Sample Story from Fiametta

Fiammetta told her shrink the next story.  Her shrink said that instead of parking cars, we should have paid the money and gone to the party ourselves.  The moral: grow up!

Two Topless Girls on the Beach

Betty invited me to the Hamptons for the weekend to meet rich lesbians.  She defined rich as making over $500,000 a year, not over $50,000, which is how I defined it.  Mythic girls drove Mercedes, did coke, and hung out on the tip of Long Island.  They were out there; but I never really went after them until today, until my friend Betty suggested it, and before I moved out of Manhattan to Oregon of all places.

We met while playing basketball in college.  She was the only woman on the team who could clearly go both ways.  I don't think that she had an actual affair with Liza, the sexy forward who did the coach's tarot cards on the team bus, but I'm sure she was in love with her.  I could tell by the way she looked at Liza on the foul line.

Betty described her new boyfriend to me during the car ride on the Long Island Expressway.  Jeff is sensitive; he is OK-looking; he comes from an abusive family; he is in therapy.  She said that they met at a bank picnic and that at first he had been incredibly "there" for her.  They spent every night together when everything changed.  He heard from the Peace Corps.  He was headed to Bulgaria in ten weeks.

"Get this.  Now he criticizes what I do and what I wear."  That was hard to believe.  Betty had that kind of beautiful olive skin and long torso that would look good in just about anything.  

After listening to Betty for a while, I did what any good friend would do: I spoke about my own problems.  I complained about Martha and her photography and how she is so distant at times and how bawdy she is and controlling and horny and talented and of course about my fears about moving to Oregon.  As we turned off route 27 toward Sag Harbor, we slapped each other five and vowed to have a good time this weekend no matter what.  We were entitled to it.

The house Betty rented with seventeen other people was in North Haven, a small enclave located on a peninsula just before the town of Sag Harbor.  A gray contemporary structure built by a Japanese architect and decorated by his Italian wife, the house had four bedrooms, an airy living/dining area, three bathrooms and a washer/dryer, furnished in basic blue and white-striped couches and chairs.  Cost to rent for the summer season: $30,000.  She said it was more expensive because it had a pool.

"Makes sense," I said. Betty worked in a firm, and I'm sure made a six-figure salary.  Not like me, the perpetual graduate student, who still had to ask Mom for a couple of bucks to go to the movies.  Betty told me that we could share the back room with Derek, the hunky investment banker.  He was a great guy who stayed out most of the day surfing, swimming, and working on his tan and muscles.  Most evenings he showed off what he had accomplished during the day.  I said that was fine even though being a "lifer" I hadn't spent a night with a man since I was fourteen and my brother slept in a cot by my bed because his room was being repainted.

"Betty, care for a Coke?"

"Why the hell not."

Then we went to town to have a typical east Hampton dinner: sushi "regular" washed down by a glass of Japanese beer.  We watched the fancy cars drive by and discussed which ones we longed for.  Betty said that in the Hamptons you always run into someone you know.

While flipping the pages of the South Hampton weekly, we saw photographs of couples at parties in their sporty Laura Ashleys.  They were overly tan and drunk.  We found features on where to bury your pet and where to get the best car wash.

"See this?" Betty paused. "There's a fundraiser tomorrow night for the Largess Group.  $200 bucks a plate," she said pressing her finger to the listing.  "They're raising money for lesbian health and legal concerns."

"Worthy cause," I agreed.

The next morning Betty said, "Let's hit the beach."  She called some friends who picked us up in a black, late model BMW with a sunroof.  They honked their horn, and Betty screamed that they were here and I said, "I know."

Betty told Derek that we were going to the beach.  When he asked which one, she said she wasn't sure.  He asked when we would be back; she said she wasn't sure.  Then he asked us what we were doing tonight; she said that we were probably going to a party but she didn't know where it was or who was having it.  Closet lesbians are so imprecise.

Both women looked like they were in their early forties.  Sue was dark with plenty of white streaks in her hair.  Her eyes were blue, pensive, and corporate at the same time.  Short black whiskers sprouted from her upper lip.  She wore a baggy T-shirt that read Armani and had a strong Queens accent that said Jackson Heights.  Her skin was nicely preserved.

Wendy had a completely different feel to her.  She was blond or gray, plumper and very tan, clearly a person who did not make use of skin care products.  She had a broad smile, the kind that seemed genuine, though you never know these days.  On the first go over, I would say that she was a real-estate person too.  She was patient with stupid questions.

We exchanged introductions about who we were and how much money we made.  Under my breath, I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn't in real estate but studied art, and though terrified about starting my new life as a college professor, I was still content to spend the next three years—that's the length of my contract—talking about art and life and art and love.  They asked me where, and I said, "Eugene, Oregon."

"Risa, my son is just beginning his Ph.D. at Columbia next year.  He is enrolled in the English department."

"That's nice," I said blandly about my alma mater.  We made a left turn onto a street that dead-ended into the Atlantic Ocean.  Cars were parked in an adjacent parking lot.  A man with a white beard checked our parking sticker and gave us a pass.  Sue found a spot in the far corner of the lot under some maple trees.  Black BMW: don't want to fry on the way home.  

We schlepped the accessories to the beach.  I took the watermelon-emblazoned umbrella.  Betty carried half of the cooler stocked with Perrier and Sue the other half.  Wendy took their two beach chairs.

Not wanting to get too tired, we plopped ourselves close to where we came in. "It's for better viewing," Sue insisted.

Betty spread her towel that had the blue and white Israeli flag on it while I spread out my towel with the Yankees' logo.  Wendy planted the umbrella and Sue set her Budweiser chair under it.  Sue put on her Mets baseball cap and Wendy whipped out the Bain de Soleil #2, and rubbed the grease the color of orange marmalade into her skin.  I asked Betty if she had any #8 and she said no, she doesn't burn, why would she?  Sue had some.

After covering myself with lotion, I assessed our collective breasts.  Sue had rather big round ones with no whiskers.  Wendy had practically no breasts—less inviting.  Betty had the rather stiff, pointy variety.  I fancied saggier models.  I had nondescript ones that need a sports bra.

The sun pounded our bodies as Sue handed me the day's New York Post and Betty thumbed through Vanity Fair with K.D. Lang on the cover.  Sue read Business Week and Wendy had her eyes closed.  The beach is quite distracting when you really get down to it.  All those waves crashing and sand getting in everything.

Then Dolores came into our lives in a skimpy bathing suit.  She was 55—sporting that kind of sandy blond/gray you can only maintain at the salon.  "Hello ladies," she said in a cigarette voice.  "We are having a party tonight, a fundraiser for lesbians and lesbian medical concerns.  We still need some volunteers.  Any of you ladies interested?"

"What do you have in mind?" I asked.

"We need some people to check tickets and collect money at the door."

We didn't think long before saying that we were a sure thing.

"I want you to wear black pants and nice shoes.  We will supply the T-shirts.  Be at 1254 North Medford Road at 4:30.  We'll probably need you until about 10:00.  Thanks ladies."  Dolores moved to the couple to our right.

We spent the next three hours frolicking in the water and running up and down the beach.

At 3:00 we asked Sue and Wendy to drive us home because we had to buy some black pants.  Skipping some of the boring details, I revved up the Volvo and Betty suggested that we go to Caldor to get cheap black pants.  The neon lights inside the store seemed dim compared to the sun's reflection on the beach.  Moms tugging on spoiled girls marched by as tired employees replenished the racks with clothes.  Betty pointed me to Mecca: young misses apparel.  We found two pairs of cotton elastic waistband pants.  Her Mom said she always looked better in waistband.  We tried them on in the fitting room amidst laughter and a couple of farts.  I usually fart when I laugh hard.

The sun turned orange as we made our way to the party, showered, combed, and decked in our new pants and white sneakers.  Tall bushes and trees formed fences around peoples' property.  No one was about: only an occasional Mercedes-driver.  I parked my gray Volvo behind the red Porsche.

"This must be the place." Betty asserted.  I stuck my finger in my ear to make sure there weren't any protruding yellow potatoes, as Martha called them.  Where is that Dolores?

We walked behind the house where we found an army of people preparing for the evening's festivities.  White tables with white folding chairs dotted the manicured lawn like golf balls on a putting surface.  Men were busy making floral arrangements for each table.  In the house, women were cooking the feast, and one was cutting baguettes.

"Let's get a drink at the bar," Betty said.  I ordered a vodka tonic and Betty had a gin and tonic.  The bartender was annoyed.

"She has an attitudinal problem, don't you think?" one of us said.  We walked back to the front lawn.  There she was in pearls, a flowered shirt, and smart pants.

"We need you ladies to stand in the driveway and make sure that no one parks in front of the house.  Tell them to park near the beach."  She took a breath.  "We are expecting 500 people tonight.  I need you two ladies to point them in the direction of those tables.  We have to make sure that all the guests have paid and are on the list before they walk into the backyard."

"Sure thing," Betty said.

"One more thing: after dinner we need you ladies to work the silent auction.  Barb Cohen will talk to you about that.  The guests will begin arriving about 6:00.  In the meantime, go find the other volunteers.  They'll give you white Largess T-shirts to wear."

"No sweatola," I concluded.  She left.

"Why do Long Island lesbians call each other ladies?" Betty pondered.  We walked to the cluster of volunteers and listened to Betty explain our duties.  All of us were to finish our respective jobs at 9:30 and meet underneath the white and yellow canopy to administrate the silent auction.  People had donated food, cars, designer accessories, dates with a masseuse; we were supposed to gather the bids written on the brown clipboards, determine who had made the highest bid, close the bidding, and collect cash or credit cards.  Blah, blah, blah.  The other volunteers were pretty cute, especially Abigail, the labor lawyer.

We went back to the bar to get a few more drinks after the instructions.  Dolores sneered at us slightly, but the truth is we didn't want to get dehydrated.  We stood at the entrance of the driveway and watched in awe, glasses in hand, as the first carload of guests drove up.

Black Porches with women in them sporting long, blond hair soon followed.  It was Oscar night for me: Maybe Jodie or Martina would show up?  We told them to park down the block like we were supposed to.

Then we waited for them to walk back up the street and ask us where the entrance to the party was.  Betty chatted with every stranger.  I stared in delight.  Some of the women grinned at me while others snarled because their feet hurt after walking approximately 400 feet back to the house.  "Not my problem," I said to Betty.

A stretch limousine provided us with the night's biggest thrill.  "This has to be Sandra or Melissa."  I exploded.  Out popped three over-processed pretty types from Mount Holyoke or something.  Later Betty told me they were pretty bitchy, not wanting to walk across the lawn because they were afraid to ruin their new Valentino shoes.  I missed the whole exchange.  Dolores was busy berating me because I was greeting the guests with a drink in my hand.

"Just get rid of it." Maybe her date didn't show up.

My anonymous world shattered.

"Risa, what the hell are you doing here?"

It was dreaded Deborah from the city.  "Hey, Deb."  I gave her a long hug and stepped back in admiration.  "Don't you look beautiful."  She was wearing a sheer orange silk pants suit.  I’d always wanted to have a fling with her.

"You volunteering?"

"Looks like it."

"Risa, Risa.  I can't believe it," Betty bombarded me.

"What?"

"I think I just saw my junior high math teacher!"

"Did she recognize you?"

"I don't know."

"Go talk to her."  She did.

We went back to our jobs for about an hour as five hundred lesbians walked by.  Some walked hand in hand, others were more discreet.  Some wore designer pants, some designer dresses.  Some were in their fifties with mops of gray hair.  Some were right out of college.  Some came in packs of ten, others came alone.  Some looked like Mom, some like Dad.  They made me happy no matter how they were.  They were my sisters, my partners in this difficult world of being different.  We were inventing a safe, cultural enclave for ourselves: staking a claim for our rights to a free and equal existence—in a world that does not include us.

We could hear the PA system in the background and somebody told us that Bella herself was about to give a speech.

Betty said she didn't want to miss it.  What about Dolores?  We considered the consequences for a nanosecond.

Back into the backyard we went.  While standing among five hundred lesbians with an attitude, we listened to speeches and ate hors d'oeuvres presented to us on platters.  Betty passed on the caviar, but I took four crackers in my hand and stuffed one in my mouth.  She went for the jumbo shrimp on toothpicks that she dipped in Thai sauce.  I took two.  I also opted for the deviled eggs, eggplant slivers and pizzettas.  And the prosciutto rapped around a savory breadstick.  It's amazing how many finger foods you can stuff in your mouth at once.

"I need a drink," I said in a muffled tone.

We walked over to the bartender.  There was some yellow fruit punch in a large glass bowl on the counter donated by the Fruit for Life Company of East Hampton.  A card said so.

"Any liquor in that stuff?" Betty asked the bartender.

"No."

"Then make me a Tanqueray and tonic."

"Make that two."

We walked back to the patio to hear other women give eloquent speeches about my health concerns, and how important Largess was and how it was the first of its kind.  We were all fighting homophobia that runs as deep as still waters.  For the first time in my life I felt that there was somebody or some organization that could protect me from the evil that permeated society.  I was ecstatically happy.

On our way back to the bar, we ran into a couple of women we had seen that day on the beach.  They were in the television and production business.  I was an art historian with my first job in Eugene: Betty—you know the drill.

To our utter amazement, the bartender refused to serve us anymore drinks.  "Dolores said."

"I am sick of being treated like a couple High School seniors," Betty confessed.  Then she said we should dance and pointed to the wooden floor that had been set on the lawn.  A deejay was spinning tunes.

"Why the hell not."

I grabbed my friend's hand and led her to a group of well-dressed, gyrating patrons.  Betty was a notoriously good dancer.  She won the "best dancer" award on all our bus trips back from games.  She did have some stiff competition from a swimmer who did a flip down the corridor of the bus; correctly, the judge awarded Betty the first-place prize of all the two-for-one tickets for French fries we had saved from our meal at the Ponderosa.  That says a lot.

Seventies music was in and this evening was no exception.  We sweated to Gloria Gaynor, Donna Summer, and Rick James.  We danced far apart at first, trying out different spins.  Betty dazzled me with an array of hand and arm positions.  I abandoned my tired moves and mimicked her.  She took my hand and led me through some loopy disco steps.  We twirled and coiled and uncoiled and stepped on some well-soled feet and stepped off and said sorry and begged for more.  The anthem of disco music came on: "Night Fever."  Heaven help me.  Betty swung me around and around, and the music and lights whizzed by my head as I thanked God or whoever was responsible for giving me my life and for the great time I was having.  I sweated caviar and deviled eggs through my Largess T-shirt.  I held on to Betty and felt her energy.  She slowly lifted my head and moved her red lips toward mine.

I felt a tap on my left shoulder.

"Time to run the silent auction, ladies."  Dratted Dolores.

We spent the next half-hour gathering signatures, money, and credit cards.  I sold a photograph of a man in drag at Sheridan Square in the Village, a collage of flower petals by a lesbian artist on the Island, and a box covered in blue velvet.  Betty manned the fashion station and even bought herself a little number.  "Only thirty bucks."

I was happy no matter what she bought. "It's beautiful."

Dolores growled at us when she came to collect the money.  I began to doubt whether we would ever be asked to volunteer again.  What could you expect from two topless girls on the beach?

I felt enraptured for the first time in months.  We could cope with Jeff and Martha, and not expect things from them that they just couldn't give.  We agreed that that was like asking someone to take a lay-up when they couldn't even dribble.

After Dolores kicked us out, Betty took my hand and walked me to the gray Volvo.  The moon shined on the old paint as I unlocked the door for her.  I cranked open the sunroof to let the moon in.  You fill in the rest.

This page was last updated on 01/02/03.