Dirty Girls by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Author:Rachel Kramer Bussel [RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Seal Press
Published: 2012-01-28T16:00:00+00:00

DREAMS

Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Veronica is asleep in the house of love. Lights off, always, 24/7. Even while her eyes are open, even while her lips move, soundly she sleeps. Roused only to a semblance of action by the pictures that are in her head. In cars, restaurants, bedrooms, bars, Veronica sleeps on.

Always, she’s dressed in black. Daytime, nighttime—only the fabric differs. Her nightgown is black satin. Her underwear, black silk. Dresses, pants, sweaters, skirts: cashmere, cotton, mohair, wool. And clean—she is so incredibly clean. She smells like roses made of soap. Everywhere, all over her body. Roses made of soap.

In a car, she’s game for kissing. She’ll kiss like mad in a car, concealing the part of her that wants to keep going. Go further, the quiet voice urges him, although the actual words never leave Veronica’s lips. Never form a sound on the air that an ear might hear, committing her to her desire. For sure, that could wake her. So she relies on chance.

A hand between her thighs: “No,” she says. A hand on her breast? “No.” But she’ll keep kissing. Go further, the silent voice urges him. Try again.

If he’s too polite to try again, Veronica says goodnight.

They are almost always too polite to try again.

Here’s an example of what she dreams of: A car. Four doors, metallic cream. Parked right there on the street, it glistens after the rain on a late autumn night. He opens the back door this time and says, “Get in.”

She’s game. This is roomy. This is unusual. She’s in a black wool skirt. Not too short, but tight. It hugs her curves but doesn’t cling. It keeps her ass untouchable. Undeniable, yes, but still untouchable. A black sweater. A pullover, cashmere, blanketing her breasts in softness like warm black snowdrifts. They are hard to resist like this, her tits. The urge to touch those blanketed mounds is nearly overpowering. Even to the eye of a quickly passing stranger, those tits are too inviting. There are the black stockings that stay put by themselves. They would feel smooth as silk if a hand were to touch the length of her leg, caress her thigh, where the heat rises. Her high-heeled pumps are shiny patent leather. In she scoots; across the back seat she slides. Closer to him. Impossibly close. This is what she came for: to kiss for a while.

At first, it’s the usual. Kiss, kiss. No, no. But he persists. A hand on her thigh. This is perfect, she thinks. We’re going places tonight. Her legs part; she dreams on. The hand inches higher.

Anyone might see them. Any face in an upstairs window in any house on the lonely street. At first, she’s mindful of this. It informs her sense of propriety. She won’t part her legs too much. For the moment, he gives up. His hand finds her breast instead, squeezes the fullness of it tentatively while they kiss. The cashmere is soft as kittens or baby lambs. Soft and warm like snuggling bunnies.

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