"Pheromone Pharmacopia"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2001, All rights reserved)

 

Chapter 10 - "Misanthrope"

I hesitated at the door, which could have been okay if I had recovered just a bit sooner. It was a typical nightclub, flashing lights in some places and gloomy in others and a moment to absorb it was not unreasonable. But I stood there a moment too long and the always-attentive Rachel picked up on it.

"You’re upset," she accused.

"What? No, just . . . surprised," I countered.

"I thought you, I mean, I assumed you . . . understood."

I turned to her and reached out to touch her cheek. "Rachel, believe me. You’ve done nothing wrong. I was just surprised."

She leaned her face into my hand, then looked up again. "We can leave."

"Not unless you want to," I replied, then didn’t give her a chance to make any new desires clear. I took her arm and pulled her down onto the floor, scanning over the heads of the shorter women for a table. That was really a ruse to keep from looking at Rachel. After the first . . . confusion, it had sunk into me that she was the very thing I had been hoping she was - interested in women. Interested in me in ‘that way’.

Which was even more of a problem, since I wasn’t really ‘that way’.

I hadn’t even made a good start on figuring out what to worry about worst when my search for a table was rendered moot.

"Rachel!" a voice boomed.

I was suddenly glad I hadn’t chosen the leather look, because that suggested dominance issues and the woman who plowed through the crowd could have broken me like a dried-out toothpick if I offered any sort of challenge - at least any sort of physical challenge. And I don’t care how good our hand-to-hand training was. She looked like the professional women wrestlers hoped they would look like when they grew up - the ‘new’ style; sensual, graceful, beautiful, but above all, strong. Rachel grimaced as she looked at the source of all the noise, but she transformed that into a smile that looked genuine enough to belie any real fear.

"Drue," she said calmly, not really attempting to be heard above the noise.

The woman gathered Rachel up in her arms and swung her around, making me glad I was very well practiced in my heels so I could dodge out of the way. In a casual show of strength, ‘Drue’ wrapped one arm around Rachel and held her just off the ground so that our heads were all at about the same level.

"My oh my," Drue said with a comic leer at me. Then she looked at Rachel and said, "You’ve been holdin’ out on me, hun."

Rachel didn’t seem to be offended by the casual way Drue handled her, so I decided I’d just act casual as well. Lord knows I was too confused to figure out anything else to do.

Rachel pushed quiet introductions from her squeezed lungs. "Drue, this is Carol. Carol, Drusilla."

"Pleased to meet ya’," Drue boomed, sticking out her free hand.

Time seemed to slow WAY down all the sudden, almost like combat does to you, and a plan opened up before me like a revelation from above. For the first time since I, um, since Carol was created, I didn’t feel physically . . . impressive. Not intimidating. Whatever. I know I’m not actually the best fighter on our team, nor the smartest, nor any of those things, but being so tall, I’ve always felt . . . I don’t know . . . strong somehow. I’m not that tall for men, but within the team, especially since I took such a liking to heels, I’ve always been . . . impressive. Maybe that’s another Duty issue, like I was required to be tougher than the other girls. More like a man. Maybe that’s where Carol’s sensuous overcompensation came from. Whatever the genesis, for the first time I felt like I could be ‘dainty’, like the spectrum had moved so that I was well into the range of ‘normal’ women instead of an extreme case.

All that came to me in a half a heartbeat, and I felt a sense of, I know this sounds silly, but ‘delicacy’ come over me. I held my own hand out in that soft, palm-down way that Sandy does so well and said, "Enchante."

"Woo, a *French* chick," Drue said, resurrecting her leer.

"Hardly," I disagreed softly, shaking my head to reinforce a message not supported by much volume.

"Close enough for me," Drue said, laughing. "I’m not interested in French *language* anyway."

"Indeed?" Then I turned to Rachel and said, "I’m so glad we found a place where the . . . clientele is so ‘subtle’."

Rachel blushed. Drue brayed with laughter, but she had the poise to accept the comment without argument. I gave her even more credit because she didn’t try to justify herself, either. She was as she chose to be, take it or leave it. I could respect that.

Apparently Drue had a table already, or at least a part of one. There were more purses on the table than chairs around it, but three of the chairs that were there were empty. Drue started bellowing for a waitress before she sat down. I half expected her to pull out our chairs for us, at least Rachel’s, but she just waved grandly at the open ones before choosing one for herself.

The waitress that showed up was dressed in an obvious Playboy bunny style, except she had foxy ears and a bushy tail. That wasn’t what I expected. I figured, Drue notwithstanding, that women would like refined elegance in their ‘private’ clubs, something like a traditional men’s club. That had obviously been wrong from the moment we stepped in the door, but I was still too busy absorbing to really think things through. I suppose I was still caught up in prejudices too, pigeonholing Lesbians as all fitting some sort of feminist, anti-sex-appeal stereotype. Anyway, the waitress, ‘Foxy Lori’ as she introduced herself, was pretty in a bimbo sort of way; all blonde curls and ostentatious curves.

Which, as soon as she looked at me, turned out to be yet *another* unfair prejudgment. There was amused intelligence behind those rich blue eyes. You could see the ‘I’m making $500 a night, and you’re paying for it’ condescension there, but fun, too. She was having fun doing something she enjoyed, and if it involved acting outrageously ‘sexy’, she could handle that.

Just like someone else I knew. Only I didn’t remember having that much fun. So who was really the bimbo?

Somewhere in there a drink got ordered for me. I don’t usually mix my libations so I had intended to get a little more wine, but when Lori showed up again I found a strawberry daiquiri in front of me. It tasted much too good to complain about. So did the next one.

By then Drue had moved on to attack yet another ‘dearest friend’ and the music had even taken a quiet turn, so Rachel and I were able to talk. She was still worried.

"I shouldn’t have brought you here," she said. "You were right, of course. It’s not subtle at all. I’m sorry."

"Don’t be," I said, honestly happy. "This is fun. Drue’s a dear, and my, um, I can feel my attitudes, ah, expanding even as we sit."

"It’s just," Rachel began again, "this is, um, the first time I ever came to accept . . who I am, it was here."

"Drue brought you, didn’t she?" I guessed.

Rachel nodded. "She was just a friend. I met her in Jackson’s, as a matter of fact. She just invited me to come to her club with her one night. I didn’t know what to expect, and frankly, I was angry at first. But . . . after a while I realized she had seen something in me that I hadn’t seen in myself. I thought, well, maybe I hoped that it would work the same for you. But I shouldn’t have done it without asking."

"Maybe not, for most people," I said, agreeing on my way to disagreement. "But I don’t mind." Then I lifted my eyes to look directly into hers and whispered, "Really, I don’t mind at all."

Something very complex showed in Rachel’s eyes for a second. Something I was afraid to examine too closely. The absence of Drue’s overwhelming presence had left a void and I found myself slipping back into the ‘tall’ role again to avoid dealing with it. "Would you like to dance?"

"Sure," she said with a sunny smile.

Whoever was selecting the music kept it on slow dances for several in a row. If Rachel noticed anything funny about the way I seemed so naturally to lead, holding up the correct hand and all, she didn’t say anything. At least, not about that.

"Can I ask a personal question?" she whispered from my shoulder.

I nodded, hoping and fearing what she would ask.

"Have you ever . . . been with someone . . . like me?"

"No," I answered. "But I have ‘been with’ other women. They just weren’t nearly as lovely as you."

I could feel the tension when I said the first part, but the way her curves softened to merge with mine at the end made it clear she was pleased with my answer. Just then the music changed though, and that quenched any opportunity to follow up as effectively as a bucket of cold water.

Back at our table, we found fresh drinks courtesy of an unknown but probably very large benefactress. Once again I didn’t know what to do. The blatantly sexual SMITE Carol wasn’t right, wasn’t what I wanted to be for Rachel. Yet all my other reflexes seemed too . . . masculine. Like asking her to dance, and then leading when we did. I could see myself falling into habits that were . . . dangerous.

So I just sat there, looking at Rachel when I could do it without being too obvious, trying to find a path to a destination I wasn’t sure I’d know how to handle if we got there. She must have finally accepted that I wasn’t upset, because I could see the confidence of the ‘old’ Rachel surface in a genuinely-amused smile.

"Finish your drink," she ordered, swallowing what was left of hers.

I did as I was told, then followed her out of the club. I didn’t know what to expect, really. My mind was ranging from a hoped-for greater intimacy to ‘thanks for a nice time’ dismissal, worrying about both and not sure how to handle either. That sounds like an excuse, and maybe it is, because she surprised me as soon as we got between a couple of parked cars.

Without a word, she turned to me and lifted her arms to surround my neck. Pulling herself up to my level, she kissed me. Dear Lord, I don’t think I have *ever* been so thoroughly kissed.

And the funny thing was, it was so softly delicate. I had always expected passion to involve . . . power, I guess. Mashing mouths and forcing tongues and crushing embraces. I learned in a heartbeat that I had never been a very good kisser before. In two heartbeats, I was into graduate courses, finding the *right* way to share the dance of tongues and the warm pressures of true sensuality.

I’m still trying to decide just where I screwed up. Or why. I suppose the easy way out is to blame the drinking. I had probably had more to drink that night than in the previous two years combined. I was on a runaway train, headed for a bridge that we couldn’t get over, but I couldn’t seem to do anything but stoke the fires hotter and hotter.

We ended up at her apartment. It’s a good thing she had to drive. We teased each other the whole trip, which was only a couple of miles, but neither of us could take things too far. When we got in the door though, it didn’t take any time at all for her little black dress to hit the floor and only my fumbling incompetence with the unfamiliar fastenings of my blue one delayed its fall to join hers.

"God, you are beautiful," she said when my corset was finally revealed. "That has to be the sexiest outfit I have *ever* seen."

"Second best," I disagreed, letting my eyes linger on the curves so artfully framed by her own dark, satin-shimmery scanties. Like my waist-cincher, the cups to her bra left the most interesting bits exposed. She also wore stockings, as my exploring fingers had previously discovered. A garter belt framed delicate lace panties that were more symbolic than effective, which was quite effective in a different way.

Then - inevitably - it all came crashing down. Her own digital explorations had danced lightly across my . . . secret, but she must have decided not to trust what they seemed to indicate. I could feel her stiffen, though, concern pushing passion to the side.

"Is this a . . . bad time for you, darling?"

"No, of course not" I answered. Stupidly. I still didn’t get it. I was in a private place with a beautiful, sensual, aroused woman and I was ready to take advantage of that. Only it was Carl who was ready to do something that Carol shouldn’t have been able to do. I suppose it’s a sign of how accustomed I had become to women’s clothes that I could trade compliments on lingerie without finding it . . . unusual. But my little head wasn’t worried about things like that. It was much too focused on something it had been without for much too long.

Something that Rachel, however, had no interest in at all.

Her delicate fingers probed again, then became less delicate.

It finally started to sink through my drink-fuzzed mind that she wasn’t finding what she expected. "Ah, Rachel, love, I, um, there is something I haven’t told you."

She stepped back, rubbing her fingers together as though she were trying to clean off something dirty.

"What ARE you?"

"I’m me," I said, searching for a way to explain something I didn’t understand myself.

"What sort of damn answer is that?!"

"It’s all I have," I offered. "I’m sorry. I’m . . ."

"You’re a fucking pervert!" she shouted, interrupting an explanation that had no place to go anyway.

She started hitting me, more than slaps, but too out of control to do any real damage, just wild swings at my shoulders and arms.

"Freak!! What makes you think you’re as good as a woman? What makes you think you could EVER be as good as a woman?! How could you DARE touch me, you filthy . . . animal!?!"

I reached out, trying to hold her to stop her flailing arms.

"Rachel, please, I’m sorry, but I really . . . "

She dodged away from me. "You’re really NOTHING! Do you hear me? NOTHING! You’re a fucking pervert, not even honest enough to be a real man. You lying, evil, . . . !"

"Get out," she demanded, interrupting her own tirade, her voice now low and tight. I reached out to her again, but through gritted teeth she said, "If you even TRY to touch me again, I’ll *fix* that problem of yours, with my bare hands if need be."

I looked into her eyes, trying to find any shadow of the warmth that had been there, trying to find something to build on. But all I saw were chips of coal, flat, dull, empty.

At least I didn’t have to search for my dress. It was still puddled with hers at our feet. My feet, now, since she had taken several steps back. I struggled into it, followed by the dark glare of her eyes but offered no help, not even the false help of demands to hurry. It was as though we were on opposite sides of a glass wall, able to see but kept from any other interaction.

My purse was next to hers on a table by the door. I picked it up, then one more time tried to link with her eyes, to tell her without words the things that words were inadequate to cover. But her eyes looked right through me to the door. She didn’t move as I let myself out, but the door had barely latched when I heard the deadbolt and chain being locked from her side.

There wasn’t any phone in the lobby of her apartment, so I had to walk to a convenience store to call a cab. Somehow, those few blocks in my ridiculously high heels seemed like a fair price - a minimum price - to pay for what I had done.

 

Carol’s eyes came back from the birds she had not really been watching to look at the sympathy in Marilyn’s matching blue gems.

"What did you do then?" Marilyn asked gently.

"Nothing," Carol replied.

"Your furlough was a week long."

"Oh, yeah. Well, I didn’t do anything special. I had rented that hot Mustang, so I spent a day just driving through the mountains. And I went to another hockey game - that is, I went to another bar to watch a hockey game. This time the bartender was a guy, and he was nice enough to keep the hounds away from me. I actually headed home early, but I decided to drive instead of fly."

"Are you okay, now?"

"Okay? No, not really. I thought I was. I slipped back into ‘Carol’ easily enough, the sexy SMITE Carol. But today, when I built that panel assembly in the tank, I guess I just . . . "

Marilyn offered a completion. "Got lonely, for things you can’t have any more?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"So, what do you want to do?" Marilyn asked, finally moving toward a solution.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want out of the team?"

Carol stood abruptly and said, "No! God, Marilyn, all I *have* is the team. You can’t take that away from me, too."

"I won’t *make* you leave, of course. But if you’re really unhappy, we can work something out. But you, personally, as Carol or as Carl, have a lot more than the team, though I can see how you might not think so after that experience."

"Yeah, well, she was right."

"Perhaps," Marilyn said neutrally. "Like most human conflicts, there are rights and wrongs on both sides. Clearly, our, ah, ‘unusual’ circumstances are unexpected. It’s part of what makes us so effective, but there is a price."

Carol just nodded. The blue-clad blonde moved over to put her arms around the taller redhead. "Tell me, Carol, do you still think that what we do is worth it? Do you think that the SMITE team is a good thing?"

"Duty, Honor, Country?" Carol asked. "No sacrifice too great to ask if saving the world is at stake?"

Marilyn didn’t answer, but Carol didn’t really need an answer because she knew that was indeed the question - and stating it was its own answer. So it was Carol who nodded, answering Marilyn’s question instead.

"I’m sorry things didn’t work out better for you," Marilyn offered. "But I know you’re committed to the team and will do your part, to the best of your very considerable abilities. I’ll tell you what. After we get done with this mission, I’ll arrange for you to learn a few more, ah, three-dimensional responses. It’s been unfair to limit you to a sexual stereotype. At least we can make you more comfortable in ‘normal’ situations."

Carol nodded again. "Thanks. I’d appreciate that."

"You never know," Marilyn said lightly, deliberately changing the mood as she picked up her now-cold coffee. "Maybe there’s someone out there who would really *appreciate*, what was it, ‘nine kinds of hot in a tall cool package.’ Especially with a little something extra."

"Yeah, right," Carol sniffed, but a bit of light came back into her eyes as she clutched at the possibility, at least.

 

(continued in next part)

 

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SMITE 2 - Pheromone Pharmacopia © 2001 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.