Claudia

I took her by the hem of her shirt and dragged along the ball towards me and as she came to a seated position I pulled her shirt over her head, wrapped my arms around her and undid her bra, but when I tried to pull it off, she stopped me, folding her arms over her chest and hunching forward, with her arms on her knees.

"I'm not as pretty as you, Laura."

She seemed scared, she often seemed scared, I wondered how badly she had been emotionally hurt in the past. "Would you rather I didn't take your bra off, Claudia? Would you rather I never took your clothes off? Would you rather we go through our lives together with you always clothed?"

"No."

I just looked at her, sternly, often a very good weapon of mine and she straightened on the ball and when she brought her arms away from her chest, she dropped her bra. I don't know if I gasped, I might have because she flinched noticeably and I had to stop her from covering up. She wouldn't look at me. She sat with her shoulders hunched, staring at her knees. Her breast looked like large deep brown walnuts on which had been glued thick erect nipples. I hadn't known such breasts existed. But somehow they suited her, they seemed in place under her white boney shoulders and her impossibly thin trunk. But the tension in the air was thick, so I pulled at her legs and when she fell back on the ball, I rolled it forward so her breasts were on top of the ball pointing to the ceiling. I lowered my mouth onto one.

It was hard, almost like rubber and the stiff nipple could have been a wet eraser. But it was her breast, her nipple, so I gently sucked on it, as I had watched her suck on mine and I listen for her mumming. But she didn't. I heard only light, joyful moaning and I could feel her fingers playing in my hair and the ball rolling almost imperceptibly as she teased the nipple in my mouth.

I don't know when I had been so aroused. This was the woman who so had often looked at me with unconcealed love, who told me I was beautiful, who massaged me, encouraged me, scrubbed me in the bath, cooked for me, lay against me. I felt a rush of passion and could well have lost it when she rolled forward on the ball and held my head and kissed me, sucking on my lips, moaning in my mouth had she not quickly rolled away so her white belly, folded over the ball, was beneath my face and my tongue was in her naval.

When my hands were on her waistband she rolled her bottom away from the ball and I pulled her pants and panties down to her ankles, pulled off her shoes and stripped her pants away.

Then I gasped. She was the hairiest woman I had ever seen, have ever imagined. The thin trail of hair from her naval ended in a massively thick pubic forest that spread onto her inner thighs. And her legs below the knee, too, were dense with black hair. My words were stupid, but I wasn't thinking clearly, "You don't shave."

She fell off the ball towards me, awkwardly and her words came out in a torrent, "I will, I will if you want me to, I bought the stuff to do it with, I brought it here, I will if you want me to, I was going to but I waited because of something you said." I was wondering what I could have possibly said to stop her from shaving when she answered my question, "You said we should make these decisions together."

She was clearly miserable and frightened so I took her in my arms and held her, kissing her shoulder. "We will make a decision together. But not now," I laughed, "right now I wouldn't change a hair." If she thought it was funny she didn't laugh but she didn't put up a protest either when I lay her on the floor and kneeled over her. "I think you're beautiful."

"I'm not beautiful."

I kissed her lightly on the lips and on her eyes, "Last night I was lying here, about where you are and you were leaning over me like I am leaning over you. You said to me, 'You are really beautiful.' But I had said, I'm not ...

She quickly protested, "You are."

I kissed her on the shoulder again, "I'm not ..."

"You are to me."

I lightly kissed her lips, "I know I am to you, I know I'm beautiful to you. And you are beautiful to me. Got it?" She didn't respond, so I repeated myself more insistently. "Got it! If you don't let yourself be beautiful to me, then why should I let myself be beautiful to you?"

She hesitated, then said, "Got it." Then she looked up at me, trying to read my face. "But do you believe it?"

"Lie there and find out." I leaned down and gently kissed her breasts, flicking each nipple, then I dragged my tongue slowly down her stomach and followed the line of hair to her pussy. I had never seen another woman's vulva before, had not really even seen my own. Hers, as I've said, was buried in a thicket of stiff black hair and I felt like an archeologist when I went looking for it. But it was there, it was very pink, it was very wet and it was very fragrant.

I had never done this before, never thought of doing it, but I buried my face in her hair and nuzzled at it playfully, but when I looked at her I could she that she didn't see the fun in it. Her eyes, glazed with sex, seemed to be pleading with me, her thick nipples on her odd, walnut shaped breasts, impossibly erect. I carefully parted her hair and gently slid a finger into her hot, slick pussy and at my touch, she brought her heels to her bottom, spread her knees and let out a long, guttural moan that sounded like it had come from years of deprivation. She wasn't going to last long, that was obvious. I quickly sat down, and with my finger in her, barely moving, I scooped her up in my arm and pressed my lips onto her moaning mouth and as soon as I did, she wrapped an arm around my neck, squeezed me tight and began to buck at my fingers.

I knew the beginning of the end began with her cry. Uninhibited, loud and wet, she pressed her mouth to mine and cried in ecstasy as I quickened my finger on her clit — and then a great flood of cum washed over my hand, at first in a torrent and then in waves as I watched her tight, white stomach spasm as if forcing the juices from her. And then she went limp. But only for a moment then she started to laugh. It was a foreign sound, I had never really heard her laugh before, but she was laughing now and forcing me onto the floor and she was on me, kissing all over my face, wet kisses from a mouth wide open with laughter. "Oh, God, Laura," she panted, "what was that?" She pulled away and looked down at her pussy, not believing the sensation and when she did, she noticed that my pant leg was soaked from her juices and she started to laugh uncontrollably, at the sheer vulgarity, at the absolute delight and the unimagined impossibility of it all.

She was still laughing when I brought her the towel and she laughed as she daubed at her crotch, then rubbed at the wetness on the rug. I left her with the mystery she was still clearly enjoying and went to run her bath. When I came back I helped her to her feet. I know she was acting as I dragged her, almost rubber-legged, to the bathroom, still laughing with a child-like joy that made my head spin.

I made supper as she bathed, insisting that she stay in the tub until I was finished. I wanted to dry her, wanted to rub her taut, youthful body with a towel.

I was in bed already drowsy when she lifted the sheet and climbed in beside me, cuddling into me in the familiar crevasse of my body. She kissed me lightly on my lips, "Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?" I whispered back, chuckling. She had been thanking me since the moment I began to dry her. "For the negligee?" I teased, referring to the negligee I had given her earlier, the one she didn't want.

"No, I loved the negligee, loved the colour, everything."

"Then why haven't you got it on?"

"Because I want to feel you." She hesitated, "That's why I wore your negligee last night, to feel you," she hesitated again, longer this time, "and that's why I worse your panties today. To feel you, to feel our intimacy, God, I just love you so much."

"You wore my underwear?" I was fascinated.

"Yes."

I was shocked, I didn't know what to say, "Mine are a little big for you, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"But you worse them anyway."

"Yes. I didn't want to leave you this morning. It was all I could think to do."

I turned into her and hugged her, letting her know I was OK with it, and I was, I guess, but I sure didn't get it. But I knew I really didn't understand her, either. She was so different from me, so different in every way. And then I saw the picture of her naked body curled across the top of the ball, thin, white and unbelievably hairy, revoltingly hairy. And then I saw my daughter so many years before, handed to me, wrapped in a white towel, her pink face scarred with wrinkles, her tiny mouth a slash of anger. I remembered then, too, I had a fleeting jolt of disgust and then my heart flooded her with love, just like now.

But for coffee, we didn't leave our bed until noon. We just talked and touched and laughed and languished in each other's body, not wanting to pull away.

I was at my dresser about to get dressed when it occurred to me. I searched through my panties and found a sexy pair I had long since grown out of. I turned and lobbed them to her, smiling, then got dressed as she left to take a shower.

She wanted to grocery shop when I went to meet a friend, which was fine by me, I hated grocery shopping. So we had our afternoons planned.

"You said your friend is recuperating from an operation. What kind of an operation?" She had walked back into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel.

I was looking into the mirror, putting on my earrings. I could see through the mirror her eyes were on me. "She had breast reduction surgery last week."

She dropped the towel as she said, "Breast reduction, wow. Is she feeling all right?"

I stared in shock. She had on my panties, but not the ones I had chosen for her and had thrown to her; the ones I wore yesterday! I stammered, "Yes, yes, she's fine, she just recovering." And I hurried from the room.

I hadn't planned to tell her. Even though she'd been my best friend for almost 20 years I didn't think I was ready to. I didn't even really know my own feelings. Every time I had the confidence that our relationship could possibly make sense, she would do something to dramatized the gulf between us. It took me a long time to understand the negligee thing, but, eventually, I thought I got it — then the panties. She looked absolutely ridiculous standing there in panties she had to knot to keep up, my panties, day old panties! God bless me, talk about intimacy! But as shocked and confused as I was, what did seep through my confusion was what appeared to be an absolute fact. She loved me, she absolutely loved me, for whatever reason, and I was weakened at the thought, weak at home, at work, on the bus, everywhere, weak and dizzy. This girl I hardly knew, who shocked me daily, loved me, thought me beautiful, touched me, waited on me, read at my feet — looked at me. She loved me and when I fully accept her, fully accept her life and her quirks, I knew I would love her too. But can I accept her?

Sue just stared at me, "Good, God."

Sue had remained absolutely quiet, absolutely still for the hour it took me to tell her the story, every part of it, from our first accidental encounter in the restaurant on that first Tuesday night, to her ridiculous reflection in the mirror, just two hours ago. I knew why I had told her. I needed help. I needed her to help me to understand my feelings. And I knew I could trust her. But I knew she would be shocked, too, and that was written all over her face.

"But can you just become a lesbian? Is that possible?"

"I don't know." And I didn't. "Anyway, I don't think of it that way. I think of it as becoming Claudia-ized," I didn't think it was funny, but I smiled. "God, I really need your help. I am just so fucking lost."

"Lost? Lost how? In love?"

I nodded, "Maybe. Lost in confusion."

"Let me ask you one question."

I smiled, not really looking at her, "I hate it when you say that. What follows always shakes me up."

She ignored me. "Since you met her, what would you change?"

It wasn't the question that shocked me, it was my answer. When I leaned into her I was careful not to press against her breasts. I just leaned on her shoulder and cried.

We met again after work on the following Wednesday night, Sue and I, Claudia was to join us a half hour later. I wanted them to meet, I wanted my best friends to meet, or my best friend and my lover. But I was scared, too. I respected Sue, enormously. She knew people, could see right into them – and right through them. I was risking a lot. I would know at a glance how she felt about Claudia and me and I knew she wouldn't try to hide it.

But that wasn't why I asked her to meet Claudia. I told her I wanted her help. Sue is the most stylish woman I know. She knows clothes, and God knows, Claudia needed clothes, different clothes and lots of them. Not for her sake, but for mine: I couldn't bare to see her leave the apartment one more day in the same kind of pants and shirt. I thought if they met, Sue could get some sense of her, think about her, visualize the way she could look — Sue was good at this — and we could shop on the weekend, the three of us, two against one, two pulling the one into the stores, no doubt kicking and screaming.

If she was shocked, she didn't show it. Claudia glided up to the table and stood beside me, waiting for the introduction before sitting down. She was nervous, I could feel that and when I looked up at her I remembered how remote she seemed the first few times I had met her, as if she defended herself by escaping inward. At the time, I thought she had the look of an orphan. She had that look now, and I realized it was nerves. She unconsciously leaned into me when she sat down.

I didn't think I could get out of bed. My pilates classes seemed to be attaining the black belt level, or whatever you get when you're pushed to the limit. I hurt from head to foot so the oil, warmed in the microwave, felt soothing, as did her fingers as they tried to probe the pain from muscles too long ignored. I was in the bath when I asked her to try them on. "No reason," I said, when she asked why, "just want to see if they fit." She did, but skeptically and when they were on she sat on the toilet lid. "Well?" I asked.

"Well what?" She tried to appear innocent but I had the feeling she knew where I was going.

"Would you appear in public like that?"

She looked down but only for an instant. The sight of her thick black hair pressed into grotesque curls inside the pantyhose was gross to anyone's eyes. "No."

"Well, you have a choice. On Monday, when you go to work, you're going in a nicely tailor skirt, with a pretty blouse and attractive shoes."

She protested, "I don't wear skirts."

"No, you didn't wear skirts, just like I didn't do exercise."

I had never seen her pout before, but that's what she appeared to be doing as she pushed at the pantyhose. I chose not to laugh.

What I had in mind was going to be a major undertaking so I thought she should soften up by taking a long bath. She knew I had her by her very thick and curlys: she could hardly insist that I punish my body every other day if she wouldn't shave off a little unsightly hair, unsightly, I suspected, even to her.

After her bath the smile on her face was as if she was a lamb on the way to the shearing shack.

As she sat on the toilet seat, I laid everything out on the floor, the shaving cream, the two packs of razors, the scissors and the healing cream. I had even made sure there were band aids near by, (but out of sight).

"Oh, cheer up, you might even find you have pretty legs under that forest."

She didn't say anything, didn't look at me, as I lathered her leg to begin the task that would take over an hour.

She was obedient, if a little reluctant. I massaged the shaving cream into her leg and very carefully took it off, cleaning the blade in the bath tub. It went smoothly, and when I finished her leg, I used a wet face clothe from the sink to clean off all the soapy residue. "I thought so." I said, sitting back on my heels, admiring my work. "You have absolutely gorgeous legs, did you know that?"

"No." And I had no doubt she didn't.

I was about to wash and soap the second leg when I had a bright idea. "Be back in a sec," I said, and I hurried to the bedroom, took the mirror down from the wall and placed it against the dresser. "Can you give me a hand?" I called to her.

When she came into the room, I waved her over to me and when she stood beside me I pointed, "Well?"

She laughed at the reflection of her two contrasting legs in the mirror, bumped me with her hip, then hurried back into the bathroom. She was on the toilet, her hairy leg waiting for me. When I finished it, I announced, "Stage one done."

"Stage one?" She didn't sound happy.

"Scoot down." I pulled at her legs. She resisted.

"Just scoot down, Jeez, don't be such a baby. Do I fight you ever time you tell me to fold my self around your bloody ball."

She did scoot down, but reluctantly, "What are you going to do?"

"Open your legs," I pulled at them, roughly.

"Oh, God, are you going to shave me?"

"No, I'm not going to shave you, I'm going to trim you, so stay still or you might get circumcised."

This was a delicate operation. I wanted to shave the hair off the insides of her legs, and out of her crotch, if I could do it without hurting her. I wasn't terribly confident. I wasn't exactly a pro at this; I didn't have her problem. So I got her to open her legs wide and I got her to pull up on her pussy while I delicately shaved away what I could. Together, we did a pretty good job and when it was over I gave her a triumphant smile.

"I don't see why you had to do that."

"I'll show you. I leaned in and kissed her bald groin, licking at it, ticking her until she pushed me away." I looked up at her.

"Point made, point taken."

She made to get up but I insistently pushed her back. "Stage three will take just a minute," and before she could protest, I stealthily picked up the scissor and began to prune the forest. That took some time and some decisions, which we discussed: the cut back? How far to go? I wanted more than she did but flushed with my previous victories, I didn't press my advantage. When it was over I lathered up my hands with the healing cream and slathered it all over her legs and groin.

When I had finally finished and let her get up, she said, "I can't wait for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Why?" I didn't know what she was referring to.

She smiled mischievously, "It's pilates day, otherwise known as payback time."

It was a triumph: collegial, girlish, fun. Claudia hadn't protested, not once, not after seeing her legs, lightly tanned with pantyhose, materialize so elegantly beneath the hem of the beautifully tailored, grey skirt. And the attention. She loved it. The day was all about her. Sue and I could not have been more doting.

We were all smiles and a little tired when we dropped all the bags and boxes and collapsed onto the benches at the coffee bar, Claudia pressing into me, a happy glow on her face. Sue sat opposite no less pleased. I had worried about this shopping trip ever since Sue and I had met on Wednesday, but it had gone perfectly. Claudia had a new wardrobe and, I suspected, the resolve to wear it.

Everything had been perfect, right up until Jennifer Hewitt dropped by. That's when things changed. But she wasn't there for long, just a few minutes of small talk, but when she left I noticed Sue and Claudia had become eerily quiet.

Sue broke the silence, "Claudia, would you mind getting me a sandwich. I just don't have the energy to get up." Sue barely waited until Claudia had left when she leaned forward on the table and lit into me. "That was disgraceful. Shocking. You should be ashamed of yourself."