Coming Together: With Pride (10 page)

Paulette was troubled. Like the heroine of Coleridge's poem of the same name, Christabel had given an impression of guileless generosity. She even seemed to convince herself that her intentions were noble, but her effect on other people always had a whiff of brimstone in it.

Paulette thought about Christabel's legendary sense of guilt. Before reading her letters to Emily, Paulette had blamed Christabel's over-privileged European husband for infecting her with feminine self-blame.

After Emily's death, Christabel and Henri, the Compte and Comptesse de Mille-Chevres, had toured Europe and North America, holding religious rallies at which they harangued their audiences to beg God for forgiveness for their sins. Christabel had never publicly named hers, but she had encouraged all her followers to take on her tormented conscience.

Paulette knew that Christabel's brand of Christianity had never been popular in Europe, where it had morphed into a secular political movement which promoted liberal causes. The original self-flagellating fervor of Christabel's cult had survived only in southern California, where Christabel had settled after the death of her husband, and where she was buried.

Like vultures circling over a desert, Paulette's thoughts came back to the possibility of assassins waiting for Margaret at the Derby.
Even if they're out there
, thought Paulette,
I can't stop them by
showing up exhausted after worrying all night
. She decided that snuggling up to Margaret would be the best way to fall asleep quickly.

Paulette placed the manuscript back in her suitcase, turned off the lamp, and snuck back into the bedroom. The sight of Margaret, sprawled on the bed in innocent nakedness, filled her with relief. Paulette climbed beside her and pressed herself spoon-fashion into Margaret's firm buttocks and gracefully-curved back.

Margaret was snoring gently, but sparks of energy seemed to shoot into Paulette's belly and crotch from Margaret's hot bottom. Paulette ran her hands slowly down the smooth, inviting skin. The scent of Margaret's sweat filled Paulette's nose.

 
Buns, bums, arses, or tushes were supposedly a focal point for the lust of gay men. An unwelcome image of Reginald flashed into Paulette's mind. She couldn't help wondering what, or whom, he really wanted aside from a return to laissez-faire capitalism. But then, commerce wasn't always separate from sex. Au contraire. Paulette imagined a hard-faced young man, thin as a whip, coiled around Reggie-boy with one patronizing arm around Reggie's shoulders and the other searching his clothing for a wallet. The young man, who might not be old enough to vote, was an updated version of an Artful Dodger from the mean streets of Victorian London.

Paulette realized that she didn't know much about the culture of urban, nouveau-riche Englishmen with a taste for other men. She knew the history of a few flamboyant figures, who had been punished far more than they deserved, and a cultural tradition of shameless porn mixed with lurid accounts of true crimes. But contemporary men's bars, parties, and popular cruising-spots were unknown to her. For all she knew, she might have watched the subtle seduction of one man by another at one of the social events that she and Margaret constantly had to attend. Not knowing the signs, she wouldn't have known what she was seeing if it was done discreetly.

It annoyed Paulette to think of herself as a Muggle, a Gentile, a colonial, an ignorant outsider of any sort. She didn't want sex with a man, but she didn't want to be rejected or excluded from a whole community, even if the exclusion was partly her choice.

Margaret's warm, firm bottom felt increasingly distracting but reassuring. It was solidly there, pressing assertively into Paulette's crotch. She remembered reading the manifestoes of the pansexual, gender-fuck, anything-that-moves crowd who were fond of pointing out that every person on earth has an asshole, a puckered opening between two cheeks. It was a fundamental truth that no one could dispute.

Paulette's hands cautiously wandered over Margaret's bum, past her hips, to her anus and her cunt. Paulette actually managed to approach both of Margaret's holes from opposite angles, and she was delighted that Margaret didn't seem disturbed. She slid her index finger into Margaret's asshole, but when she was in past the first knuckle, the muscles squeezed alarmingly. Paulette was reminded of a baby boa constrictor practicing its hunting skills.

Margaret's larger opening was lush, wet, and easy to enter. It seemed so welcoming that Paulette could imagine it singing some raunchy invitation:
Oh, baby, come this way
.

Paulette rearranged herself enough to slide two fingers along the wet folds and deeper into the center, like exploring an underwater cave. Margaret moaned and shifted, but didn't open her eyes.

Paulette used one arm to press against the whole valley between Margaret's lower cheeks as she pushed deeper with two, then three fingers, heading steadily toward Margaret's cervix. With the other hand, Paulette found the hood of flesh at the highest end of Margaret's vulva, and used two fingers to tease the magic pearl, her swelling clit.

Paulette felt thrillingly competent, like a conquering barbarian at the gates, and she refused to analyze that feeling. Margaret's physical reactions, which were apparently below the radar of her consciousness, made Paulette feel as if she could awaken and satisfy any human body. She responded to Margaret's twitches and gushes to give her the kind of attention that would produce the best results.

"Ah oh!" yelled Margaret, jerking upright. Her sudden movement dislodged both of Paulette's hands, but Paulette refused to pull away altogether. She held Margaret by the hips, hoping that she hadn't caused any damage. She realized with dismay that her fingernails weren't short enough to be really safe on sensitive tissue.

Margaret turned like a dolphin in water, wrapped her arms around Paulette, and pressed her down into the mattress.

"Pauly! You are something else." Margaret kissed her mouth aggressively, then paused for breath. "Honey," she demanded in a stage-whisper, "did you really expect me to sleep through that?"

Paulette was gasping for air, and the urge to laugh didn't help. "I wanted—you—to have—sweet dreams," she explained.

"I did, babe. You are some sneaky intruder. Next time I really need my sleep, I'll have to wear a chastity belt. But really, Pauly, we can't play any more. We have a big day tomorrow."

"Shh," answered Paulette. "I'll hold you, and you can sleep so hard it won't matter if you only get a few hours. You'll be refreshed."

"I bet I will." Margaret closed her eyes. Paulette knew that she would eventually be thanked, rewarded or at least paid back for her sneak attack on her spouse. In the meanwhile, Margaret's breathing became so deep and even that Paulette drifted to sleep to its rhythm.

Derby Day dawned as brightly as anyone could wish. Before the telephone rang, Margaret and Paulette were awakened by the shocking amount of light streaming into the room from around heavy drapes at the window.

Both women would have loved nothing more than to stay naked in bed, kissing and squeezing and tickling and fucking every trace of fear out of each other's warm bodies. They both imagined staging a
Love-in for Peace
. They both knew this couldn't be done, not while their role as representatives of their country was still controversial in itself.

Margaret and Paulette helped each other into the clothes they had picked out for the day's performance. Then they welcomed two members of Margaret's staff into their suite to attend to their hair and makeup.

Studying her reflection in the mirror, Paulette felt grateful to the young woman of student age who had magically improved her appearance. Paulette had never looked pretty to herself, but she had a polished look that surprised her. The mirror showed no trace of her anxiety or the persistent, low-level hunger in her cleft.

When Margaret and Paulette arrived at the racetrack, a band in 1913 uniforms struck up a lively version of "The March of the Women." Paulette knew the words, and was tempted to sing along:

Shout, shout, up with your song! Cry with the wind for the dawn is breaking.*

The crowd was so huge that she gave up hope of picking out any threatening sounds or hostile vibes. She wondered if anyone could distinguish the sharp report of the starting gun at a horse race from the sound of an illicit gun which had no right to be there.

An all-female youth choir sang several patriotic songs. King Charles announced to the crowd that this day was definitely Ladies Day at the Derby, and his audience laughed politely. Queen Camilla expressed her gratitude to the stalwart women of the past, and to Emily Davison in particular, for sacrificing comfort and life itself for the rights of all women.

Margaret beamed on everyone in sight, much like the sun. Paulette was always impressed by the natural look of her smile on such occasions. Reginald Peek welcomed his Canadian counterpart and her lovely wife.

Argh!
thought Paulette.
I can't believe he actually said that
.

He explained the historic occasion and remarked that those who can't keep up with the march of history are destined to fall behind. Paulette gave him a hard stare for a brief moment.

Margaret stepped confidently up to the microphone, and then it happened.

"Bloody bitches!" yelled a young man who surely hadn't intended to sound so hysterical or high-pitched. A collective masculine yell that sounded like "Hoy!" arose from a struggling knot of bodies in the young man's general vicinity, lower down in the stands.

A whisper spread through the group of dignitaries. A Canadian aide stepped close to Paulette. "Some guy with an explosive device was subdued by security. He seemed to be aiming at Prime Minister Crapper. They've got him under control."

Paulette glanced around at Reginald, and was amazed at what she saw. His face showed undisguised anguish, as though he cared deeply about Margaret's safety.

"My God! David!" he shouted before somewhat composing his expression. "This is all a mistake," he stuttered to the circle of faces staring openly at him.

Paulette wondered if Reginald would be forced to leave office in disgrace, and she almost pitied him. Nothing he could possibly say to explain away his outburst would work. His mask had cracked, and all the King's horses and all the King's men could never put it together again.

A member of the royal staff announced to the crowd that there was no need for alarm because the saboteur was being removed from the scene. His presence was explained as a small glitch in the proceedings which a good-humored British crowd could overlook. The hordes of people seemed to agree.

Margaret spontaneously gave thanks for tight racetrack security and delivered her intended speech about the welfare of each and every person as a precious legacy. Even before she had finished speaking, Paulette knew that nothing else would disrupt the day's agenda. She didn't know how she knew that.

Pheromones and sunlight,
she thought.
I'm standing in the light, in smelling-distance of her, and that must be why I feel unreasonably optimistic.

Paulette wondered what historians of the future would make of the day's events.
Some lucky researcher will discover the truth about David and Reginald,
she thought.
Once the dust
has settled, someone will sort through the evidence and the tangled web of motives, including whatever source of pain caused young David to think that a woman elected as head of government in another country stands between him and whatever he wants: rights for men, personal freedom or just relief for his cock and balls. The personal is political, and the political is personal.

The warmth of the sun was hypnotic. Paulette relaxed, and reached for Margaret's competent right hand. She remembered that the world had always been a stage, and she realized that she could play the role of Consort as long as necessary. She felt herself smiling effortlessly. She knew that no one else could be in her place, feeling what she felt at this moment. She felt damn lucky.

~ ~ ~