Crossing the Divide

Chapter One

(February 2002)

Heather came awake with a jolt, surprised to be surrounded by darkness. Semi-dazed as she was two questions occurred to her immediately: “Where?” and “How?”

“How” wasn’t too tricky to answer. It had been James’s twenty-first party last night. James was on her course but had taken a year out before starting university. He also had a ridiculously rich and dotingly besotted aunt who’d insisted on giving him the “best twenty-first ever experienced, anywhere, ever”.

And hadn’t she succeeded! Hiring a smart hotel a mile from campus, one with room for three hundred or more guests, she’d additionally made sure the bar was free for the first two hours.

Big mistake! Give canny students any edge and they’ll exploit it to the full. And a free bar was an edge beyond most students’ wildest dreams. Everyone had arrived even before the doors opened, ready to drink the place dry. No, make that ready, willing and able. Even Heather, more than financially stable herself, had joined in the gold rush, ordering potent, exotic cocktails three at a time, downing them as if there was no tomorrow.

Good job she didn’t do hangovers. If she did she’d have been seriously under the weather.

Try as she might Heather struggled to remember much after that opening blast. She’d socialised and flirted while still relatively sober, naturally, but somehow she must have pulled while utterly, absolutely blitzed.

No change there, then!

Yet there were several only too apparent changes this morning (assuming it was morning). She never fell asleep with a new lover, so actually waking up with one was not a regular occurrence. Why should she ever sleep with a fresh babe at hand? Why waste even forty winks?

Okay, her mind reasoned, so I’m playing with words. “Sleeping with” was no more than a simile. She’d very rarely “slept” with a lover of either sex. Yet last night she’d undoubtedly dropped off on the job.

Thanks to that excess of alcohol, of course. At least she had a genuine reason. It wasn’t as if she was getting old before her time or, God forbid, losing her stamina.

Not her.

Yes even now, awake only a few nanoseconds, she had no doubt her appetite hadn’t deserted her.

In fact she was decidedly wet down below . . . decidedly ready to resume.

Which brought her back to “Where?”

Maybe coming awake in a strange bedroom was unusual but finding herself in one was not. Regularly of a morning she stared at her surroundings, trying to identify local landmarks, meaning spider webs in remote corners, lavish patterns on quilt covers and questionable tastes in wallpaper; run-of-the-mill things like that.

Call it limited loss of memory; she often got carried away and took a moment to recall exactly who she had been with. Heat of the action, and all that . . .

Today it was too dark to even try. She reckoned whoever she was in bed with had blackout drapes as curtains, and possibly soundproofed walls. That distinction definitely put her in the new lover category: her regular lovers all liked daylight and open windows.

Well, most of them did.

Then something awful occurred to her. What if she was in bed with James?

Or with any man, come to that. She was supposed to be off men yet again, and this time it was meant to be forever.

Wishful thinking as it was, she’d sworn solemn vows to herself. If she had betrayed her best intentions she would be obliged to do the decent thing.

Out alone on the university green, armed with a duelling pistol and heaps of self-recrimination . . .

Fortunately she felt the curvy shape of her bedfellow and relaxed before suicide was a real possibility. They were lying on their sides, her bedfellow to the fore, a slinky ass pressed into Heather’s receptive groin.

No guy could possibly feel like that.

No wonder she was wet down under.

And how silly was she to suspect the worse! There was a world of difference between the tastes and aromas of men and women. Right now everything felt, smelt and tasted of girl.

What a scaredy-cat she could be!

Reassured by all the evidence she was still left the question of “Who is she?” Or was it “Where am I?” Having already ditched the idea of being with an old flame Heather reconsidered; perhaps some old acquaintance had invested in new dark curtains . . . else maybe it was still very early morning.

When did it get light this time of year, anyway?

Ever practical, she decided to explore. In so doing her logic was simple; she knew lots of girls by their feels and smells; if she explored a little, surely she would recognize this one.

Unless she really was new, in which case exploring would be even more fun.

Hampered as she was by the pitch blackness, lying tight together like spoons, Heather had her trusty left hand free. Although officially ambidextrous she had always favoured her left. Giving it the right to roam seemed only fair.

Moving slowly, so very slowly, her trusty left slid up an impressively smooth stomach, ever higher and higher, until it met the underswell of an undisputedly fine pair of breasts.

Yes, yes, yes!

Heather had a decided “thing” about boobs. She adored them, large or small, firm or floppy, pert and blatant or practically non-existent. She also believed she could “fingerprint” a past lover by feeling her chest.

Wrong!

Now, try as she might, enjoying every last grope, she couldn’t come up with an identity. Yet she could, however, instigate excitement. Her mystery lover might be soundly asleep but, out of simply nowhere, she was purring and sighing.

And her nipples were suddenly harder than diamonds.

Clueless as to the girl’s identity Heather pressed on, eventually causing a climax and then, when her purring, sighing victim didn’t wake, she did it again and again.

Pressing her nose tight into the back of the girl’s head, attempting to identify her by a familiar perfume or hairspray, Heather had to admit defeat. Both her senses of smell and taste were beaten. Lady juice clogged her nostrils, and it wasn’t an immediately recognizable brand of lady juice at that.

Leastways she didn’t think it was. Maybe it was too sweet, too intense to recognize.

*****

After inflicting three breast orgasms without rousing her happy subject, Heather decided to explore a little more thoroughly. For some reason it occurred to her that a lady’s juice tasted direct from fingers might be readily identifiable. Or maybe she just wanted to ease fingers into her mystery lover’s pussy.

Come to that, maybe muscle contractions would be more recognizable than scent and smell.

Or maybe familiar contours of a love tunnel would provide a decent clue . . .

As a plan it worked fifty-fifty. Sliding her hand back down the girl’s stomach was a joy. So too was the swell of her groin: clean-shaven and stolen off the statue of a goddess. Feeling inside of her was utter bliss. Making her buck, wriggle and writhe . . .

Well it was awesome.

And turning her onto her back, sliding all of herself along that exquisite body, slowly pressing into her a lascivious tongue . . .

It was glorious.

But glorious never lasts, does it?

Loving every second of everything, Heather’s inner calm was abruptly crushed by an outraged female scream.

‘Get off, get, off, what are you doing to me, you evil cunt!’

The use of Heather’s least-favourite word triggered her to hastily withdraw. ‘I thought you liked it,’ she responded, somewhat feebly.

The female screeching didn’t abate. Using tons of “C” and “F” words it castigated Heather as wanton, as a whore, and much, much worse.

It also called her by her given name and showed no immediate sign of abating.

Baffled, Heather wondered how mystery lover knew everything about her and she knew not one thing in the other direction.

Perhaps I’m still blotto, she mused. Perhaps this is my punishment for not getting hangovers.

But then Mystery Lover reached out and switched on her bedside lamp. Wincing at first, her eyeballs aching painfully, Heather finally worked out where she was.

She was in bed with Naomi, the captain of the university women’s rugby league team.

She laughed automatically, thinking of at least a million worse places to be.

Chapter Two

Naomi was not impressed by Heather’s laughter. She was not a typical rugby player, either. Very tall, slender and athletic, she was a back rather than a forward, which was unusual in a way. Male players typically called male backs “the girls”. Anyone who called Naomi a “girl” was apt to get a smack.

She led by example, not by appearance.

And she was not in any way a lezzie.

Well, not before last night/this morning.

‘Keep laughing and you’ll get a bust lip,’ she warned.

Heather wasn’t scared of anyone on the planet, male or female. She had faced down Brutus, the prize bull on Hunters Farm; Lennox Lewis looked like a little lamb compared to Brutus. Even Rocky himself would have taken one glance at the massive beast and then scarpered.

‘How did this happen?’ Heather replied. ‘I remember my ninth Pina Colada, but then everything gets a bit hazy.’

At last stopping swearing, perhaps deciding busting Heather’s lips was an unlikely option, Naomi took a deep breath.

‘What a night,’ she said more rationally, ‘and sorry for going off on one.’

‘All is forgiven . . . at least it will be if you tell me what really did happen at James’s party.’

Naomi shook her head and spooned again with Heather (presumably because her bed was a single and she didn’t want to get up). This time Heather made sure she stayed totally hands-free.

(And it went without saying that she kept her groin more or less to herself.)

‘I got a bit hazy after my ninth gin and lemon,’ Naomi admitted in a reasonable-enough tone. ‘I guess your chat-up lines were too much to resist. We had a lot of dances, I remember that. But I don’t recall much else.’

‘So I did some chatting up and here we are?’

‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’

‘I wish I’d recorded those chat-up lines,’ said Heather. ‘This is the best waking up I have had in years.’ Then, squeezing Naomi’s shoulder to stay objections, ‘I don’t normally do waking ups. You surely are the exception that breaks the rule.’

‘Is that good?’

‘It’s stratospheric.’

‘We didn’t have sex,’ said Naomi, asserting boldly, yet without any real confidence.

Heather could still taste and smell Naomi’s most intimate allures. They had had sex without any doubt but she wasn’t about to state the obvious. If Naomi wanted it not to have happened . . . if she had told herself that convincingly enough . . . then who was she to rock her boat?

Who was she, even if she did have the evidence clogging her nostrils?

‘Okay,’ she said calmly, ‘as far as I’m concerned nothing happened. If anyone asks, I’ll say we drank a lot of wine and that’s that.’

Naomi frowned. ‘Do you think folk will ask?’

‘We must have been seen together. Not that I remember us really being together, but you know what lezzies are like. One side-wards glance and everyone’s on an alert. I strongly suspect we’ll have been noticed.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Naomi conceded, ‘but I’m not a lezzie.’

Heather skimmed over that denial. Okay, it might be true, but she had just inspired three, maybe four orgasms to prove it was not necessarily the case; that her door was definitely ajar.

And goodness only knew what she’d inspired when they both been out of it!

Pointing such facts of life out to her was very, very tempting.

But there was a time and place for everything, and Naomi’s time was not now.

‘As I said,’ Heather maintained, I’ll never breathe a word about what happened.’

‘Nothing happened,’ Naomi snapped.

‘Precisely,’ Heather agreed. ‘And I suppose that means I’m showering alone.’

*****

Sadly . . . or maybe not so sadly . . . not breathing a word didn’t do a lot of good. Turned out a million or more students had witnessed their copping off. That’s to say a million or more who were a tad more sober than Heather and Naomi had been.

Merely walking to Mr Khan’s Emporium for chocolate and energy drinks elicited a dozen enquiries.

Did you, didn’t you?

Being polite and discreet Heather declined to comment. Of course she had, but of course she felt the need to protect her newest lover’s reputation.

Except was she really a lover?

Sure as she was, Heather wasn’t completely certain. She had the lingering taste and the smell but no memory. Naomi was keen to deny everything but didn’t have right on her side. Forgetting last night’s encounter . . . which might well have entailed absolutely anything . . . she’d cum those three times this very morning.

Or maybe four . . .

But to Naomi nothing had happened. Trying to argue with her . . .

Well, just anyone would be on a loser. Arguing with her would be a waste of breath.

Gallantly denying everything, Heather played her regular Saturday morning hockey match (scoring twice, having another perfectly good one disallowed) then hit the Union Bar around two o’clock.

Naomi hit it perhaps three minutes later. She looked as good as ever but was slightly reserved . . . at least to begin with.

Heather met her with a (possibly faint) smile and no little trepidation.

‘I’ve said nowt to nobody,’ she said, ‘in spite of intense provocation.’

‘Me too,’ Naomi agreed, ‘although simply everybody knows we copped off.’

‘Do they?’

‘Yes. There are photo-shots of us and all sorts; kissing, mostly, but with intent. I’ve tried to pretend we were just larking around, but not with much success.’

‘Who has the photos?’

‘James. His aunt hired a photographer for the evening. Can’t say I recall seeing him, but he certainly saw us. I must have seen a dozen snaps of us, dancing cheek to cheek and what have you. Getting progressively moreish, if you know what I mean.’

‘What, he’s had photos developed already?’

‘Get with the times, Hev. The guy used a digital camera. There wasn’t any film to develop; he just sent the images to James by email.’

Naomi hadn’t ever used “Hev” before. Heather tended to reserve “Hev” for physical lovers and most of her friends knew that was the case. Sensing a thaw in relations, keen not to set in a fresh freeze, she glanced around the barroom.

Lesbians’ Corner was misnamed in that it wasn’t really in a corner or even corner-shaped. But that bit of floor-space was exclusively populated by “women who have sex with women”. It must have seen all sorts and varieties of “lesbians” over the years. And normally it was receptive to new talent that had at last crossed the divide. Rounds of applause were common and standing ovations not unknown.

Today the girls on The Corner were subdued. It wasn’t as if Naomi’s entrance had gone unnoticed. All eyes were currently on the pair of them and the air buzzed with muttered comments and innuendos.

No sign of applause or ovation, though. All the denials must have sown seeds of doubt. Naomi hadn’t been totally accurate when she’d said everyone knew they’d copped off. Heather reckoned everyone suspected but nobody knew for sure.

And that probably included Naomi herself . . .

Not Heather, however. She didn’t know what had occurred, not precisely, but she’d got the gist and “nothing” wasn’t even on the list of possibilities.

She thrust a fiver at Naomi and told her to get two pints of Marston’s. ‘I’m going to collar James,’ she said, nodding towards the nearest pool table. ‘I need to see those images.’

‘You need to learn to keep your hands to yourself, too,’ said Maxi, heading for the bar, falling in step with Naomi. ‘You were all over the poor girl.’

Heather grinned at her. Maxi was a decade or so older than she and, as well was a mature student, a veteran of the women’s peace camp at Greenham Common. Her gaydar was second-to-none. If even she wasn’t convinced about last night then Naomi’s secret might just be safe.

Well, hopefully . . .

James had a state-of-the-art laptop computer (courtesy of that generous aunt of his) and was only too happy to show Heather the digital record of his big bash. With three other party-goers crowded round them he flicked through a series of images featuring drunken couples (male/female mostly, but by no means exclusively). To Heather’s relief the ones featuring her weren’t too conclusive.

Okay, there were several of her and Naomi kissing like lovers, not in the least “larking around”, and her hands were noticeably out of control now and again . . .

But lots of couples were kissing like lovers, lots of couples were groping like there was no tomorrow.

‘Did you?’ one of the party-goers enquired, nodding towards Naomi, who was stood at the bar, deep in conversation with Maxi.

‘I’m afraid we’re just good friends,’ Heather fibbed.

The party-goer (otherwise known as Tricia) sighed expansively. ‘I bloody-well would have,’ she said. ‘And I’m not even bi-curious.’

‘But precisely who would you have bloody-well done so with?’ Heather wondered, ‘me or her?’

‘Either or preferably both,’ Tricia giggled. ‘And maybe I am curious after all.’

Chapter Three

Naomi was struggling with her emotions. All those images James had shown everyone! Heather and she had to feature in half of them. And “larking around” wasn’t a realistic explanation. Not when times were included with the snaps; not when there was a clear progression from flirty at first to . . .

Well, to downright amorous as the meticulously recorded minutes and hours ticked by.

To her surprise Heather had called it quits in the bar around three o’clock, saying she needed to catch a few zeds before Saturday night. Naively, Naomi had asked what she’d got planned for later.

‘I’m playing life as it comes,’ Heather replied lightly. ‘If I don’t get any decent offer there’s always beer and curry.’

Sensing hundreds of lesbian eyes on her Naomi had left The Union shortly after Heather, heading for home and suddenly in need of zeds herself. Ignoring the trash-mail shoved in her letterbox she went upstairs, mumbling to herself incoherently, still in denial about what might or might not have happened and still believing she was one hundred per cent straight.

Then, entering her bedroom, she gasped.

Being a student she hadn’t remade her bed earlier that morning. Being a student she’d merely pulled up her quilt and considered it good. Maybe the black-out curtains had played their part in that, maybe she really had been acting like a carefree undergraduate under cover of darkness . . .

But now the curtains were open; now it was light and she could see.

That quilt of hers had only been laundered a day or so ago, yet now it was covered in cum circles; not just one or two circles but dozens. So too was the sheet under it.

There really were too many stains to begin to count.

Moving like an automaton she stripped the bed and took the incriminating evidence downstairs to her washer, putting it in and pressing buttons at random, by a fluke persuading the gadget to work.

Then, in need of a drink, she went to her fridge and . . . Cue shock number two.

Yesterday she’d had three bottles of pinot chilling in there. Now she had perhaps half a bottle. Had a wine thief called by, or had she shared the rest with . . .

Well, had she shared the rest with the girl who’d subsequently shared her bed?

Hev had said something about supping lots of vino, hadn’t she? She must have known. And then they must have . . .

Must have . . .

Drinking the dregs of the bottle took Naomi all of five minutes. Then, uneasy and massively unsure of everything she’d ever been positive about, she went upstairs again, replaced the sheet and quilt cover and, removing most of her clothes, flopped on top of the bed.

Sleep wasn’t even on the horizon. Sleep was miles away, maybe as far off as Kansas City.

Racking her brain, asking herself questions she had previously avoided, Naomi wondered about her sexuality. On the face of things she had forever been straight. But truth be told, she had occasionally had thoughts about the girls on The Corner. That was a university thing, of course. Before uni she had been a million per cent into guys . . . although without being a total slut, naturally.