Read an Excerpt
The day Davina moved in with me, I carried her across the threshold and brought her all the way to the couch. Kneeling before her, I said, ‘This is our home now, yours and mine.’
‘That’s fine,’ she said with a flick of the wrist. ‘But I don’t do windows.’
It turned out that she didn’t do dishes either, or carpets or floors, or laundry. She didn’t make beds, she didn’t make dinners. She didn’t scrub tubs or plant flowers or dust bookshelves. Household chores were not her style.
And my Davina had style, that was for damn sure. She was a fame-hungry femme if ever there was one. She wanted a taste of celebrity, and though she probably knew in her heart of hearts she’d never reach that particular pinnacle, she didn’t mind acting as if. That’s not to say she didn’t have her own successes. Davina was much loved at the talent agency where she worked as receptionist, but she was obviously waiting for the break that would never come.
My girl was a butterfly beauty: stunning, but fragile.
So I laughed along when she went on her little “imaginings” about us as the next lesbian power couple. She’d joke about unleashing a sex tape (at least, I hope that was a joke) or she’d host a house tour for make-believe talk show cameras.
‘You never know where the paparazzi’s going to find you,’ she’d say as she pulled me into the shower. Her perfect, perky breasts would bounce as she rustled her hair beneath the spray. ‘That’s why I need to look my best at all times.’
‘You always look incredible,’ I’d tell her, cupping her mound and squeezing. ‘All the time.’
I’d kiss her under the stream of shower water, and she’d pull away, laughing. ‘You really think so?’
‘God, yes.’ I’d crush her fine form to my hefty body, kissing her until the wetness between her pussy lips let me glide right in. Her body devoured me finger by finger.
I’ve probably made my girl out to sound like a total nutbar, but everybody has a fantasy life, right? Davina just daydreams out loud. If you knew her as deeply as I do, you’d understand that the flashy colours and designer flair are all a mask. Davina lived through horrors she wouldn’t want mentioned here, and if she needs to paint the world a little brighter to make it through the day, all power to her.
That said, every relationship reaches its points of frustration, and ours is no exception. I love Davina, but love and everyday practicalities don’t always go hand in hand. When one partner doesn’t contribute to the household, when she racks up credit card debt buying clothes but refuses to help with the rent, when she’s never washed a dish in her whole damn life, the other partner’s bound to get a little testy.
One day, it came to a head.
‘Just pick up after yourself for once! You’re not a poodle, princess.’
‘But I am a princess,’ she shot back, hands on hips. ‘You’re supposed to take care of me, Greer. I’m yours, to have and to hold!’
‘You are not mine, Davina.’ How could I make her understand? ‘You’re not just a trophy that sits on my shelf. You’re a person in your own right, and this is a partnership, not ownership. This is our house that we need to maintain.’
She perched precariously at the edge of the couch. When her lip started quivering, that did me in. I was a sucker for Davina’s tears, crocodile or otherwise. She brought out the hero in me, the nurturing rescuer of damsels in distress.
Still, I had a point to make. I got on my knees and softened my tone to ask, ‘Do you really want me to see you as just another finicky houseplant? You’re so much more, honey.’
Gazing down at me, she batted her glistening lashes and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. She was so precious, so beautiful, so delicate.
‘I’m sorry,’ Davina said. Her voice cracked, and that’s how I knew the tears were real. ‘You’re right. I haven’t been much of a partner. No excuses this time.’
The pity I felt for her made me want to clean the whole damn castle for my queen, but I wouldn’t let our weaknesses win. ‘You might enjoy a taste of domesticity if you gave it a try.’
She laughed, scrunching up her nose. ‘Like is a strong word.’
Something about the straightness of her spine gave me a brilliant idea, and I ran up the stairs, shouting, ‘Wait right there!’ I riffled through her drawers, pulled things from the closet. When I’d laid out the absolute perfect homemaker outfit, I called Davina up to take a look.
She gasped, then giggled. ‘Oh Greer! You naughty thing. You expect me to clean the house wearing this?’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll be waiting downstairs with the vacuum.’
Davina was still chuckling in the bedroom when I skidded down the stairs. I grabbed the vacuum from the broom closet and set myself down on the couch. As usual, she made me wait, but the waiting only got me so hot and wet and ready that the second I heard the click of her heels on the stairs I just about soaked my shorts.
‘Fuck, woman.’ I tried to whistle, but I’d never quite mastered that particular art form. Instead, I clapped my hands. ‘You look like a million bucks.’
Most red-blooded dykes would probably have laid out a French maid’s outfit for their sweetie, but not me. I wanted something altogether different, something to fulfil a fetish I never knew I had.
I wanted my woman to vacuum in pearls.
Not just pearls, mind. High heels too, and fine silk stockings with garters, an A-line skirt, a minty green sweater set. She was a ghost of the mid-century modern mom. I almost couldn’t keep it in my pants when she grabbed hold of the vacuum like she knew just how to handle it.