered a silent prayer to the patron of starving journalists that my Chevy POS remained untouched by vandals come time to leave.

  Legal age confirmed and cover charge paid, I took a step into the club but Maisie’s minion snatched me back.

  “Not so fast,” she growled, and like lightning she pressed a rubber stamp to the back of my right hand. The black light overhead revealed a smudged, glowing green Virgo symbol.

  “One would think the mark of the beast might look more sinister than this,” I remarked to the bouncer.

  Her response was a leering eye roll as she crooked her neck toward the bar. “Try not to choke on any beer nuts.”

  “Well, damn. I guess I missed the tacos.” When she didn’t respond to my lame reference, I shrugged and left the incoming patrons crowding the entranceway to her mercy.

  A quick survey of the bar and dance area revealed no sign the older preacher, or of anyone trying to conceal appearance with a wide-brimmed hat or some other disguise. Disappointment numbed my heart as the constant thumping of house-mixed disco filled my ears. There seemed to be no escape from the noise; I couldn’t think straight for the overabundance of stimuli.

  I slowly paced the perimeter of the dance floor to watch women of all sizes, races, and piercings, grind body parts together in a sensual, rhythmic mating ritual. Having never acknowledged an attraction to my own gender in the past, it surprised me to feel an increase in my heart rate as I watched various scenes of seduction unfold before me. I swallowed hard and shifted in place to stall the aching sensation in my pussy that always signals when I’m about to become very wet.

  I was there already; arousal rarely came this quickly when presented with stimuli of the male persuasion. Was I in the closet? Now, that would be an exclusive!

  One couple in particular caught my eye. Blonde and brunette, matching slim bodies with full breasts, both wearing tight jeans and loose peasant blouses. Flowing sleeves and long nails bound them together as hips and thighs twined and undulated, merging flesh to flesh. Hands cupped pert backsides, hardened nipples rubbed against each other, lips and tongues mated. The lovers carried on, oblivious to the surrounding melee, and to the investigative reporter who suddenly yearned to be held and kissed in similar fashion.

  The scene got to me, and these women were hot! I could easily picture either of them, maybe both, relaxed in my embrace. I could feel their hands seeking their pleasure, fondling my breasts or stroking my pussy, which was now flooded with want for attention.

  But when unseen pinholes shot forth a cloud of vanilla air freshener over the lighted floor, the fantasy faded in the mist, and I retreated, coughing, to the bar. A Cosmopolitan mixed with generic vodka did little to improve my discomfort. The thought of having to sit here for hours waiting for Ellyn Grizzard, assuming she’d bother to show, also weighed heavily on my vanilla-laced senses.

  As if that didn’t annoy me to no end, I had yet to be hit on!

  I’m hardly a supermodel, but I’d like to think that if I were a lesbian I wouldn’t have to pay for it. Sitting ramrod straight on a barstool in a clingy, low-cut pink blouse and a black miniskirt, my ample cleavage thrust so far I could brush my nipples against the opposite wall, I elicited no interest from passersby. I had to be content for a while studying the mating patterns of Maisie’s friends.

  I watched older women pair off according to stereotype—the solid, short-haired butch wrapped protectively around her shapely femme lover, both dressed formally to suit their personalities. The younger women in tighter, more casual outfits seemed to favor each other, attracted to contemporary femininity. Like my fantasy ladies, they openly kissed and caressed to booming ballads on the dance floor, and embraced while tucked in secluded booths in corners of the bar the neon lights couldn’t reach. Love and lust hung in the air, heavily scented, and distorted by cheap vodka.

  This left me alone at the bar with dwindling prospects for a headliner story, and zero opportunity to boost my sense of self-worth with at least a smattering of attention from the lesbian set. Even the mythical, desperate Lana proved a no-show, apparently, as I spotted nobody matching Alissa’s earlier description.

  Just when I thought the evening couldn’t get any worse, my dance floor nymphs sidled onto the stool next to mine, jean-clad thighs sliding over each other in an attempt to fit both bodies on the round, cushioned seat. Lips smacked and low-throated giggling penetrated the airspace around me.

  “Let’s go home,” whined the blonde.

  “Fifteen more minutes, ‘kay?” insisted her dark-haired lover. “I just want to dance a bit more, let off some steam.”

  The blonde writhed until she straddled and faced her lover, her thighs clamped around the other woman’s waist. The increasing blatancy of their mutual affections made it easier for me to turn away. I’d never seen straight people act like this in public at their horniest, and for a brief moment, I could understand the general resistance to equal rights for gays and lesbi
ans.

  Of course, I kept telling myself that these two were likely not representative of the entire population. A look of disapproval from the bartender in their direction confirmed that.

  Their kisses were louder, sloppier, if I could discern by their increasing volume. Smack, smack. “So we’ll let off steam at home,” panted the blonde. “I want to go home so I can suck your pussy.”

  More moaning, more groaning...I pressed a hand to my stomach. More threatened retching.

  Smack, smack, slurp. “You have a delicious pussy.” I don’t know who said that. The kissing and gasping faded quickly in the distance as I bolted for safety, urged on by rotgut alcohol burning the inner walls of my intestines.

  To my relief, the ladies’ room was empty. To my surprise, it was clean. Bright, pastel walls lined with framed movie posters greeted me, and a small lounge area faced the stalls. The comfortable plush sofa, wingback chair, and coffee table littered with entertainment magazines provided the perfect escape from the noise. The floor wasn’t sticky, and no stench of stale urine encouraged further ill sensations. I checked the soap dispensers and paper towel machines—all filled and functioning.

  At least the evening would end on a more positive note, I decided as I did my business. Tomorrow night, after a long shower with my new toy to wash away this experience, I would try another club and hope for better luck. The sooner I could spot Ellyn Grizzard offering her unique blessing, the sooner I could go back to interviewing housewives convinced the aliens are sending decoded messages through reality TV shows.

  I stared at my purse, which hung from the hook on the stall door. The toy was still inside, and it took every bit of willpower not to get it out and use it, if only to bring myself to a quick orgasm and satisfy the ache. I had no way of knowing if bringing a phallus-shaped object was verboten in a place like this. At least the diesel truck checking ID’s at the door hadn’t searched the purse to confiscate it.