Date: Mon, 2 May 2011 14:58:34 +0100
From: Shea Lancaster <shstbs@gmail.com>
Subject: Wells

THE FOLLOWING IS A COMPLETE WORK OF FICTION. SHOULD YOU HAVE ANY
COMMENTS/CRITICISMS, PLEASE FEEL FREE TO EMAIL ME AT SHSTBS@GMAIL.COM

Thanks.

*Wells*


The first time I ever sat in a gay bar was nearly my last. I chose the wrong
day, the wrong time, the wrong place, even. But every day, on my way to
work, I had seen an advert in the "Gay and Lesbian" section of the newspaper
that had given me thrills of excitement. It was an advert for a bar called
Wells. And I swore that one day, I would go there.

It's not as if I had never seen lesbians. I knew what they were, what it
meant. And I also knew I was the same. No amount of good Christian
upbringing could convince me that marriage to a man was my future. On the
day of my older sister's wedding, I mingled with guests in my pretty lilac
dress and smiled at the constant assurances that one day, if I really had
faith, I would meet a nice man who would sweep me off my feet.

It wasn't as though I was being deliberately rebellious. All I knew was the
familiar warm feeling I got when my beautiful seventh year teacher smiled at
me, and the way I wanted to reach out and touch the barely visible bra strap
under her shirt. I didn't care that I could be sent to hell for my thoughts.
I didn't ask for them. But they came to me and multiplied until their
curiosity became uncontainable. The older I grew, the stronger they became.
I knew from the Internet that there were others like me, women confused,
restrained by society, or simply scared to indulge their yearnings. But it
was only when I was in my early twenties that I realised I had never even
spoken to a lesbian, let alone kissed one, or held her hand, or smelt her
glorious neck. My work was constantly eating into my time, and I was
spending longer hours concerned with desperately trying to make my small
business work. I put all thoughts of Wells aside, failing not, however, to
glance at the intriguing advert.

Reaching twenty five, I began to see myself as somewhat ridiculous. I was
living alone, albeit happily, and was in a job, had supportive,
unquestioning friends and a family who were far enough away to reaffirm my
independence, but near enough for me to feel comforted. My parents were
disappointed I was still single but had no idea of the real reason why. Of
course, I could not tell them that the most wonderful part of living alone
was being able to become myself, to step out of their shadow and live my own
life. And more recently, the niggling warm feelings of teachers past became
an everyday occurrence. Even more recently, those same warm feelings were
becoming a nighttime occurrence, too. I would lie there, in dreamy
half-consciousness, thinking about a faceless person who came into my bed
and kissed me. The faceless person was strong, commanding, and experienced.
The faceless person had no name, no features, no voice, even. But they had
the softest touch one could ever imagine. And they had the smell and the
beauty of a woman. That much was clear. I could imagine her smooth skin
pressed to mine, the weight of her breasts on my own chest, the heat of her
breath on my clavicle. And as I imagined, the warm feeling I could never
explain began to install itself between my legs, and would not move, until I
had to appease the feeling with the tips of my fingers, sensing my familiar
dampness and testing the hot, sensitive skin under my downy hair. Night
after night I would touch myself softly, hearing the faceless woman moan the
way I had seen women moan in films, and before I knew it, the same moans
would coming from my own mouth and what felt like hot white flashes would
appear before my eyes. And at this point, I would always become scared and
stop. Having feelings was one thing, but I had no idea how to indulge them
further. I was, in every aspect, thoroughly sexually frustrated and
completely ignorant.

Monday's bus journey to work was as hot and tedious as ever. The large,
perspiring lady who bit her nails loudly got on, as she always did, at the
bank. The short, sullen teenager with his patient younger sister got on at
the depot and off again five stops later at the school. The elderly lady who
always carried an umbrella, whatever the weather, embarked at the White Swan
and sat behind the driver as she always did. And as I always did, I buried
my head in the paper, trying to solve the quizzes in my head and ashamedly
reading my horoscope. I tried fervently to concentrate on a thoroughly
tedious article about rising numbers of grey squirrels in local parks and
realised that in doing so, I was delaying the inevitable thrill of the
unassuming but thoroughly tortuous Wells advert. And of course, it was there
as always. Today it cheerfully offered to host a relaxed evening with
like-minded ladies and the chance to "waft away the Monday blues." Well, I
argued with myself, my colleagues were forever telling me I had to take more
time out. Even the middle aged woman who measured me for a bra that time
told me my shoulders were far too tense, as though the whole weight of the
world was upon them. And Mondays do always have a tinge of blue around
them...

The bus braked quickly and as it did so, it threw me forward and I dropped
the newspaper. Once I had confirmed I didn't have whiplash I realised I was
almost convincing myself to go to Wells that night.But surely I wasn't going
to be that foolish. Not that I am scared of taking chances or even of
talking to people, but launching myself into the Quadrangle, surrounded by
happy, secure, completely comfortable gay people was perhaps above even my
remit. There was no way I could venture there that evening.

But the thought wouldn't leave me, and as the day progressed I found I was
spending more time thinking about what I would wear if I did happen to go,
and what I would ask for if I did happen to meet someone who wanted to buy
me a drink. And by three thirty, I decided that for once in my life, I was
going to take a chance. I mumbled some excuse to my colleagues about the
plumber coming, and caught the bus back home. Once there I showered,
carefully chose some jeans and a shirt, put on makeup and sat in the living
room in front of the television. It was six o'clock. Wells wouldn't even be
open yet. And here I was, my palms damp, my heart beating furiously, and my
breathing shallow.

Several hours and far too many cigarettes later, I knew that it was now or
never. I  left the house and boarded the bus into the city, noticing that
the late hour meant a whole new demographic of bus patrons like myself.
There was a skinny black man with matted locks who mumbled to himself and a
pretty Polish girl who talked far too loudly on her phone. There was a
heavily pregnant lady and her husband who looked out of the window whilst
absentmindedly stroking her back, which made me smile. And before I knew it,
we had pulled onto Paton Street, the stop I needed for Wells. As casually as
I could I walked off the bus and headed slowly for the Quadrangle, as though
I did this every week. It was quiet and the sun was setting. I walked down
Flora Lane, to Lewis Street, where I found Wells on the corner.

It was not how I imagined. It was small and dingy-looking, with graffiti on
the walls and posters of old events ripped off and faded by the sun. But,
convincing myself never to judge a book by its cover, I gave a small smile
to the woman on the door and walked in, fervently praying my blushes did not
spell out my lack of experience.

The bar was practically deserted, save for two women playing pool on the
table on the far left hand side. Neither of them looked at me as I entered,
and I was almost disappointed, expecting at least a smile, or maybe even a
nod of recognition. I strolled as casually as I could to the bar and ordered
a beer, perching on the stool and smiling shyly at the woman behind the bar.
Her bright blonde hair peaked in a triangle on the top of her head and
showed her dark roots underneath. Her roots seemed as dark as her mood as
she sullenly dumped my beer on the bar, wiping up the liquid that swilled
over the side in her unceremonious presentation. I sipped it slowly and
looked around as nonchalantly as I could. In the darkness of the bar I could
make out a group of young girls laughing on the comfortable sofas at the far
end of the room. Other than the girls, and the two women still playing pool,
there was nobody in the bar.

My heart sank as I began to feel more and more conspicuous. I cursed the
smoking ban as my fingers itched to light a hundred cigarettes. I continued
to sip my beer and tried to make small talk with the sullen parakeet behind
the bar but she seemed far too busy to talk to me. I made my loneliness even
more apparent by taking my phone out and pretending to send a very important
text. I drained my beer and waited for another ten minutes, desperate to
cry. I felt so alone and could not understand why this was so difficult.
Where were the like-minded women? Where was this friendly sisterhood of
lesbians willing to open their non-judgemental arms and welcome me into
their sapphic family? As I felt the tears sting my eyes I climbed down from
the stool and strode out, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers and
trying to ignore the tears coursing down my cheeks. I boarded my bus once
more and closed my eyes for the journey home, opening them only when the bus
took its familiar left turning signalling my stop was approaching. I walked
to my house, let myself in, walked wearily up the stairs and flopped fully
clothed onto the bed, too exhausted and disappointed to cry any more.

I woke ten hours later in the same position, still in my clothes from the
night before. My duvet was littered with streaks of mascara and my chest
carried the imprint of my bra. I sat up, wishing more than ever that it was
a Saturday, my heart sinking with the realisation it was a bright Tuesday
morning. I toyed with the idea of ringing work with complaints of swine flu,
kidney infections or even a lobotomy. Until I realised that the distraction
of work would probably be better for me than to wallow in the self pity I
had spent far too many hours indulging already. I showered, put on my suit
and left for work, strangely comforted, for once, by the large perspiring
lady and the mismatched siblings of my commute.

By midday I was feeling a little better, although I was adamant that I would
never set foot in a lesbian bar again. My work swallowed me once more and I
worked steadily through my emails. I barely noticed it was lunchtime until a
basket of sandwiches landed on my desk. I looked up to see the lady from the
shop across the road making her daily run to my office. Her eyes were
quizzical and I gave her a small smile with a returning raise of eyebrows.

"I bring my own lunch, but thank you," I said. She didn't move.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly. I was confused. The horror of the
image of last night's mascara still coursing down my cheeks alarmed me and
my hand instinctively went to my face. The woman in front of me shook her
head slightly.

"You left quite quickly last night, that's all...." she ventured softly, and
my eyes must have depicted my panic and she put her hand on mine. Her touch
was soft and her eyes kind.

"I was with my friend, we were playing pool in Wells when I saw you come in.
I thought you were so brave, I was dying to come over and talk to you but
all of a sudden, you were gone."

"Oh, I was, you know, just-" I stammered, my cheeks certainly scarlet and my
hands shaking.

"Wells isn't the friendliest of places," the woman admitted. A bolt of shame
coursed through me when I realised I didn't even know her name. But her soft
voice was warm and friendly and her eyes smiled even more than her mouth.
"But my friend has a thing for the barmaid."

"The parakeet?" I clamped my hand over the mouth quickly and went wide-eyed
with embarrassment as I realised I had engaged my mouth before my brain. But
the sandwich lady threw back her head and laughed.

"Ha!" she whooped with pleasure. "She really does look like a parakeet!
She's so unfriendly, she fits right in in that place." With a sober grin she
shrugged her shoulders.

"We're not all like that, you know," she faltered. "It can be OK there, in
the Quadrangle. But it's not the place to start out. What you did last night
must have taken real balls." I gave a small smile and looked down.

"I felt like a right loser."

"You're not a loser." Her hand was still on mine and with her other hand she
reached out and passed me a danish wrapped in paper.

"On the house," she grinned. "And I own the place over the road. I'll be
there this afternoon when you finish work. Come over, I'll make the best
coffee ever. It's so good, I don't even let the customers have it."

With that, she waltzed out, waving to the rest of the office and swinging
her basket behind her. I watched her leave, my spirits suddenly soaring,
making me realise that, perhaps, the most embarrassing event of my life
could turn out to be the best thing I had ever done. I stood up and walked
over to the reception desk, to find out her name.