There I was, hanging out at the author’s desk, waiting, waiting, waiting. Bored, I started snooping. Curdling lattes. Reading glasses. Bottle caps. My biography. Antacids. (No connection to the biography, I’m sure.) Oh, what’s this? First-draft first chapter of Lesbian Adventure Club Book 9! Holy shit, the mother lode! â€¦ Hmm, tentatively titled Spiders. That’ll do. That’ll do. It had to be an S-word, and a mighty fine one it is.
It’s not really stealing if it has your name on it, is it? Nah!
What the hell?
"Oh, for Christ’s sake!"
"Holy shit! Holy frickin’ shit!"
Claudia shoved the car into park, and we just stared at it.
It was a Lesbian Adventure Club weekend. Those were generally good things, splendid things, but when our hostesses were none other than Holly and Laura, apprehension tended to overwhelm the usual excitement. Sitting in front of their house on a subzero January morning, I realized not one iota of that apprehension had been wasted. Oh, hell no.
With my jaw hanging, I looked to Claudia and found her in the same state of shock. My head turned back to the front of their house just to see it once more. I figured that maybe if I blinked it would not be there upon the eyelid grand opening. Three times, I tried. Three times, I failed.
"Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems," Claudia offered.
"Maybe it’s exactly as bad as it seems," I countered.
You know that big-ass hill in big-ass California with those big-ass letters? Well, remove the big-ass hill, make everything white with snow, and have those big-ass letters spell, "HollyWould." Seriously, big-ass letters in front of Evil Dick and Evil-er Chick’s house spelled, "HollyWould." We were about to enter frickin’ HollyWould!
Jesus, what would Holly do? My brain ran rampant with a bazillion things that Holly would do. The list of the things that I would/could do that Holly would do could have fit on a matchbook, owned by an itty-bitty worker ant who smoked too much. Holly lacked inhibitions; I had the word tattooed on my ass, next to "chicken shit" and "big talker." Holy frickin’ shit!
"We’re overreacting," Claudia reasoned. "Maybe it’s something quite simple. … Movies, maybe. Maybe it’s a movie theme. But, whatever it is and no matter what happens, I love you. We stick together."
I nodded, but it lacked confidence.
At her insistence and with the reminder that we were already late, we exited our car and fearfully slunk to the front step. Instantly, the door whipped open, and there stood Laura. She did not—no way in hell—lack confidence. She possessed an excess; it oozed all over, and she still had more. It animated her smirk; it gave sinisterness to her mighty guffaw.
"Welcome to HollyWould!" she bellowed. "Please, please come in." Said the spider to the frickin’ fly. "Here, let me take your jackets, and then you can go get changed."
"Changed into what?"
"Your weekend apparel," she clarified. She slapped a garment onto each of our stomachs. Ouch! "You’ll be wearing these fashion statements all weekend. And this time everyone will keep her pants on, unless, of course, we tell you otherwise."
Again, shock overtook over. We stared at what we held: orange frickin’ jumpsuits! Where it should have read, "Ledder County Jail," yep, you guessed it: HollyWould.
"I’ll be your warden, matron, bull, jailer, keeper, screw—whatever your synonym roll prefers to call it." She pointed to the hall and said, "Grab a room and get changed. Separate rooms! No touchy-feely this time."
Like dazed yet indignant idiots, we complied, handing off jackets and beginning the perp walk. But Holly suddenly appeared in our path, hugging and kissing the both of us. And that was something Holly would do: be happy to see us, give us an overdose of affection—no matter what the screw said or did. I took a much-needed dose, and then Claudia and I continued down the hall.
I whisper-yelled, "Is that what they’re doing, honey? Paying us back for what they missed out on last time?"
She merely shrugged. Then she stopped in front of the spare bedroom, grabbed the doorknob, and said, "This is our room, honey. Remember? Wanna fool around?"
Jesus, what would Kate do? "Always," I answered and clutched her hand.
"Sutter! Kitterman! You’re two seconds from house arrest!"
I toot sweet let go of Claudia’s hand and made a dash into the room across the hall.
What the hell had we gotten into this time? We had been there a total of three minutes, and already we neared house arrest. Visions of cavity searches gave me the heebie-jeebies. I shook my head briskly, stripped to don the far-too-short orange jumpsuit, and hurried to find my main squeeze and the other inmates. Perhaps there was strength in numbers … or at least the potential to riot. Jesus!
I met up with Claudia in the hall, and hand-in-hand, we hurried to the living room that teemed with fidgety orange bodies. No one seemed happy or even relaxed. Rolling eyes and grimaces were exchanged like money and toiletries in a prison commissary.
Ginny’s arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Just let her try and lock me up," she dared.
"What the hell are they up to anyway?" Claudia asked, but no one could provide an answer to that little mystery.
Holly called, "Come on, you guys. Let’s have breakfast before we get started. I’ll pour coffee. Help yourselves to everything."
Coffee! Donuts! Strawberries! Bagels! Bacon! Cookies! Mushroom omelets! Etceteras! Etceteras! I had never heard a good thing about jail food, but this spread proved vastly different. I could’ve lived quite contentedly on this bread and water, and I was sure three squares meant pats of cream cheese I slathered on a sesame bagel. I ate and slugged as if I hadn’t had nourishment in a week.
We were, at least, smiling. It felt good. It felt normal. Maybe we had overreacted.
Sated, I had just happily rubbed my overfilled belly when Claudia slapped a copy of the Tribune on the island. My eyes nearly popped out of my head like smoldering toast from a small kitchen appliance.
"Who the hell reads the Tribune? Why isn’t this the Journal! I write for the Journal not the Tribune! Who is the traitor?"
"That’s not what I wanted to show you," she said, tempering my tantrum. She stabbed the paper a hundred times.
I looked, and my smoldering-toast eyes landed on the green granite. "’Road Swill files for Chapter 11 bankruptcy.’" Holy frickin’ shit! What the hell would I do without the second love of my life? "We have to do something, honey! Let’s go buy a lot of coffee."
"Sorry, honey. No can do. Our tanker is in the shop."
"Maybe we could borrow Denny’s pickup—seventeen times. We have to do something! … Why would somebody who loves me read the Tribune?" I’d have to work on that brainteaser at a later date…
The Lesbian Adventure Club cattle call came, and we were herded into the living room.
Our hostesses stood before us, and Holly’s elbows jutted out from her hips. After looking at each individual, she said, "Last time you were here for a meeting, you were very bad girls." She judgmentally cleared her throat and looked at each of us again. "We all know nobody kept their pants on except Laura and me, but you did something much, much worse, chickies. You didn’t trust us. You didn’t follow the rules. We were in charge, and you were supposed to respect that. But you didn’t! No, you kidnapped my babe of a cop. You tried to take over!"
Um… Okay, yeah, we did. Even then, I knew it was wrong not to go along with whatever they had planned, but something was strange that weekend. No, everything was strange that weekend. But yeah, even in the midst of blistering shame, I knew I’d do the very same again if Claudia proved just as amorous as she had that weekend. Did that make me a bad DWD or just a DWD? Shit!
Laura smugly advised, "This time, we have laws and penalties. Any violations, any non-compliance will result in house arrest."
Janice dared a laugh. "I should be afraid to ask. What does house arrest mean?"
We all nodded in support of her very brave question.
"Solitary confinement," Laura replied. She evilly laughed and added, "With me."
"It’s not very solitary if it’s with you."
"And like how does this qualify as adventure and not misadventure?"
"If you follow the rules and participate in the activities, it will be fun. Break the rules, it’s a misadventure of your own making."
"It will be fun, chickies! We’ll only be doing things I would do. How could that not be fun?" She smiled in a way that made it appear as though she was certain we all wanted to walk in her platform shoes.
Shit, I could trip and fall off flats. Shit, I had tripped and fallen off flats! This was not good.
"And exactly how do we win?"
"Yeah, how do we win this thing?"
"Yeah, how do we get the big-boobed bimbo babe?"
Laura’s evil smile shone blackly. "It’s HollyWould; therefore, Holly would decide that. If Holly would give her to you, she’s yours. You win. Simple as that."
All eyes mandatorily shot to Holly.
Laura gravely said, "But we need to have a little discussion about the bimbo babe."
All eyes mandatorily shot to the screw.
"It seems one of you has been overzealous in your fondling of her."
All eyes mandatorily shot to each other.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"One of you has been flicking her too hard."
"I don’t flick her that hard!"
"I don’t either."
"I think I only flicked her once, but I never fondled her. I don’t think."
"You did it, Janice."
"Flick you! I did not."
"Laura! Laura!" Ginny yelled a thousand times above the din. When we finally quieted, she asked, "Laura, what exactly does that mean?"
The screw ducked into the kitchen and returned with our trophy girl. She set her on a low bookcase, and we watched her bobble. She looked good to me. If truth be told, she seemed rather happy there, jiggling and joggling her stuff for us.
"Just wait until she stops," Laura instructed.
And we did. Most patiently, we waited. And then, we all knew what the hell she meant. Her right boob slowed and returned to its original, voluptuous position. The left boob, however, took its damn sweet time and never quite completed its perky journey. No, see, the mammoth nipple on the left boob pointed downward, to where her foot should have been if she weren’t so skankily proportioned. It drooped, flopped, dangled, sagged, hung, lolled like a pendulum, a big-ass thumbs-down. Holy shit! The big-boobed bimbo babe had lost the slink in her notoriously slinky left boob!
Collectively, we gasped in utter disbelief. I don’t think anyone exhaled for thirty-five solid minutes. Finally…
"Oh my God!"
"Holy frickin’ shit!"
"Oh my good God!"
"Jesus Mary Joseph!"
"For Christ’s sake!"
But, I knew—shrewd reporter I was—it only sounded like a religious conversion. If truth be told again, it was definitely not a spiritual reformation at the sight of bimbo babe’s sudden deformation. To state it otherwise would be the nonsensical dissemination of utter misinformation. No, for this DWD congregation, it was total devastation at the mind-numbing realization that our dearly beloved fixation had lost her deserved reputation for most slutty gyration. Damn.
"Maybe we could tape her!"
"But then she won’t bobble anymore!"
"Maybe we could glue her!"
"But then she won’t bobble anymore!"
"Shit, she looks like me! Maybe it’s not so bad."
"It is. Trust me. It is so bad."
"A bra! Can we get her a bra?"
"But then she won’t bobble anymore!"
Maggie raised her hands, and while the seas did not part, she did secure our attention. "I’ll take her back to where we got her. Maybe they can tighten her spring or something."
"A boob job?"
All eyes mandatorily shot to Maggie and then each other.
"Dignifying that top-model bullshit mindset?"
"Perfection ain’t all it’s cracked up to be."
"We wouldn’t force any one of us to go … if … if we looked like that. Would we?"
"She’s still the big-boobed bimbo babe! We still love her!"
"It gives her character!"
"Yeah, it’s not like she’s disfigured or anything."
"Yeah, and if you just kind of cock your head a bit, why she looks almost as good as she ever did."
On cue, we all cocked our heads. She did look okay … at least until Laura gave her a flick. Then, what we scrutinized proved anything but womanly. Claudia probably knew some sis-boom-bah cheer to accompany what the bimbo babe could suddenly do with her boobs.
"Oh my God!"
"Crap! Let’s try the tape idea."
"I think I’d want a boob job—no matter how demeaning—if I could throw my boob over my shoulder like that."
Laura drummed her fingers on the bookcase, and we all shifted our cocked heads to her. "Doesn’t anybody want to know who did this to her?"
We uncocked our heads, and all eyes mandatorily shot glares of suspicion, then disgust, then terror, then sublime denial.
"No!" times eight equaled one loud thing.
"We don’t want to think who the flicker is."
"It couldn’t possibly be one of us."
"Let’s just say we all simply wore her out. I’d wager we could be a little wearing on people."
"On people maybe, but boobs?"
Maggie tried again, "Just let me take her back. Maybe there’s a warranty or something, and they’ll fix her."
"Guaranteed to stay perky or your money back?"
"I’d have been returned a long time ago."
"Maggie, if you think makeup is dishonest, how is having your spring tightened any better?"
"Yeah, shit happens."
"No, I say we keep her the way she is. She just looks … more human."
"And we don’t want some guy touching her and saying he’s fixing her."
"She probably doesn’t either."
"I know I wouldn’t."
"Nope, flaws and all, she’s still our big-boobed bimbo babe."
"No matter what!"
"Yeah!" times eight equaled an even louder thing.
We were preparing to high five, but we stopped when we saw Laura shaking her head at us.
"For shit’s sake, you’re a strange group," she said, but then she cracked a smile. "But this is HollyWould, and Holly would approve."
Holly smiled. "I do approve … as long as it doesn’t happen to me."
Laura quickly put her arm around her and kissed her. "That would never happen in HollyWould, Hol." She kissed her again and then turned back to us. "Now, about the laws."
Janice elbowed Alison and said, "I bet the first one is the Law of Gravity."
Laughter times ten equaled one humungous, uncontrollable thing. But damn, it felt good.