Impact 12½: of Alumnae

For those who pay attention to such things: When Sarah is alone the story is in the past tense. When Claire and Sarah are together the story is in present tense.

Thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for copy editing - repeatedly.

Saturday morning I let myself sleep in late, finally waking up to a series of hearts and exclamation points from Claire about the pics and video I'd sent, but only one hurried text. I imagined her having to sneak a quick look at her phone in a bathroom stall.

Knew this would be NSFW but I'm so glad I didn't open this anywhere NEAR anyone else AND put my headphones in - my Sarah is REALLY loud!!!

That made me groan, remembering what I had done. I went back and looked at the pictures I'd sent. What had I been thinking? I made myself watch the video. There was the fumbling confusion and then a blurry close up of my face.

Was something smeared on the lens? My breath sounded harsh and labored. The camera was still shaking, now to a steady, if furious rhythm. I felt myself blushing with a terrible mortification.

"Oh God Claire! AhhhH-"

I switched off the phone and buried my face in my pillow. I'd broken out in a full body sweat. I was beyond mortified.

'What had I done? What had I been thinking?'

I forced my breathing to slow, let my heart drop back to a steady rhythm.

'It's Claire,' I reminded myself, a bit surprised by how well it worked. My skin cooled and my guts unwound. My attention returned to the world around me, the fresh breeze and sunshine coming in from my bedroom window. I took a deep breath. I looked at my phone, at the hearts she had sent. The glowing little forms made me feel so good. I found myself examining them as if it was her handwriting; searching the script itself for meaning.

I texted her back, admitting I was embarrassed and sorry for not warning her about getting loud, but so glad she liked the pics, and hoped the video would help tide us over until she got home. I finished watching it, me begging her to come back to me, telling her I would do anything she wanted, how badly I wanted to make her cum. It was like something out of the Blair Witch Project.

'"Really sexy Sarah," I snorted. I was happily surprised when my phone began to vibrate with a string of more hearts and a text.

I'm surrounded, but don't be sorry or embarrassed, you are so beautiful. I will send you a video as soon as I can!

I replied with a string of hearts for her, and a sleepy looking selfie, smiling in front of a sea of bedhead.

I wish I was in your pocket, that you were holding me in your hand.

I waited for a reply, but she was gone.

'Back to work,' I reassured myself, staring at my phone. Hoping against hope to see the little animated ellipsis, that I might get one more text.

'She's in the thick of it now,' I told myself, picturing her in an enormous convention center, telling a handsome collector about Sophie Calle or one of her other artists.

I could feel my mood turning glum and pushed the feelings away, jumping up to start my coffee. I left the Chemex to finish draining and snuck out of my apartment, barefoot and wrapped in my robe. I managed to get all the way downstairs without being seen by any of my neighbors, and was pleasantly surprised to find my paper hadn't been stolen. I sorted the sections I would read first as I made the climb back up to my apartment. I spent most of my Saturday in bed, snoozing, reading the paper and listening to my French lessons.

Finally hunger got the best of me. I snacked on half a piece of cold mushroom lasagna standing at the kitchen counter. I looked again at the pictures Claire had sent me and the ones I'd sent her. And there, in front of the smeared remains of my leftovers, I opened my robe and started to touch myself, but then, struck by the absurdity of what I was doing, stopped.

'This is getting crazy,' I thought. 'You're going to break your pussy.'

I had been resisting the urge all day, and decided, there in the kitchen, staring down on my bechamel-flecked pyrex container, that I needed to take a break.

'You've gone weeks without even thinking of sex,' I accused myself. 'MONTHS!'

"Yeah, but that was then," some snarky part of me said dismissively, making me bark a decidedly not-lady-like laugh. All the same, I wrapped my robe back around myself and refused to give into the urge.

Instead I got dressed and made myself up. Teasing my bedhead into a mess of curls I imagined Claire would have appreciated. I looked cute, loose and relaxed - maybe a little slutty - but not too slutty for my visit with Father Mike.

Looking at myself in the mirror I wished I was going to meet Claire, that I had dressed myself as if I was. It struck me that I'd never dress like this if I were going out on a date.

'Not a date with a guy,' I thought as I tripped lightly out the door of my building and into the quiet of a balmy midtown Saturday afternoon. I realized I had plenty of time, and decided to walk to church - which made me catch myself, but that's what I was doing, going to church.

'But with none of the dread or self loathing,' I realized. I was practically skipping.

It was as I was heading crosstown through the Lower East Side that I saw two women walking towards me in their workout gear. They were both wearing tight tops that were barely sports bras and high waisted yoga shorts that left their midriffs bare. Their shorts were tight enough that what they did cover left very little to the imagination. Even from a distance I could make out the shape of their pussy lips through the thin fabric.

'Camel toe.'

The crude term leapt to mind, but somehow felt sexy rather than derogatory - perfectly suiting these two. Their groins and hips looked hard and lean. Muscular thighs, long and cut, bulged out of the snug little shorts. I could clearly see light through the gaps between their legs. But pushing through the thin fabric of their shorts, the lips of their pussies looked soft and full; plump even.

'I should have taken care of myself,' I realized, forcing myself to look away, feeling wound up and impatient with my newly raging libido... I was already looking again.

One of the women, the taller of the two, had short cropped hair, longer on top and parted on one side like a boy. But she had tattoos that went from her hairline, down the side of her neck, and covered her arm. At a distance I couldn't make them out, but they were different from any tattoos I'd seen before; a colorful carpet of pale lines.

The other woman had longer hair, but cropped short on one side. They both looked fierce and confident and butch. They were laughing and talking, not paying attention to me. The sidewalk was narrow. I couldn't help watching them, but approaching them I felt increasingly self conscious and girly in my little dress and purse, which I fought not to clutch nervously. I walked carefully in my heels, while they swaggered in their trainers, rolled yoga mats slung carelessly over their shoulders.

As they got closer I could feel them appraising me. Felt myself blushing under their regard as they made way for me to pass. I couldn't meet their eyes, but couldn't stop myself from checking out the tattoos. They were like something out of Victorian botanical illustrations. Pale greens and flecks of whitish blue - colors I'd never associated with tattoos - made up a dense mass, like Albrecht Dürer's Great Piece of Turf entirely sleeving her muscular arm in exacting, fine lined traceries. The designs were exquisitely feminine. But she was anything but soft.

"Take a closer look."

It was the woman with the longer hair. She was smiling at me. Her tone was friendly, but I'd been staring. She was taunting me. I felt my face burn red.

"Sorry, sorry..." was all I mumbled, tuning away and scurrying to pass. I heard them laugh, probably at me. I resisted the urge to look back at them. Afraid they must be looking at me; that I'd get caught looking again.

I thought of Claire working out. Imagined what it would be like to workout with her, in a room full of women like that. I imagined her telling me what to do, being strict, like when she told me how to blowout her hair. I pictured her guiding my movements with her hands while the others looked on.

"Enough! Do as I say!" I remembered her spitting with impatience. "Fucking eat my pussy!

I was more than blushing at the memory of how shocked and excited I'd been. How I'd leapt to obey her order, but I was imagining a tattooed hand gripping my hair, forcing me down between her friend's legs.

"Take a closer look," I imagined her saying again as I put out my tongue and licked her cunt.

'I really should have jilled,' I thought, wishing I wasn't so wound up. I stopped to take a deep breath and dug out my phone to text Claire, my hands shaking. I stared at my phone, not knowing what to write. It would have been past ten there, the final night of the fair. She would be at an event or maybe a dinner party. I pictured her in crowded parlor, with high ceiling and heavy plaster moldings. I imagined her in the sheer gray dress she had packed, it's plunging neckline and short hem; wondered which heels she would be wearing. I wanted to tell her how hot she made me feel, how impossibly sexy I thought she was.

I miss you. I hope the Belgians are feeding you well, that you're having fun. I wish I was there with you, that I could see you work, that I was waiting for you in your hotel room at the end of the day. That I could greet you, hear all your stories, and do all the other things. I miss you. I miss taking care of you. I miss your fingers in my hair. I miss you

I hit send.

'...and the other thing.'

I remembered the way Claire's cheeks had flushed when I'd said that to her in the little bar the night before she left. I could feel my panties getting wet.

'You are going to see a priest!'

It was my mother's voice. I shuddered and started walking again, but not before I turned to see if the women were still in sight; they were gone.

I was still feeling a bit shaky when I stopped at Veniero's Pasticcera. Not knowing what exactly Father Mike would enjoy, but guessing he'd probably like everything, I had fun with the guy behind the counter picking out an assortment of mini chocolate eclairs, sfogliatelle, lobster tails, and jewelry perfect individual cheesecakes.

"Whom the gods would destroy..." Father Mike started, looking at me with an expectation of understanding, which I clearly did not have. "They first make mad?"

"Are you mad?" I asked.

"Mad enough to eat this whole box by myself, and then spend the rest of the week regretting it."

"Well I thought you might want to share with me and, I don't know, maybe the guys?" I said, thinking of the men I'd seen him working with the week before, down and out, beaten. "Also, pretty sure there's no mention of 'gods' in the scriptures, what's that from?"

"Longfellow's 'The Masque of Pandora', he explained.

"I don't know it," I admitted.

"Epic poem..." he admitted with a dismissive wave. Adding, "She shall possess all gifts."

He had greeted me in the offices and walked me back through the rectory. There was a big oak paneled dining room with a china cabinet full of cut crystal stemware and a long oak table with seating for twelve, but he led me past all that.

We were seated at a Jetsons era formica table with chrome trim and legs that seated four - two tall glasses of milk, the box of pastries, and two fussy gold rimmed little china plates between us. The avocado and black tiled kitchen of the rectory reminded me of the kinds of kitchens big families with lots of kids have, like the McNamaras and the Kellys.

It was clean but over-full. Too much of everything in the cabinets. Too many plates, too many mugs. The fridge was packed with too much food. Everything was love worn, with chips and stains and scratches. The faded formica countertops had chrome trim just like the table. It must have been renovated in the 50s or early 60s. The linoleum floors looked slightly newer, didn't really match, maybe something added in the 1970s.

But it was also different too. It wasn't a mother's kitchen for children, it was a kitchen for men, but still, men taken care of by women.

I wondered idly what this room might have looked like a century ago, picturing dark oak cabinets and an ice box, a Holly Hobby cast iron stove rather than the avocado gas range. I pictured ruddy faced women, in laced boots and skirts down past their ankles wearing frilly high collared blouses that covered their forearms and obscured shelf-like bosoms. Imagined them huffing in terrible heat, working to cook and clean for stern-faced men, steeped in scripture. Tried to imagine being trapped in that sort of life; saw my father's furious blue eye glaring down on me. I shook off the image with a shudder, drawing a curious look from Father Mike.

"This place must have a lot of history," I told him, fingering the lace runner he'd placed the pastry box on. Wondering if the woman who made it was still alive. Father Mike had been examining the contents of the box, naming each item - he clearly knew Veniero's well - but now he was looking at me.

"A guilty pleasure," he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. And then, giving me a deeper look, he said, "so, you look good... are you meeting Claire after this?"

I blushed. Explaining that Claire was away, but that I was meeting a group of friends from school later.

A Nigerian priest named Joseph came in and we pressed him to have his first eclair, laughing at his ecstatic reaction. The women from the office came in, were introduced, and took their share of the pastries before retreating back to their desks. Once we were alone again I told Father Mike about all the things I'd been too tangled up to tell him about before, Wes's visit, the age difference, but also about the Style piece and Game Times, and about telling Kip. My second visit with Father Mike couldn't have been more different than the first.

"You seem happy," he said as he walked me out.

"I am," I admitted, surprised by my resolve. And at the moment I said it, I believed it.

"You remind me so much of your uncle Pat," he said as we parted, staring into my eyes. Not so much looking at me, as looking into me. Like he was searching for something in a pool of water.

There was a text from Claire waiting for me when I checked my phone.

I miss you too! So much! This night will never end. I'm being bustled off to the after party. Not a moment to myself. You might get to bed before I do. I hope we cross paths before I sleep. I owe you a video if nothing else ;)

I reached Lil Frankie's a bit early, the only other person waiting in the entranceway was Darci, who had seen me and was waving.

'Too late to walk away and come back' I thought, a stony dread taking shape in my stomach. With a deep breath I smiled and pushed in.

We greeted each other with an awkward hug followed by an even more awkward silence.

"Kwasi says you're dating someone," she said finally, maybe feeling as uncomfortable as me. "But he says you won't say who; very mysterious."

"It's just early I guess?"

"Don't want to jinx it."

"Something like that."

"Well, Kwasi was really excited for you to meet Oliver - he's a super nice guy."

I studied Darci, her dark hair and high cheekbones, her beautifully painted lips. She had gained a little weight since moving to New York - but if anything it made her prettier, more womanly.

Remembering Kip's shocked expression, I decided to just tell her about Claire.

"Sarah!"

The sound of my name, of the voice, was so unbelievable, even recognizing who it was, I was still shocked to see Rebekah when I turned.

I was so happy I burst into tears.

"What?" I blinked. "Wait! No! What are you doing here?" I asked, embracing her.

When I had recovered enough to look around, I saw a worried looking Ali standing in the doorway. I was still clutching Rebekah, Ali reached around to stroke my back.

"Nice to see you haven't changed," Rebekah whispered.

"But how?" I blubbered, taking a tissue from Ali.

"I invited her," Ali said, beaming at me, her eyes a little wet with sympathetic tears. "We're both in town for the same conference - we're at the same hotel!"

"We were chatting in the elevator and Ali told me she was going to meet up with classmates, and-"

"Oh my God you went to Brown, blah blah," Ali laughed.

"-inside of two sentences we made the Hill House connection-"

"You two had never met?" Darci asked, boggling at the chances.

"How fucking random, right?!" Ali laughed.

"Totally random," I agreed, snotty and still weeping.

"We realized we both knew you before we got to the lobby," Rebekah continued. "Ali told me I had to come, that you might be here!"

Dinner was fun. It ended up being nine of us. Kwasi was the only guy. All the ladies had dressed up. We all teased him about how happy he looked.

Ali was at the head of the table, I was on the other end. A woman from Ali's class I didn't remember, named Jess was to my left, and Kwasi was next to her. Rebekah sat to my right, with Darci on her other side. And while the conversation at the table was engaging and at times even a bit rowdy, Rebekah and I had a chance to catch up. She hadn't heard until tonight that I was at the Times and wanted to know all about my work and life in New York.

"I sometimes wish I had come here instead of SF," she admitted.

"I've always wanted to go to San Francisco," I told her. And it was true. But I didn't tell Rebekah the reason I used to imagine going there was to visit her.

"SF is nice," she said somewhat half-heartedly, but must have realized, because she brightened up. "Oh, don't get me wrong! It's beautiful and I have a good life there - you should totally visit! But, even so, it's not New York, everything is so heightened here."

Rebekah was only a few years older than the rest of us, but seemed so much more adult than the rest of us - not just older but more mature, more... established. She had clearly done well for herself. She owned her place in SF, had a car and showed us pictures of her dog. The rest of us were still living like students. She didn't say so, but had clearly made a lot of money when the company she had worked for with her friend Zach had gone public. She was careful not to talk about a partner, but wore a giant diamond engagement ring. And while she and Ali were attending the same Women In Tech conference, Ali had come for her new job, a junior manager, Rebekah was there as the owner of her own company.

"It's a nonprofit," she explained. "Mission driven; just me and a few others..."

Rebekah had such a big place in my memory and my imagination I had trouble absorbing the reality of her. When I'd seen her last she'd favored tight hip hugger jeans and baby-ts, her thick black hair worn down or carelessly held in a bun with a pencil or a chopstick, or whatever else might be on hand. Now she was dressed the part of casual Friday corporate warrior. Her hair back and carefully coiffed and perfumed, a light gray pedicure the edgiest element of her well considered look. I couldn't help finding the shift a bit disappointing.