Salacious Stand Up: A Funny Lesbian Romance by Nicolette Dane (2016-06-22) Read online

  “Not messed up enough for you to hit me,” said Petra, slowly righting her posture, obviously stinging still from my smack. I immediately felt terrible for hitting her, but I was pissed and she did deserve it.

  “It’s none of your business who I go out with,” I said. “And it’s not your fucking place to call George a slimeball.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Petra, sorrow in her voice, sadness in her face. “You’re right.”

  I frowned. I felt like I could cry. In a quick conversation, Petra sucked all the happiness out of me that I had been feeling throughout the day. As I stood atop the mountain, staking my flag at the summit to claim victory, she raised her arms up and gave me a swift push over the side. I felt betrayed. I felt hurt. I knew she was just jealous. Jealous of my comedy success and especially jealous of George.

  Okay, so I haven’t been completely honest with you about my and Petra’s relationship up to this point. You can probably tell I’ve been a bit cagey about it. So it’s probably best for me to just lay it all out there if you’re going to continue following me through this story. When Petra and I first met at the Stand Up Affiliate two years back, not too long after Petra’s divorce, the two of us got a little drunk one night and went home together. I was feeling bad for her about the whole divorce thing and I did find her really cute. I mean, Petra’s a good-looking girl even though I described her as goofy before. She is goofy but in an endearing way. I don’t know how to say it exactly, but I feel you catch my drift. So yeah, Petra and I slept together early on in our friendship and I thought we had worked through it all.

  But there have been indications that Petra never really worked through it. Like this whole jealousy over George thing, that’s a good example. And even though Petra knows objectively that my raunchy straight sex jokes are funny — it’s hard to deny with all the audience reactions I get — hearing me talk about sex on stage does obviously make her a bit uncomfortable.

  After that night together, Petra was interested in continuing stuff just to see how it went. Me, on the other hand, I wasn’t swayed. I know, it’s a dick move to sleep with your friend and colleague and then just smile and shrug like nothing ever happened. But if you want to know the truth, I found Petra to be too much of a nice girl. Ugh, I’m such a bitch — I know! Don’t judge me.

  She was sweet. The morning after, she made me an omelette. And it wasn’t one of the typical American diner-style omelettes. You know, the ones with all the ingredients just slopped together and fried up? It was one of those French omelettes where the egg is like a thin pancake and it’s folded over with the ingredients pitted inside. And it was delicious, too. Asparagus and goat cheese.

  I think after all that, our night of sex and me rejecting her but wanting to remain her friend, Petra was a bit ruined for love. I don’t want to take the blame — and I shouldn’t because we’re all responsible for our own feelings — but I know that I contributed somewhat to her issues. After that, she really began to harp on losing her wife. Who, by the way, is a total bitch. Like an honest-to-goodness bitch. She left Petra because Petra wasn’t ready to have kids and she didn’t want to stay at her corporate job. Petra wanted to give stand up comedy a crack and this bitch ex just wasn’t having it. So she took everything Petra had, which wasn’t really much anyway, and sued her for divorce. Petra still pines over her, but I know it’s just because she’s lonely. And because her first lay after the divorce was a girl who was basically uninterested in any ongoing relationship with her because she was just too nice.

  Trouble is, I do like Petra. I love Petra. She’s an amazing chick. But I can’t help it. I’m attracted to these girls that are sort of, um, bad for me. I can admit that. I’m not totally oblivious to how I operate. Maybe it’s because my Mom was never able to be there for me in my formative dating years. And my Dad, a nice guy himself, just sort of let me run free. He didn’t want to stifle anything in me because he knew I’d had it pretty rough already. I ended up dating musicians and artists, flitting around without much of a care, sometimes feeling trampled on but finding it fairly easy to sweep my emotions under the rug and move on to the next chick. That’s just how I roll. That’s how I’ve rolled my entire adult life. You can’t help who you’re attracted to. It’s, like, pheromones or whatever.

  Sorry for holding all that back from you. I know it was kinda important information. I just felt like if I told you all that at the beginning, you’d probably think I was a jerk. I mean, I feel like a jerk. I shouldn’t have smacked Petra, either. I was just upset.

  “She’s not a slimeball,” I said, defending George and perhaps ignoring the possibility that Petra could be correct in her summation of George’s character. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

  “I don’t know,” said Petra.

  “Well, you better learn,” I said, straightening my posture, getting snippy, and trying to keep the upper hand. “Ditch the attitude and move on with your life.”

  “Right,” said Petra, coming off as defeated.

  “I need a fucking burrito,” I said. “I’ll see you later.” Turning from Petra, tightening the hold on my bag at my side, I stormed out of the club to go find dinner before the evening show.

  “Trying a little something new tonight with this last one, gang,” I said, holding the microphone in one hand and unfolding a piece of paper against my thigh with the other. Once the paper was sufficiently unfolded, I raised it up so I could look over it a bit. “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” I mused. “I wrote this while eating dinner earlier so pardon all these grease stains on my notes.”

  “Men and women,” I began, lowering my notes from my face. “Two sides of the same coin. Weird, ugly parts that seem to fit together quite nicely. But why can’t they be friends in a non-sexual way? One of them always wants to fuck the other one.” I heard a bit of laughter, but the audience was still following me on my setup. “No, I mean, it happens with women too. Sometimes you’ve got a hot guy friend and you really wanna bang him, but he’s just not into it. Which, dude, that’s weird.”

  “But I think I’ve figured it out,” I continued. “I’ve figured out why men and women can’t be friends. Wanna know?” I said with a smile, looking out to the audience. Of course I was couching my feelings for Petra up in my straight girl act. I was really just talking about women but the audience didn’t know, they couldn’t know. I had to keep up my stage persona. A couple of people responded to my question with “yeahs” throughout the crowd. Looking to the back I caught eyes with Petra, sitting at the bar, attentive for my set.

  “Apart from the sexual tension between them, of course,” I said. “That’s a given. But the real reason why men and woman can’t be friends is that guys just can’t bear to think of any other man jizzing on a woman they know. Any woman. Guys, I want you to think of a woman in your life, a platonic girlfriend, a buddy’s wife, your sister, maybe your mother. Picture this woman, really meditate on her. You got the image?” I asked, looking around in the audience. Some nods, some agreeable grunts. “Petty, you got a woman in mind?” I said, looking directly back at Petra.

  “Now just think of some guy, any guy, maybe he’s a bit slimy, kind of a slimeball, maybe he hasn’t showered in a couple days, some bad boy,” I said. “I want you to picture him just painting a giant, steamy load of jizz on this chick’s face. And she’s loving it, she’s grinning, she’s licking it up. She can’t get enough of his creamy ropey cum. Oops, watch out!” I said, dancing a little on stage, holding out the microphone and pretending like it was a dick. “A little bit is still seeping out of the tip, better lick it up.” With this, I mock-licked the mic. The audience groaned, some laughter, some clapping.

  “Doesn’t make you feel too hot, does it gentlemen?” I continued, a knowing expression on my face. “A little grossed out? A little jealous, maybe? Or maybe you’re just feeling overprotective and you want to pound this slimeball into the ground for defiling your woman.” I shook my head, smiling, looking down.

&
nbsp; “But she’s not your woman. She’s that dude’s woman. And even if it makes you upset to know that someone else is squirting a little bit of ejaculate up her nose, for whatever preternatural reason that’s been hardcoded into your weird mind, you’ve got to learn to accept that it’s okay. It’s as nature intended. You can’t cum on every woman you know and come in contact with,” I said with a grin. “You’ve got to let other guys have a bit of fun, too.” While some people in the audience followed me and laughed, most people simply listened to my story without a peep. Not the usual uproarious laughter that I had grown accustomed to. It wasn’t that funny. It was going too far. And my metaphor wasn’t really working. And I bet you think the jokes are stupid too. It was a bad scene. But look, I’m giving you me… I’m not trying to conceal my zits.

  “Like I said, just wrote it,” I said, winking at the audience. “Still working out the kinks. I’m Macy Maxwell, thanks for coming out!” I placed the microphone back on the stand, smiled and waved, and accepted the pity applause from the audience. Although I knew my final little joke story didn’t hit all the right notes, I was confident that it came across loud and clear to its intended recipient.

  Petra just stared up at the stage, near expressionless, clapping for me along with the others.

  I kicked out of the club early, stuffed my earbuds into my ears, and caught the bus back to the westside of the city. I really wasn’t in the mood to stick around the club, especially after Petra and I had our little tiff, and I wondered if maybe George would be around to get together, hang out, and hook up. Petra avoided me after my set anyhow and I wasn’t really feeling the usual afterglow of a successful performance. I just felt kinda sick.

  As the bus clunked down the street, the very non-offensive, almost robotic voice calling out the stops, the bright LED lights illuminating the inside, I opened the text message app on my phone and started to type a message out to George. I didn’t want to seem needy or anything. I mean, it was just the previous night that we had gotten together and sometimes it can come off as rather pathetic when you reach out the very next day to try to hang out again. But, between us, I was actually feeling a bit pathetic so whatever. I was eager to get laid. As I thought about our night together, I could also still smell her. Musky, a bit sweaty, a weird sweetness.

  “Drinks at the Clipper?” I sent in a text to George. I starred down at my phone for a few minutes, waiting for a response, as music streamed through my earbuds. It was only 10:32PM, according to my phone, and I figured that would give us plenty of time to lube up the lust with some booze and then head back to my place for another screw.

  As I continued to watch my phone screen, no indication yet from George, my heart felt heavy. Did I do something fucked up? I wasn’t sure yet, but it did feel an awful lot like I ditched out on my and Petra’s friendship, however complicated that thing was, for the nebulous possibility of something working out with George. C’mon, Macy, that’s not cool. You and Petra have been tight for over two years, supportive of each other’s careers, a person to bounce jokes off of. Petra did have a great sense of humor, despite her penchant for being a bit histrionic, and that was something, I must admit, I did not see in George. Those serious writer types often have trouble with a subtle joke.

  But, uh, George was a looker and she was mysterious and those two things pushed together make Macy’s panties moist.

  Just as I was about to put my phone down, it vibrated in my hand and a message popped into the chat window from George.

  “Sure. Midnight?” she texted.

  Although I was ready to head directly to the bar that very moment, I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to get a head start on her and, hey, who was I to expect George to drop whatever she was doing to come out with me. Giving myself a minute or so to write back, just to try to convey that I wasn’t totally waiting by the phone — even though, as you can tell, I most certainly was — I tried to come up with the appropriate “cool” response to inform George that I wasn’t too eager. Nobody likes too eager, do they? I don’t know. I’m not very good at this dating game stuff.

  “Yep,” I texted back after a few moments of waiting.

  I sighed and stuffed my phone into my back pocket, the earbud cable snaking up my side. I rested my head on the bus window, eyes focused outside to the darkened evening, watching the city roll by. I knew I had a lot to look forward to, a lot of craziness to come. Petra was right. Something in me was definitely changing. I couldn’t put a finger on it, though. I wasn’t quite the same Macy Maxwell as I was when I woke up yesterday. But, I mean, think of how you’d feel if you were offered your big break out of nowhere. You’re just standing there, minding your own, and a guy comes up to you and offers you your dream. It takes a while for that to set in, for you to realize what’s happening, but that kind of thing can fundamentally change the wiring inside of you. Enough to make you drop your friend and sleep with a more or less random chick in the same night. Success can play tricks on you.

  And I hadn’t even fully booked the show yet. I still needed to have my nonexistent agent called this executive. I mean, I didn’t even know yet how this guy had heard of me or what he was doing there last night. So many unanswered questions, so many outcomes. And Macy Maxwell is already throwing caution to the wind, letting her freak flag fly, fucking shit up like the little tornado terror that she is. I guess sometimes that’s how it goes when you take your hands off the wheel.

  The bus announcement system sounded off with a ding.

  “California,” said the bus voice. I pulled my head back from the window and shifted my butt, sliding to the outside seat and standing up. I swiftly pushed the button to indicate that I wanted off. Time to head to the bar.

  George slid her nude body off the side of my bed, ran a hand through her greasy hair and looked around, then reached down to the floor and pulled her black panties up her legs. I watched, a bit confused, as George began to dress herself while I lay there naked, the coolness of evaporating sweat on my skin, hair plastered to my forehead, my pussy slowly pulsing with my breath. I was still totally turned on but hadn’t quite gotten there yet. I thought it was my turn again but apparently it wasn’t. The clock at my bedside read 2:11AM. Rolling onto my side, I propped my head up on my hand, elbow against the bed.

  “I gotta take off,” she said. “Lotta work to do tomorrow morning.”

  “You can stay,” I said. “We can just get up early.”

  “I mean, yeah,” George said, making a face at me like it wasn’t going to happen. “I just gotta work on this manuscript first thing.”

  “So you’re just going to fuck me and leave?” I said. “I mean, you’re going to get yours and leave me wet and frazzled? I made you come like three times!”

  “C’mon Macy,” she said, crawling back onto the bed. She lowered her head toward me, planting a gentle kiss on my lips, while her hand slipped between my legs and tenderly massaged my still-wet slit. I moaned softly as I felt her palm brush up against the shortly-trimmed fur on my mound. “It’s not like that,” said George after pulling back from our kiss.

  “Staaay,” I whined, tossing an arm over George’s shoulder.

  “I can’t,” she said with a smile.

  “Fine,” I pouted, rolling away from her. “Leave then.”

  George pulled her jeans up her legs as she looked down at me, a half-cocked smile across her lips. I just looked up at her with a pouty frown, something akin to a child not getting her way. Gazing at me as she buttoned her pants, she made a kissy face and I responded by sticking my tongue out at her.

  “Don’t be like that,” she said. “We’ll hang again soon.”

  “I suppose,” I said, pulling a sheet up over my nakedness. “The door locks behind you. Just be quiet walking down the stairs so you don’t wake my neighbors.”

  “Cool,” said George, stepping toward the door to my bedroom and slipping into her boots.

  “Do you want to come see me tomorrow at the club?” I asked as I saw our tim
e together dwindling.

  “Yeah maybe,” said George. “I’ll text you.”

  “Are we gonna be girlfriends?” I said.

  “Macy,” said George, laughing a bit, smiling, looking down. “I mean, we just met.”

  “All right,” I said. “Don’t let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya.”

  “Funny,” she said, but no laugh. I didn’t mean for it to be that funny anyway.

  “Just an old saying,” I said.

  “I’ll text you,” said George, giving me a half wave and an understated smile. And with that, she walked out of my bedroom. I could hear her boots stepping on the hardwood floor, then the click and turn of the doorknob of the front door of my apartment, the creaking of the door opening, and then the door shutting with a soft thud.

  “Fuck!” I called, pounding my fist on the bed. Was this chick playing me? I mean, we go out for a couple drinks, head back to my place to screw, and then she’s gone? Here we go again, Macy, falling for the jerk who treats you like you’re not an important part of her life. At least she had stayed over last night, even if she happened to leave early in the morning. Still angry at myself, I smacked my hand once again on the bed, this time my fist colliding with a wet spot left by George on the sheet, slopping up the underside of my hand. “Goddamn it,” I said, looking at my now wet hand, quickly wiping it off on a dry part of the sheet.

  Tossing the sheet off me, I popped out of bed, flicked the bedside light on, and searched around for my clothes. I swiftly pulled my panties up my legs and then wandered over to my closet, yanking out my thin cotton robe from a hanger, and put it on. There was an unremitting anger inside of me, and I’m sure I looked like a total grump with a scrunched up face as I plodded around my room, but this anger I felt was directed more at myself than at George. The reality of the situation is that we had only known each other for two days, our relationship predicated on booze and sex, and here I was expecting her to hold me through the night.