Shane and Carmen: The Novelization Ch. 22

Shane's problem was almost the opposite. Her problem was simply that she had wanted to fuck Cherie Jaffe. Cherie Peroni. Whatever she called herself now. Half of her confusion and inability to respond to Carmen's complaint was due to the fact that, in her heart, Shane was guilty as shit. She had been true and faithful to Carmen for nearly eight months now. God knows, there had been temptations, as there had been ever since she had hit puberty, women who caught Shane's eye, and women whose eyes caught Shane and her magic – something – that made even married women look at her like the Big Bad Wolf looked at Goldilocks. Shane was having trouble dealing with monogamy. It was unnatural to her, she felt. Not in her nature. It had nothing to do with Carmen, who God knows was still as loving and desirable and creative a sex partner as one could wish. But it was just that ... well, Shane just liked fucking women. It was almost that simple. She liked their diversity. She liked that no two of them were ever alike. She liked how they tasted and smelled and moved and moaned and grunted, how they came, how they shuddered up against her leg, sweating and tribbing.

She loved fucking Carmen, but after eight months, the fact remained that no matter how imaginative, every fuck was ... well, every fuck was with Carmen. It was hard to complain about this fact ... but ... sometimes she wanted something else. Somebody who wasn't Carmen. A little strange once in a while. It didn't mean she didn't love Carmen; she did. But ... a quickie in a toilet stall with a complete stranger, for instance. There was simply no way to duplicate that excitement, that experience, of fucking a total stranger, even with someone as sexual as Carmen. There was no way to replace that moment of discovering what a woman's nipples looked like until the first time you bared them. No way to duplicate the taste of a pussy you've never licked before, never felt its slippery grip on your searching fingers. No way to pretend you haven't heard these whimpers and sighs and groans before, and no way to describe how wonderful they sounded the very first time you heard them. Shane had been faithful for eight months, and if it hadn't been for her faithfulness to Carmen, she might have fucked anywhere from forty to eighty pussies in that time, just based on her normal average, even though Shane never counted and was never interested in numbers. The one thing she was aware of was that she had been missing a lot of quim. She had told herself "no" plenty of times. She had denied herself what she wanted and could have had. She was not aware that she carried some resentment toward Carmen because of it. She had reached the point of rationalization that since she had been so good for eight months she owed herself a little reward, a little vacation from stern virtue, a little walk on the wild side, just a meaningless quickie piece of ass.

Worse, the moment she had seen Cherie Jaffe at Lather and Cheri Peroni at Shane for Wax, the juices had started flowing. It was as though her own body, her own tits and pussy and ass and skin and glands had conspired against her conscience, had responded to a stimulus even if Shane's brain wrestled with the concept of fidelity. Just as Shane had this magnetic attraction for many women, so did Cherie. You can only fight against the pheromones just so long.

Shane was just such a guy, that's what it came down to. Men were often accused of thinking with their dicks. If that were true, as often as not Shane thought with her clit. She was not a deeply reflective person, and she was not a good analyst of her own behavior. But the fact was that Shane behaved exactly like many men, horndogs looking for the next piece of ass. In this she was not merely "androgynous"; she was so much like a man that she called into serious question all of society's stereotypes and conceptions about what constituted "male" versus "female" behavior and psychology. She was not predatory, and certainly not predatory in the way Cherie Peroni had always been. There were male predators, and female predators, and Shane was neither. But just like the worst of the males of the species, if it had a pussy and held still long enough, Shane would happily fuck it, and then be on her way. She was a case study who tended to show that men and women were – or at least often enough could be – exactly alike, and not in a good way.

What was even more intriguing was how she became this way. In her 29 years she had probably spent less time around men and male role models than anyone she knew. The only men she had come into any sustained contact with had been during the six months she had been masquerading as a male prostitute. Her clients were the least likely of role models nor the templates of the randy, skirt-chasing horndogs, either. The one truly good man in her entire life had been a warm, loving, faithful, monogamous, understanding, sensitive, intelligent homosexual mensh, and was the last man on earth who adhered to the macho male, strutting, woman-conquering, find-'em-feel-'em-fuck-'em-forget-'em stud muffin stereotype.

So where had she learned this "male" sexual behavior? Clearly, she hadn't learned it anywhere. So that meant it was innate. Something in the genes. In the argument of nature versus nurture, Shane came down on the side that would get her thrown out of every women's consciousness group in all of California. It was probably just as well that this conundrum was well beyond Shane's self-awareness. It was hard enough just being an INFP, a self-sabotager and an orphan, never mind being the poster child for politically explosive gender identification.

***

Chase had been so pleased with the turnout and success of the Shane for Wax grand opening party that he decided to try holding a dance every other Saturday night at Wax, without any particular theme. He'd made good money selling beer from a keg at two bucks a cup, and the wine bar was a cash cow, too. Serving booze on the premises meant he'd had to cut out his under-21 clientele, but it was still worth it, and he'd figure out some way to make it up to the underage kids somewhere down the road. He'd owned the proper liquor license as an investment, and now it was beginning to pay off. Chase also liked that it turned down-time into a profit center – on Saturday evenings Wax had previously been closed because all the kids were out doing something else. And Chase also knew that one of the keys to a successful party was to hire the hottest DJ in all of LA – and her name was La Pica.

When Chase called to book her, Carmen accepted immediately, without even asking Shane's opinion, because it never dawned on her that Shane would object. And indeed, Shane had no objection to Carmen performing at Wax. But she found herself with a vague grievance floating in the back of her mind that Carmen should have run it past her. Her boss and business partner, and her lover and life partner – making a deal without even consulting her. Shane knew she couldn't say anything, but it irritated her all week.

They ate dinner early Saturday evening and then Carmen changed into one of her DJ outfits, this one black booty shorts and a black top that ended a couple of inches shy of her waist. Shane wore her favorite fancy dress outfit, her black tuxedo,with the black pants with the satin stripe down the outside of the legs. She wore a man's button-down white shirt, no necktie, and tuxedo jacket. Then she and Shane drove separately to Wax to get set up. Shane helped carry Carmen's gear inside, and then found she had nothing much to do for a while, since Carmen did the rest of her set-up by herself. Shane decided to go for a ride to kill some time. It was after nine by the time she got back to Wax, and as she walked through the crowd she ran into Chase near the overhead garage doors.

"Chase!" she called out.

"Hey. Where ya been?" he responded, doing fist bumps with her.

"Just driving around. How's it going?"

"Good! Your girl's blowing up in there." He turned and they both looked across the crowded store to the dais where Carmen was DJing and talking to a couple of black guys. "She's got some admirers."

"Oh, the Def Jam guys?" Shane recognized them as two of Russell Simmons posse from two weeks ago. One was named Roland and one was named ... Darnell, something like that.

"Yeah. I wasn't sure they'd come."

"It's great, that's what you wanted," Shane said. "You got this place on the map."

Chase nodded. "Thanks to both you and Carmen. I'm going to get a drink. Want one?"

"No, thanks." Chase drifted away and Shane looked out over the crowd. Then she saw Alice up near the stage, talking to somebody, and she went over to her, calling, "Alice! Alice!"

Alice looked over. "Hey, Shane! This is Uta. Shane."

"Uh, hey. Hiya doin'?" Shane said to Alice's friend. She was an attractive, dark-haired woman doing the Goth thing, black nail polish, lipstick so dark red it looked almost black in the dim light. She wore some sort of lacy braided necklace. She smiled at Shane and nodded hello. Shane suddenly remembered this was probably the vampire expert Alice had mentioned.

Just then Alice spotted Jenny dancing with Moira. "Wow! She's packin', she's packin'," Alice said. Shane and the Goth woman looked a little closer, and then they, too, noticed that Moira had a noticeable bulge in her jeans. Yep, Moira was packing.

"Ah, she's going for it," Shane said. "Good."

"Come on," Uta whispered to Alice, taking her away from Shane and embracing Alice in a slow dance. Shane grinned and watched as Uta slowly kissed Alice's jugular. Helena came to stand beside Shane and watched the dancers, amused. Uta was working on Alice's neck, going from one side to the other, and Alice was getting hotter and hotter ... but that wasn't quite the problem. She broke away from Uta.

"I'm ... gonna be right back. I'm gonna get us a drink. Be right back," Alice said. She made her way through the crowd and stood facing away from Uta, next to Helena.

"I think Uta might be a vampire," Alice whispered.

"What?" Helena asked, astonished. She turned to bring Shane into the conversation, but Shane had turned away herself, and was staring up at the stage, where the two black guys were still flirting with Carmen. Carmen was laughing and leaning in toward them as they talked. Her cleavage was right there. On display. Shane could tell the guys were admiring it and that Carmen was letting them. The roaring in her ears was so loud she barely noticed when Billie Blaikie came up to stand beside her. He was wearing a T-shirt that had "fuck yoga" printed on it, and had a drink in his hand. In his best bitchy, catty voice, he muttered to Shane, "Wow. Your little hot tamale's really working the big boys, huh."

Shane had enough. She handed Billie her beer. "Take that," she said, spun on her heels, and strode purposefully out the door.

Billie watched her go, smirking and knowing his little barb had landed. "Cheers," he said to himself.

***

In a better world, a perfect world, maybe, Shane might have been able to process her feelings about Carmen flirting with a couple of guys, but she didn't live in a perfect world, and her processing was notoriously flawed. The noise was intensely loud in her head because there was so much data coming in, how good Carmen looked with that sheen of sweat covering her body under the hot lights, her dazzling smile and her adorable laugh, the glint in her eyes, the way those two guys hung on her every word and looked at her tits when she leaned toward them, and the hard-ons in their pants, their easy, grinning way with her, as though they thought tonight they might get some of that fine Mexican panochota, as indeed, that was exactly what they did think. They'd heard the rumor that she was a lesbian, but they didn't care. They subscribed to the popular theory -- rejected more than once by the people who pick out Nobel Prize winners -- that you could convert a lesbian back to straight if you just gave her a really good fucking. They were happy to advance science if they could, and Carmen, winking and flirting, let them think that perhaps one day their names would join those of Kraft-Ebbing, Kinsey, Hite, Masters and Johnson, and Sparkle among the pioneers of sex research, especially if they D-P'ed her. She'd be straighter than a flagpole when they got done with her.

So it wasn't exactly like Shane was wrong about what they had on their minds, and what their expectations were, nor was she wrong about their woodies. No, Shane was dead right about all that, which only made things inside her head all the worse. She was even dead right about how edible Carmen looked, and how she was behaving. Why, it had even made Shane horny, although Shane spent a good deal of her life in that condition.

She was also feeling sorry for herself: She'd been so good so long. So faithful and true, and hadn't had any strange in, what was it now, seven, eight months? And dammit, Carmen had been a bitch about Cherie showing up at the salon. Shane had been mostly innocent -- a somewhat rare condition -- and it festered in her memory, something to be savored. Yes, there was that moment when Cherie had locked eyes with her, and yes, maybe Cherie would have kissed her. And yes, Cherie sure as hell wanted her. Shane's gaydar had seldom registered such a strong desire in someone to jump her bones. Cherie just seemed to have this ... this thing ... with Shane. She had Shane's number, and it was 69.

She walked through the gate and out along the sidewalk to her pickup, and got in. She debated a moment -- the good angel on one shoulder debating the bad angel on the other, if this had been a Looney Tunes cartoon -- and then took out her cell phone. Cherie's number was still in it, and she didn't even hesitate as she pressed the "connect" button.

Cherie answered on the second ring. Apparently Shane's number was still in her caller ID, too.

"Hey," Cherie whispered.

"Uh ... it's me."

"I know," Cherie said, quietly. "Hi, you."

"You ... uh ... you still at the beach house?"

"Mmmm-hmmm," Cherie said. "And you know what? I'm all alone, Shane. All alone, and feeling lonely."

"I, uh, is that invitation still open? To come out?"

She heard Cherie chuckle. "Sure is, babe. I knew you were gonna call. It was just a matter of when."

'Uh, yes, well, uh, I'll be there in a little while, then."

"Cool. I'll be waiting for you. And Shane?"

"Yes?"

"Bring your friend."

"Carmen's working tonight."

"I didn't mean her. I meant your other friend."

"My other friend?"

"Frankie. You remember Frankie, don't you, Shane? I gave him to you, remember?"

"Uh. Yes. Frankie. Right."

She heard the phone click as Cherie hung up.

***

Shane drove home like a maniac, and pulled into the driveway. She hurried in, hurried to her bedroom, unfastening her tuxedo pants as she went. She kicked off her shoes, dropped her pants and panties, and stood naked from the waist down, wearing only the T-shirt, white dress shirt, and tuxedo jacket. Reflexively, she reached down, touched herself, felt the wetness. She thought briefly about coming right then and there, but decided no. She opened her dresser drawer and reached into the back, removing the hibernating Frankie from the cool, dark, panty-lined cave where he slumbered, dreaming about falling and about entering long, dark tunnels. Time to wake up and go to work, Frankie. She held the harness apart and stepped into it, nestling the base up against her landing strip and clit, stepped back into her jeans, packed Frankie away and zipped up the fly. She stepped into a set of flip-flops and was back out the door. She'd been to Cherie's beach house a couple times before, and it was like her pickup truck knew the way through the streets of Malibu. She slowed the pickup to a crawl as she passed the front gate, and saw that someone had left it ajar. The big mansion seemed to be dark, a shadowy mass against the moonlight over the Pacific, which was just on the far side of the Jaffe compound. Well, it was probably the Peroni compound now.

Shane did a U-bie, and parked on the street, locked her pickup, and walked to the gate crossing the driveway. She slipped through the narrow opening, and then quietly pushed it closed behind her. When it closed all the way, she heard its lock click. She looked up at the house, and saw a glow from one of the upper floor windows. There was a silhouette up there, watching her. Shane walked up the driveway and saw the silhouette disappear from the window. She walked around the side of the house in the moonlight, and when she turned the corner into the back yard she saw the pool lights were on, a patch of softly glowing, shimmering blue water. She looked up at the house and saw Cherie standing in the doorway, back-lit against a glow from the kitchen. Shane walked toward her, climbed up a step and reached out to take the hand Cherie was offering to her.

Cherie wore jeans and a loose, white T-shirt and even in the half-light Shane could see the glistening of her eyes, and her hungry, cat-like grin, come-into-my-web-said-the-spider-to-the-fly. They laughed at each other, each knowing what was coming, Cherie walking backward, pulling Shane with her, tugging Shane's tuxedo jacket off and throwing it to the floor, then her fingers unbuttoning Shane's shirt, walking backwards through the house to the side door to the patio, laughing, Cherie running and pulling Shane by her shirt after her through the garden toward the pool. Cherie reached down to goose Shane's crotch -- Where's Waldo? -- laughing delightedly as Shane bucked away, not letting her cop a feel of Frankie just yet. They stopped by the pool, Cherie pulling at Shane's shirt so hard it ripped a button off, Cherie laughing and tearing it all the way off of her, Shane laughing, too, pulling Cherie toward her and then they were kissing, Shane's arms around Cherie, her hands grasping Cherie's ass, her hips thrusting into Cherie so this time she could feel the bulge. Cherie pulled away from the kiss with an odd look on her face, dropped her hands to Shane's crotch. Yes, no doubt about it now: Frankie had left West Hollywood and had come to Malibu. She unzipped Shane's fly and stuck her hand in and grasped him just as Shane pushed her hands away. Cherie grabbed for the bottom of Shane's T-shirt, lifting, pulled it up over her head, Shane not resisting at all. And there they were, the legendary nipples Cherie remembered sucking and licking and biting, what was it, a year ago? She wanted them again now, and bent to suckle the left one, Shane cradling her head and letting her discover how hard that nipple was, how erect, how ready for Cherie's lips.

Then Shane pulled Cherie's head away and spun her around, Cherie laughing as Shane lifted her T-shirt, her hips thrust hard into Cherie's butt, Cherie bending forward, letting her ass get a taste of Frankie, because sure as hell before the night was over, Frankie was going to drill Cherie's rosebud. The T-shirt came up, Shane tossed it away, and then Cherie pulled Shane by the hand toward the steps to the pool. Then they were in the water, still wearing their pants, Cherie still in her peach-colored bra. They wrapped their arms around each other and kissed, kissed long, again and again, couldn't get enough of each other, tongues in each other's mouths, in water up to their tits, hugging and kissing. Shane dropped down under water, knelt on the bottom, her mouth seeking Cherie's navel under the water, tongue-fucking it, her hands on Cherie's buttcheeks until she ran out of air, surfaced spluttering to Cherie's laughter. Shane pushed her backward to the wall of the pool and helped hoist her up. Then Shane hoisted herself out, too, both of them in sexual frenzy, Shane pushing Cherie down on her back and taking up position between Cherie's legs, wetly dry-humping her, humping Frankie through two pair of pants and Shane saying fuck it, reaching down and pulling Cherie's jeans down, Cherie helping and pulling them off and tossing them into the pool because what she wanted was to get fucked, now, Shane pulling Cherie's tiny panties down to her thighs only far enough to get them out of the way, no time even to take them off, it didn't matter, Cherie's pussy was there. Shane reached down into the fly of her tuxedo trousers, found Frankie and freed him in her hand to the night air, but only for a second. She unbuttoned the pants and dropped them to her knees and fed Frankie hungrily into Cherie's wet pussy, wet from the pool but oh so much wetter for other reasons. Cherie screeched low in her throat as she felt Frankie penetrate, wrapped her legs around Shane's thighs, pulling Shane in, Shane humping and fucking her with long, deep thrusts. Cherie twisted until her head hung back over the edge of the pool, reached her arms back over her head to hang on as Shane fucked her and fucked her, then Shane pulled her around again, fucking and kicking off her pants so that she was now naked between Cherie's legs, naked except for Frankie and the strap around Shane's waist that kept Frankie in place, the base rubbing against Shane's mons and her clit, the business end deeply buried in Cherie's pussy, gliding rhythmically into the self-lubricated tunnel, her face buried in Cherie's neck. Then Shane pushed up onto her elbows, then onto her extended arms, looking down into Cherie's face, slack-jawed, because Cherie was coming, Shane could feel the spasms in the thighs that gripped her and thrust up at her as Shane's hips gently pumped, Cherie's hands holding Shane's face as Shane felt the throbbing in her own clit now, and so she thrust her own cum into Cherie, the thrusts irregular and spasmodic, sharp, grunting, coming, and then she dropped down, again burying her face into Cherie's neck, both of them feeling the tidal orgasms slowly ebb away until there was nothing to hear but the quiet lapping of the water in the pool.