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Hi, my name’s Ronni Brady, and I’m a feature writer with New York Eye, the internationally renowned humorous news and current affairs magazine. I’m known for my acerbic wit and laconic style. You may have heard of me – I also have a regular newspaper column that’s syndicated across the country, and I’ve been a regular guest on shows like Letterman and the Late Late Show over the years.

Of course these days, at my great age, I’m something of a Grand Dame at the Eye, and I can write my stuff from the viewpoint of a blousy cranky old lady. This story, though, comes from a much earlier period of my life, a more naive time, a time much simpler yet quite complex…

I’m not a native New Yorker. Far from it, I grew up in small town Kansas. Let me take you back to my home town – let’s call it Westvale – in 1960, and introduce you to a shy young lady called Veronica Brady. I’d just turned 18, I was in my last months at Glendinning High School, and I was a mouse: an academic geek straight out of central casting, small at five-two with a petite figure, long chestnut brown hair held back with an Alice band or leather thong, hazel eyes, a pale complexion and big black-rimmed reading spectacles. I never used make-up and, apart from my white bobby sox, I generally wore somber colors. When I looked at myself in the mirror I knew I was pretty – my eyes sparkled, my small pert nose was lightly dusted with freckles, and I had a nice smile and a dimpled chin – but nobody else really noticed, and I guess I never encouraged them to. Basically, if anyone had thought it worth writing anything about me in the school yearbook it would have been ‘girl most likely to become the town’s spinster librarian’.

I had some friends, but not many. Glendinning was the hipper of the town’s two schools, but I wasn’t one of the hip girls, with their Marilyn Monroe or Liz Taylor hair, their big rouged lips and gleaming Crest smiles, their big Playtex tits and their long, long legs. What made it worse was that I was Big Joe Brady’s kid; dad was chief labor organiser at the town auto works, revered by the blue collar population, hated by the white collar classes whose sons and daughters dominated Glendinning. I would probably have been happier at St Josephs, where most of the other working class kids went, but Glendinning was the best, and only the best was good enough for Joe Brady’s kid, he wasn’t gonna have those management bastards and their snivelling scumbag lawyers looking down on him. He was as loud, boisterous and overpowering as I was quiet, withdrawn and underwhelming.

All the other girls my age chased the school jocks and dreamed of being executive secretaries, selling Chanel perfume or Dior gowns in some big department store and becoming perfect little Betty Crocker homemakers and moms, but I had bigger ideas. The boys in school barely noticed I existed and, to be honest, I wasn’t really interested in them either. Marrying some grease monkey or store clerk or drudge insurance salesman was not for me; my ambition was to graduate school with good grades, aim for an ivy league college, shake the dust of Hicksville off my feet for good and start my real life somewhere sophisticated like LA or the Big Apple.

My teachers encourage me in my fantasy. I knew I was smart, possibly the brightest kid in the school, but I guess the faculty knew better than I did just how smart I was. While the other girls spent their leisure time in school practising the latest dance, trying out for the cheerleading team or comparing make-up tips, I could invariably be found sitting in the shade of a tree in a quiet corner of the school field, my nose buried in a book. My favourite teacher was Miss Grzesiak (pronounced Greezhak) – Lorraine – who took English classes. I loved great literature, and ate up all I could find of the Brontes, Jane Austen, Henry James, and so on and so on. Miss G had only joined the faculty about a year previously, and she and I had instantly found common cause. After one of her first classes I hung back one day to ask a question that I’d been too embarrassed to ask in front of my fellow students, about the motivation of one of the characters in Gatsby. It was the end of the day, I didn’t want to take up her time, but my single question led to nearly an hour of stimulating conversation about the novel, and F Scott Fitzgerald in general.

After that Miss G and I were on the same wavelength, and we often had extra-curricular discussions about literary esoterics that would have left my fellow students glassy-eyed with boredom and incomprehension within moments. Lorraine was no small-town girl, she was everything I dreamed of being: a Bostonian, she had attended a spiffy East Coast university, had visited Europe, and had cut her teeth as a teacher in the Bronx and Brooklyn before moving west. In her early 30s, she reminded me of Shirley MacLaine, with short reddish-blonde hair and a cat’s face with high cheekbones, slightly slanted samsun escort green eyes, a button nose and a tapered chin supporting a wide mouth. She was five inches taller than me, athletically built but with an impressive bust, and had shapely legs with a dancer’s calves. She was assertive, funny, sassy and superb at putting down boys who tried to play the wise-ass in her classes. The other kids started whispering around school that she was a queer and used to snigger about her behind her back – they wouldn’t have dared do so to her face – but I didn’t care a fig about that. I admired her like nobody else I’d ever known; at night, in the darkness of my bedroom I used to lay and think about her, not in any sexual way but just of me and her being friends, real friends, more than simply an encouraging teacher and precocious kid.

And then, one fine day, just after my 18th birthday, to my amazement it started to happen. Miss G stopped me as I was leaving class and asked me to take a seat. “Veronica, there’s a show on over in Ellsworth that I thought might interest you. A touring theater company are performing A Midsummer Night’s Dream next week. I was thinking of organising a school outing, but to be honest you’re the only student I can think of who would be likely to really appreciate it. So I wondered if you’d like to come and see it with me? Have you ever seen any live Shakespeare?”

I was so excited by the idea that I could barely breathe, let alone speak, and I shook my head dumbly. Miss G smiled and said, “Can I take it that means you haven’t seen the bard’s work live, not that you’re not interested in coming?” Feeling myself blush I apologised and said that was exactly what it meant. I’d never seen any live theater, well, not real, professional productions. Proper theater companies never came to our small town, Ellsworth was over 30 miles away, I had no car and no-one to go with – my folks didn’t have the slightest interest in the arts beyond movies shown on TV.

Despite my excitement, and even though the invitation seemed entirely innocent, some sense of self-preservation warned me not to mention my outing with Miss Grzesiak to anybody. Because I’d be back so late I did tell my mom that I was going on a school trip to Ellsworth to see a play, and if she drew the conclusion from that that a whole bunch of us were going, on a formally organised visit, well, that wasn’t my fault. I borrowed a copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream from the library and thoroughly studied it, so that I wouldn’t look a complete dork at the theatre. My anticipation built over the next few days until, on the appointed Friday, I was almost bursting. I didn’t have a class with Miss G that day but I passed her in the school corridor and she gave me a barely perceptible wink and mouthed “see you tonight”.

As soon as my last class finished I raced home and changed into my one smart outfit, a sparkly black prom dress I’d never actually worn, having not been able last time to face the ritual humiliation of being a wallflower once again. I struggled into the self-supporting stockings I’d also never worn, scooped my hair into a ponytail and slipped my glasses into my purse, hoping I wouldn’t have to drag them out to actually read anything during the evening. I was too keyed up to eat anything, and I rushed down to the town square where we had agreed Miss G would pick me up.

She roared up in a jewel off a car, a tiny red English two-seater convertible sports car which made my jaw drop in admiration. I had never ridden in anything remotely like it before, and as we whisked along I eased back into the rich leather seat with the wind streaming my long hair out behind me, fantasising that I was sitting beside Cary Grant as he chauffeured me along the French Riviera. When we reached Ellsworth Miss G turned to me and said, “I don’t want to be ma’am out of school, so I think you should call me Lorraine and I’ll call you Ronni, okay honey?” She was the first person ever to call me that, and I immediately adopted it as her special name for me. As Lorraine exited the car I got my first chance to properly see her outfit. She looked wonderful, in a midnight blue blouse, black slacks and low-heeled black patent leather sandals which revealed bare toes with nails painted scarlet to match those of her fingers. The blouse had quite a plunging neckline, revealing an expanse of pale chest and the first swelling of her generous boobies. Strangely I felt embarrassed looking directly at her, but I kept sneaking glances throughout the evening.

I had a wonderful time at the theater. The performances were superb, and at the interval I found that Lorraine had ordered me a white wine spritzer in the bar, my first taste of alcohol, even if a very weak one. At the end of the play I clapped so hard my hands were sore. The theater exit was crowded as we left and Lorraine grabbed my hand to guide me through the throng. Somehow we ended up holding hands all the way back to the car, but I didn’t mind in the least; it felt sisterly and, well, friendly. With the combination of the excitement, the lack of food and the alcohol I felt woozy and fell asleep on the way back. I stayed late in bed on the Saturday and lay staring at the ceiling reliving every scene of the performance in my head, and the way Lorraine had looked. I was still glowing from it when I returned to school on the Monday. After my English class Lorraine pulled me to the side and asked if I’d enjoyed the evening. Almost hugging myself I told her it was the best time ever. She grinned hugely at that and replied, “Good, I’m really glad. We should do it again sometime. In fact, if you’re interested, the New York Ballet are performing Swan Lake in a couple of weeks’ time.” Naturally I was interested, and we made the arrangements then and there. I offered to pay Lorraine for the tickets out of my savings but she wouldn’t hear of it.

The night of the ballet couldn’t come quickly enough for me. I was embarrassed at the thought of wearing the same outfit, so I drew some money from my savings and treated myself to a sophisticated cream cocktail dress I couldn’t really afford and a matching pair of flat sandals. The performance was on a Saturday this time, and I spent the afternoon in the local hair salon getting my locks piled high on my head – very Audrey Hepburn. I also experimented with some make-up, and felt I’d done quite a good job. Lorraine’s face lit up when she saw me and she said I looked beautiful, which made me blush with happiness. She was dressed in quite a masculine fashion, with a tuxedo, frilled shirt and red bow tie, but my only thought was how much the look suited her. The performance was stunning and, with all the pent up excitement and emotion inside me I found tears streaming down my face during the Dying Swan. I felt Lorraine’s arm slip comfortingly around me, and she gently pressed a handkerchief into my hand.

As we left the theater Lorraine slipped her arm through mine, and we strolled companionably back towards the car. I was floating on a little pink cloud of pleasure, and it took me completely by surprise when three girls from my class as school loomed up before me. They were all pretty blondes, dressed to kill, and each hanging on the arm of a young man. As they archly greeted Lorraine and me, trying not to snigger, I felt myself blushing from head to toe. Lorraine tried to disengage her arm from mine, but I locked on. After all, there was nothing wrong in us being out together, and I looked the other girls in the eye and smiled as I wished them a pleasant evening. Lorraine went quiet until we were a few miles out of town when, looking straight ahead at the road, she muttered, “Look Ronni, I’m sorry about that…”

With more bravado than I felt I replied, “Sorry about what? So Erin and her sidekicks saw us together, and saw that we’re friends. Big deal.”

It was maybe another mile before, glancing at me, she half-whispered, “You know what the kids at school say about me…that I’m a…”

“Yes, I know” I quickly responded.

She swallowed and continued, “It’s true. I prefer girls to men.” After a further pause, in a tiny voice, she added, “Do you mind?”

I didn’t want my answer to sound rushed and ill-considered, so I waited a few seconds before answering, “No, of course not. It’s nobody’s business but yours, and anyway, I don’t believe there’s anything wrong in it. I mean, if you love someone, what difference does it make who they are?” In the darkness she reached to me and squeezed my hand, and we continued the journey in silence.

When we pulled up outside my home I really wanted to show Lorraine nothing had changed between us, and I hugged her and, my lips very close to her ear, whispered, “Thank you Lorraine, I had such a great time, I love being with you.”

She hugged me back and I felt a heat in my chest as my nipples tightened. She trailed her soft lips across my cheek and whispered, “Me too Ronni…God, you’re so sweet.” Before I could react she reached across me, opened my door and said goodnight. That night in bed, for the first time, I did think about Lorraine in a sexual way. Almost without me realising it, my hand slipped between my legs. I had very rarely pleasured myself up to that point, but within moments my quim was damp and first one finger, then two, slipped easily in and out of me until the dam burst and, with a huge gasp, I eased back into the bed, sucking my bitter-sweet juice off my fingers. When I woke the next morning I knew I’d dreamt, and although I didn’t remember the details I was wreathed in sweat and my pussy was freshly sticky.

From that day in school I was aware of kids whispering about me behind their hands, staring at me and giggling like I was some kind of freak, and conversations suddenly stopping if I walked into a room at the wrong time, but I was determined not to let it bother me. I loved the fact that Lorraine was my friend; in class though, she seemed to be making an attempt to distance herself from me in public, and I respected that. And at night, those dreams about her were becoming a regular occurrence, and more graphic.

A week after our last date – as I’d come to think of it – as I was leaving school Lorraine’s little red sports car pulled up alongside me. She looked very cool, in a green sleeveless dress with big pearl buttons down the front, and sunshades perched on her head. Again I momentarily got the Shirley MacLaine image. Leaning across to the passenger door, she called, “Hey, Veronica, I’m going your way, can I give you a ride home?” I was surprised at the boldness of her offer but very pleased. As I climbed into the car I was deeply conscious that there were bound to be kids watching who knew me, but fuck them. As we sped off, I slipped my glasses into my purse and revelled once more of the feel of the breeze in my hair.

After a few minutes we stopped at an intersection for a red light. Staring straight ahead, with forced casualness, Lorraine said in a quiet voice, “I’ll take you straight home if you like honey; or, if you want to we could go to my place first for a drink.” I felt like a lightning bolt had crashed into my brain. I knew (hoped) that, if I agreed to go home with this woman, we’d share a lot more than a drink. It was one of the big decisions of my life: did I want my first sexual experience to be with a lesbian?

I didn’t answer her question, and I didn’t move a muscle as she drove past the turn to my street. She accelerated slightly after that, and ten minutes or so later we arrived at a modern looking condo building on the outskirts of town. Lorraine walked round to my side of the car and opened the door for me then, my heart thundering in my ears and my mouth dry with nervous anticipation, she gently took my elbow and led me to a second floor apartment. As she closed the door behind us she gave me an uncertain smile and said “I’ll go and fix the drinks, the phone’s over there if you want to call your mom.” That hadn’t even occurred to me, but I did make the call, telling mom I was studying at a friend’s house and we were maybe going to go to a movie later.

Lorraine returned as I finished the call, with two crystal flutes of a lightly effervescing white wine. Passing me one and motioning me to sit beside her on her couch she raised her glass and said “Na zdrowie – old Polish toast”. I sipped the wine – it was cool and sweet as it trickled down my throat. We sat for a couple of minutes just smiling at each other and sipping our drinks, the only sound the soft swish of the air conditioning. Then, oh so casually, Lorraine placed her glass on a coffee table, bent lower and scooped my feet into her lap. She eased off my shoes and began to massage my socked feet. It felt good, soothing yet at the same time sending jolts of electricity up my legs, straight into my pussy.

Never taking my eyes off her, I reached out and put down my wine glass too. Our eyes locked, a small smile playing on Lorraine’s lips, she eased off my bobby sox and dropped them beside my shoes. She raised one of my feet, examined it, and almost whispered, “Oh baby, you feet are so small, and so beautiful.” Then she raised my foot to her mouth, ran her tongue up my instep, which made me shiver, then sucked my big toe before closing her lips over my other four toes together, playing her tongue between them. It felt incredible, and I scooched down into the couch, my pussy beginning to feel hot and a small moan of pleasure escaping my lips.

After a couple of minutes Lorraine rested my ankle on her shoulder and raised the other foot to her lips, repeating her tongue caresses. The effect of her raising my legs had made my skirt slip back, completely exposing my white cotton panties. Lorraine eased herself forwards on the couch until she was laying on top of me, between my splayed legs, our faces two inches apart. Looking serious for a moment, she whispered, “Is this okay baby?” I wasn’t sure I could speak; so instead I slipped my arms around her neck and pulled her lips down to mine.

Lorraine ran her tongue along my lips and I opened my mouth to her. I knew about French kissing although, of course, I’d never experienced it, but she was gentle, and I loved sucking on her soft tongue, flavoured with the sweetness of the wine and something else (a hefty shot of bourbon, I later found, that she’d taken in the kitchen to bolster her courage). As we kissed Lorraine slipped her hand between us and pressed her fingers to the sodden gusset of my panties. With a mind of its own my pussy lurched, bucking at her, pushing onto her hand. She sighed into my mouth, then broke our kiss and whispered, “It’s time baby.” She stood and reached out a hand to help me up. I took it, but before I rose I raised it to my nose and, for the first time in my life, smelt my own sexual perfume on the hand of another woman. Lorraine interlaced her fingers with mine and led me, rather dazedly, into her bedroom.

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