New Beginnings

No, I couldn't. I responded to her response: "Davina sounds sexy. It suits you."

Her reply was lightning fast. "In bed I can be Dave or Davina. Work it out. And I'll see you at twelve."

She was waiting outside our office when I exited, promptly this time. I must admit I caught a few curious glances from colleagues but did I care? Make that a no. I didn't know what game I was playing . . . didn't actually have a clue . . . but it felt right. A couple of my uni friends had been openly lesbian. I hadn't had propositions from them . . . not apart from a few earthy joke ones, anyway . . . so I felt qualified to play my part.

Whatever it was.

That lunchtime followed the path of our first one. We bought and ate our meals. Conversed. The only difference was that Dave was not keen on telling tales. She was inquisitive instead.

No, I told her. No current boyfriend. And no, no girlfriend ever. Did I like blokes? No, not very much. I was three years fallow. All my recent lovers had been of the celluloid variety. Well, maybe digital . . .

Back to girls, she insisted. Wasn't I even curious?

I admitted I was Men Behaving Badly with that. When she asked me what that meant I more or less quoted Tony. "If I was a girl I'd definitely give it a go." Then, blushing more furiously than ever, I said I was a girl but didn't have Tony's spirit of adventure.

Dave smiled and said, "Shame."

*****

I masturbated again that night. Five or six times. Half my brain was asking me what the eff I was doing, the other half was egging me on.

I was thinking of Davina by then. Every second of every self-abusing stroke. My lovely, lovely Davina.

There was no need for emails on Friday morning. We had already agreed that, being POETS day, we should go to the pub. Dave met me outside my office . . . as had become habit . . . and we set off, overcoming the impulse to go hand in hand. At least, I overcame the impulse. I can't honestly say what impulses she felt.

Apart from the urge to fuck me, that was.

Sorry for another swearword but, from the moment I knew she was female, I'd known Dave was up for the fuck. I'd suspected it before, of course, when I'd thought she had balls and a cock. The urge was growing day by day, however. And I feared my resistance was crumbling.

By the second.

Boy, oh boy!

Or, rather, girl, oh girl!

Resistance? You may well ask. Why should I resist? Well, I was straight, remember? Not even a month ago I hadn't a gay bone in my body. Watching girl-on-girl videos was merely curiosity, right?

Right?

And that Men Behaving Badly thing was only a throwaway line, right?

Oh go on then, suit yourselves. Don't believe me. As if I coco.

The pub was five minutes' walk from work. Dave asked me what I wanted to drink and, as she'd suggested "a pint" I went for Landlord. She ordered two pints and two roast chicken sandwiches.

'Don't want to get you drunk,' she said. 'Not in the middle of the day.'

Not knowing what I wanted . . . not even vaguely . . . I asked her what she had planned for the weekend.'

'Rock climbing,' she said. 'Want to come with me?'

'Rock climbing,' I echoed. 'No thanks, I'd break my neck.' Then, conscious of Dave's . . . her, well, lascivious grin . . . 'Do you do that often? And where do you do it?'

'I climb most weekends,' she said. 'And I do it as often as I find a willing partner.'

'You're teasing me,' I complained, wondering why my heart was doing unusual things inside me. Pounding, plummeting . . . things like that.

'We're doing Brimham Rocks tomorrow,' Dave continued. 'Up in Nidderdale. It's well-used but there are more climbs than you can shake a stick at. You could come as a novice without risking a broken neck.'

'I wouldn't want to cramp your style,' I said firmly.

She came back with a challenge of sorts. 'What about hill walking?'

Hill walking? I'd done some of that. 'It depends,' I said carefully. 'If you really mean hills I'm up for it. If you mean mountains you're on your own.'

'Next weekend,' she said. 'I'm rock climbing at the Cow and Calf on Bank Holiday Monday. Of all days! That'll be a gas with millions of sightseers watching us, hoping we fall. I haven't finalized it yet, but I was planning on walking in the Lake District on Saturday and Sunday. Come with me. I'll organize accommodation. Separate rooms, of course.'

'Is there a crowd of you?' I wondered.

'No, just me. And, hopefully, you.'

'Hills or mountains?'

'Hills on Saturday. Very titchy mountains on Sunday.'

'And you'll remember I'm straight?'

'Mikki darling, how could I ever forget?'

*****

Next day, Saturday, I got an unexpected call from Dave, late into the afternoon.

'Hiya, I'm done climbing and haven't broken anything. Can I buy some wine and come and drink it with you?'

My heart was pounding and plummeting, leaping and lurching. Truth was, I didn't know what I'd do if she made a move on me. Submit without a fight? Tell a little white lie? Fend her off? All options were open. The only option I couldn't entertain was to decline her offer.

'Wine always sounds good,' I said.

'Red or white?'

'I'm easy. When it comes to wine,' I added hurriedly. 'Where are you?'

'Twenty minutes away, according to my satnav.'

It was over half an hour before she arrived at my poky little flat . . . Sorry, at my beloved, albeit rented abode.

'I stopped for wine,' she said in greeting. 'And these.'

She was thrusting a bunch of roses at me. A dozen of them. A dozen! Blood-red, they were. I had never been given flowers before, not even daisies. This statement of intent scared me. It also thrilled every nerve in my body.

Being honest as always, I must admit I wet myself.

Trying to be bold I asked her if she'd bought them from a petrol station. Maybe a posh one in or around Ilkley. She said no, she'd considered doing that, before detouring to a local garden centre.

If she'd tried to shag me at that moment I would have let her. No, I would have let her with open arms.

And legs.

And everything.

The evening passed with us drinking wine (she'd brought three bottles) and watching soppy films on Sky. When she cuddled against me I didn't protest. Secretly I hoped she'd try for more.

And, secretly, I wondered what I'd do if she did.

Eventually, when the wine was all gone, she called a cab, telling me she'd collect her car in the morning, early on, once she'd sobered up. 'I'll be in and out like the SAS,' she grinned. 'You won't even know I've been.'

We waited for her taxi in my hallway. She was wearing a thick, outdoor shirt. It was blue and black check and probably rocky outcrop resistant. For the very first time I noticed her nipples. She was still flat-chested but not totally unfeminine.

'Next weekend,' she said, rousing me from wicked if hazy thoughts. 'Are you definitely up for it?'

'Without a doubt,' I assured her.

'I'll book the rooms tomorrow.'

I kissed her. No rational reason, I just did it. She kissed back but left all the instigation to me. She didn't even grope my bum. Which was a pity. I wouldn't have protested.

'Separate rooms,' she said again, smiling into my eyes.

'That would be best.' I hesitated then let the alcohol speak for itself. 'I can't promise you a night in bed; I'm not sure I'm ready for that. But I will mess about with you in the shower. If that doesn't seem too . . . too childish.'

'It seems like a good idea to me.' She grinned her lovely, captivating grin. 'Just so you're aware, I have been known to have up to ten showers a day. Sometimes I spend more time under the sprinkler than I do in bed.'

'Sounds like a plan,' I said, grinning back at her.

*****

The working week absolutely crawled by. If it hadn't been for the lunch hours I don't think I would have made it. Honestly, I think I would have self-combusted. Fortunately, we could meet up every day, Monday to Friday at twelve on the dot. So we did, growing closer and closer all the time.

Most of that week . . . last week . . . has been forgotten already. I can't remember anything about working activities apart from my "1-2-1" with Joyce on Wednesday, and then I can only recall our chat at the end. We'd got through the routine stuff when Joyce mentioned Dave. 'I couldn't help but notice . . .' she began.

I was mortified when I realized Joyce was worried about me. First she confirmed that I was aware Dave wasn't a guy . . .

'I know she's not,' I told her. 'She's a very beautiful girl.'

That knocked a lot of wind out of Joyce's sails. Without ever using the word "lesbian" she . . . clumsily, if you ask me . . . speculated about Dave's sexuality. Eventually I'd heard enough. I like Joyce but couldn't have her controlling my life. Keeping it polite, I pointed out that I'd had all sorts of friends at uni and could look after myself.

Then I spent the rest of the day wondering what I'd let myself in for at the weekend.

That night I went online looking for definitions. A straight person had, I discovered, "an enduring pattern of emotional, romantic and/or sexual attractions to persons of the opposite sex". I thought about that and concluded I wasn't very straight. Okay, emotionally I wasn't immune. A lot of guys annoyed and frustrated me, but annoyance and frustration weren't attractive emotional qualities. Not to me, anyway. As for romantic . . . ha, ha, ha! And as for sexual . . . how often had I seen someone in the street and thought, "Wow, look at the lunch box on that!" Never, that's how often. Not even once.

Next stop was the bio of a bisexual person: "Romantic or sexual attraction to people of any sex or gender identity." I ruled myself out of "bisexual" without bothering to look up "gender identity". Hadn't I just ruled out men per se?

And so to the definition of a lesbian: "A female who experiences romantic love or sexual attraction to other females." I chewed that over a while. No denying it, I was sexually attracted to Dave. I still didn't know what that attraction would lead to, but it was definitely there. Yet the wording was "females", not "a female". As far as I was aware I had never been attracted to any other female. Not unless you counted Beyoncé, Nichole Scherzinger and their likes. And that was more admiration than attraction, wasn't it?

Well, wasn't it?

Timeout for a brief digression. I'm not very big on masturbatory fantasies. Not for a girl who masturbates quite a lot. Usually I concentrate on what I'm doing to myself, trying to think of ways to improve. I very rarely fantasize about real people or (real or imaginary) situations. On those few occasions when I have pretended I was taking a lover, the lover had always been a faceless, well-built man. That doesn't mean, of course, that I haven't thought about some of those videos while I . . .

Back to the definition of "lesbian". "Romantic love" was a term that thrilled and chilled. I had had schoolmates and friends at uni . . . girls, I mean . . . who I love. Meaning I loved them at the time and still do love them to this day. Only not in a romantic way. And I definitely hadn't been sexually attracted to any of them.

That left Dave. Those roses were still taking pride of place in my kitchen window. They had been given as a romantic gesture, obviously, and I'd received them more than willingly. And Dave already had a place in my heart. I loved her just as much as I loved any of my other friends. No, I loved her more. Was it "romantic love"? Not yet . . . possibly not yet . . . but like it or lump it, it was heading in that direction.

I said it then for the first time. Words which have now become my mantra.

'I'm Mikki. I am twenty-four and I am a lesbian.

'And I'm in love with Dave.'

*****

We travelled up to the Lake District in Dave's red Mini (I haven't passed my test yet, and I probably won't be able to afford a car until about 2116). She picked me up as agreed at half past six and we chatted animatedly all the way. Dave had booked us in at a pub in Troutbeck. The plan for Saturday . . . hill day . . . was to dump our bags in our rooms and hit the road at once. Three miles of steep gradients away lay The Kirkstone Pass Inn, the third highest pub in all of England. We were going to leisurely dine there then foot it back down to base camp.

As then Sunday . . . titchy mountains day . . . was still a magical mystery tour as far as I was concerned. Dave was keeping the details under her hat. Still wondering what to expect in the shower, I didn't press her.

Our pub was an old-looking, white painted building and it was massive. We made our way to the reception desk and Dave gave the young woman there our details. 'Oh,' she said after a bit of tapping on her keyboard. 'There's a problem.'

My heart sank. I didn't need problems. I'd been looking forward to fresh air, good food and good company, not problems.

'We've had a burst pipe in your room,' the receptionist told Dave. 'It won't be habitable again until after the Bank Holiday.'

Suspicious me; I wondered if Dave had somehow engineered this. She looked gutted, though. Absolutely gutted.

'We have two solutions,' the receptionist went on. 'We can refund half your money and you can share with your friend . . .'

That sounded reasonable to me but Dave wasn't impressed. 'Haven't you any other vacant rooms?' she said truculently.

'Only one,' said the woman behind the desk. 'That's our very best room. We can refund half your money and you can share that.'

'Why can't one of us just have the very best room?'

'We're expecting a very regular visitor any moment. He hasn't booked but he knows we've had a last minute cancelation. He just doesn't know which room he's getting. I'm giving you the choice before he gets here.'

I thought Dave was going to bicker so pulled her aside. 'We'll never find anywhere else this weekend,' I said, 'So it's a full refund and back home, or half a refund and share a bedroom. And if we're sharing, we might as well have the best.'

She asked me if I was sure. I assured her I was and, five minutes later we were staring in awe at a four-poster bed. The room itself was wonderful but that bed was sumptuous.

'You made the right choice,' the receptionist said on her way out. 'I've always wanted to sleep in here myself, but it's always taken. Enjoy your stay.'

*****

The Kirkstone Pass Inn was a welcome sight after our three mile climb. When Dave told me it was "uphill with steep gradients" she hadn't been joking. The road had mountains either side of it, some of them capped with fluffy white clouds. Not that there were too many clouds in the sky. The sun was out with a vengeance and, although we'd brought bottled water with us, we were more than ready for beer.

'How are we splitting it?' I asked as we hiked towards the long, brilliantly white building. White seemed to be a popular colour for pubs in these parts, I thought. Not that I was knocking the décor. I'd rarely seen so welcoming a sight.

'You buy the food and drinks,' Dave said. 'I've already paid for the accommodation.'

No way was I having that. 'You've paid for petrol as well,' I protested. 'I want to pay my fair share.'

She said she had a petrol card from work so that wasn't an expense. And she'd got half her money back on accommodation. She'd laid out eighty pounds and we were in a room with a tariff of nearly twice that. 'And I get to sleep with you,' she added. 'I feel like a lottery winner as it is, so let me relish it.'

I stopped arguing but secretly intended to make sure I spent at least eighty quid before we got home. In fact I hoped to fork out a hundred, to account for the flowers and wine.

There were plenty of people outside the inn but I spotted an empty table. 'Bag it,' I said, 'while I get pints and menus.'

When I came back outside Dave was sitting on a bench under a big red and white parasol, admiring the view. 'That over there is Helvellyn,' she said. 'Fancy a race to the top and back?'

I passed her a pint or real Cumbrian ale and told her I'd mind the table while she was showing off.

'You can trust me,' she said as I sat beside her. 'Tonight, I mean. I'll ask them for a bolster, if you like.'

I had to ask what bolsters were. I'd heard the word in phrases such as "Leeds United need to bolster their defence", but didn't know where it came from. According to Dave, they are long, heavy pillows used to support invalids. They were used in olden day inns too, she said, so a double bed could be shared by two strangers.

'Men and women strangers?' I wondered incredulously.

'Probably just men.' She grinned. 'When I say "olden days" I'm talking stagecoaches. Women didn't overnight on their own. They had more sense.'

'Hmmm,' I went. 'What will they think if you asked for one nowadays? That you're apt to jump on me while I'm asleep, that's what.'

'There's always a chance,' said Dave. 'In a sleepwalking sort of a way, I mean.'

'Do you sleepwalk?'

'No.'

'Well in that case I'll trust you without a bolster. Now pick your lunch.'

We both went for homemade steak and ale pie. As I returned from ordering, armed with more pints, I overheard two guys talking at our neighbouring table. Not noticing me, they were deep in a "yes it is, no it isn't" exchange. They were obviously debating Dave's gender and, as well as being angry with them, I was astounded by their stupidity. Okay, Dave's hiking gear wasn't catwalk material, but her shorts exposed plenty of smooth leg. And her face, enhanced by lots of fresh air and sunshine, had never been lovelier.

Resisting the temptation to apply beer shampoos, I rejoined my friend. Sitting beside her once more I put my hand gently under her chin. And, as she turned to look at me, I kissed her. She reacted exactly as she had before, kissing back but leaving all the instigation to me.

There, I thought as we broke apart, chew on that, you homophobes!

The two guys were still debating when our meals arrived, casting regular glances our way. With an inward sigh, I realized my kiss had only stirred their coals. They remained undecided; now they were wondering if I was a whore or gay. Or so I assumed.

*****

Walking back to base camp was easier than walking up to the inn. The steep down gradient did, however, test out a completely different set of muscles. Chatting as we went, I discovered Dave was twenty-six (all those cosy conversations and I hadn't previously thought to ask!) and had never had a boyfriend. Her last girlfriend had upped and gone travelling three months ago. And good riddance. She was tending towards lesbian bed death anyway, and they hadn't been together long.

Needless to report, I had to ask what she meant. Laughing, she said bed death was probably a myth but her ex . . . who'd started out hot and horny . . . had been noticeably losing interest in sex.

For the couple of last downhill miles we discussed old lovers. I character assassinated Giles and Joe but said Tommy had been a true gentleman. She never named names but seemed to have notched up a reasonable score, most of them far from indifferently skilled.

It was after four when we arrived back in our wonderful room. During the week we had agreed that we'd have a meal in Bowness, amid a minor pub crawl. Because Bowness wasn't exactly on Troutbeck's doorstep . . . and because I rejected Dave's offer to drive . . . the service of a taxi was required. So too were showers; all that walking and sunshine had taken a toll.

'Let's save the "big" shower 'til morning,' said Dave, grinning at me. 'After I've proved my self-restraint.'

I agreed and said she could go first. Then I just stood there, staring at the four-poster bed and thinking about nothing but her.

'I'm Mikki,' I murmured softly. 'I am twenty-four and I am a lesbian.

'And I'm in love with Dave.'

My feet made the decision for me. They turned me around and carried me to the door of the en suite. Then my hand took over, turning the knob.