[ardentfemme]

The cold air digs into my skin like a knife as I get off the plane. I was expecting quaint, riverside houses with their vermilion, mauve, and forest green facades like the ones you see in travel brochures. I guess those are deeper in the heart of the city, because the airport is just as grey and industrial as all the others. Struggling with my suitcases against the revolving door, I regret wearing my best heels to travel. Unlooping the belt on my coat, the red fabric unfurls around my pencil skirt, hugs the curve of my ass and then drapes loosely over my thighs.

My eyes scan the crowd at the arrivals gate for a sign with my name. Someone was supposed to come get me, but I don’t see anyone and I’m not keen on venturing out into the December night to hail a cab. This whole trip was such a rash decision. Not my style at all. I immediately begin to regret it. Sure, some artists prefer to meet buyers in person before handing over their creations, but travelling internationally – during the holiday season no less – for a photograph? I’m shaking my head in self-demoralizing shame when a balding man in unironed chinos approaches me. Not exactly what I would have expected for a representative of one of the most renowned photographers of the contemporary art world. He holds a sign that reads “Allison Massaro.”

“That’s me!” I put on a twinkling smile for him. “But you can call me Allie.” It has the desired effect. His posture softens.

“Right this way.” He whisks me off to the car, deposits me in the back, then tosses my luggage in the trunk. The coolness of the leather seats sends a shock through my thighs and up my spine. Anticipation begins to build in my core. I’m waiting for something, but I don’t know what.

His name turns out to be Levi, the artist’s brother. She wanted to pick me up herself, but had some urgent business to attend to, although I don’t catch what business exactly. Levi’s accent is thick, but pleasant. I peg him for a nice guy: married to the same woman for decades, eats his wife’s homemade pies, coaches his son’s football team. Or whatever they play in the Netherlands.

“So what brings you all the way to Amsterdam, young lady?”

“I’m buying one of your sister’s pieces. She requested that I pick it up in person.”

“Hey, that reminds me, Gon asked me to give you something before you head to your room. Don’t let me forget. Anyway, that’s a long way to come for a photo.” Levi chuckles and relaxes his hands on the steering wheel. “Which one is it?

I hesitate for a brief moment. “Lesbo Gang Bang.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence. Pulling up to the curb of Gon’s castle-cum-studio sends a shiver down my spine. I feel like an aristocrat from some bygone era about to have a rendezvous with my pinstripe-suited lover. At least, until Levi unceremoniously throws my suitcases out of his trunk and tears open my door. Remembering something, he returns to the driver’s side and pulls out a garment bag, shoving it in my hand before driving away wordlessly.

I guess the whole Lesbo Gang Bang thing didn’t go over so well with him. But, surely, he doesn’t act that way with his sister, a vocally out and proud femme? Gon seems like the type of woman who would nip his bullshit in the bud. I, meanwhile, struggle to regain my composure after the rebuff and pick up my wayward luggage, making my way through the intricately carved wooden doors.

“Let me help you with those.” A voice nestles against my ear, seems to caress my wind-bitten flesh. Its timbre is low, playing with the nuances of gender. I would know a butch just from the sound of one. My body snaps into attentiveness. Hands reach out to grab my bags, hands that are attached to the most gorgeous human being I have ever seen. Penetrating brown eyes reflect back to me, framed by crisply cut sandy blond hair. All embodied in a form of formidable size and strength. The bulge of muscles under a dress shirt and blazer belies a hard-fought and hard-won confidence.

All thought, emotion, and sensation stop circulating through my body and rush to my cunt. Lord, help me. I extend a hand to a nearby table to steady myself. The smoothness of its marble surface against the palm of my hand is a blessing, an anchor that pulls me back from my daydream into reality.

“Tired?”

“I’m fine.” My voice takes on an unintended sharpness as I try to mask my arousal. “Thank you,” I add. “I’m Allie.” I extend my hand.

“Jay. Pleasure to meet you.” A smile plays on full lips.

I hesitate. I don’t know how to ask which pronouns this handsome specimen prefers without being distasteful. Should I just assume? “She, her, hers.” I point to myself. “And you?”

“I like they, them. Thanks for asking.” Jay sounds genuinely pleased.

“You’re here to meet Gon, too?” I force my eyes to meet theirs and to calm the heat gathering between my thighs. I shift my weight uncomfortably and hope Jay doesn’t notice.

“Yeah, I’m buying a piece of hers.” A patron of the arts and a gentleman, too. Maybe there’s something more to this than visceral sex appeal. “Gon and I go way back.” A smirk spreads across Jay’s face, so I don’t have to wonder what exactly they were doing together way back when.

“Same. I’ve always been a fan of hers, but this piece in particular really resonates with me.”

“Oh, yeah? Which one is that?” There’s a challenge in Jay’s voice.

God, now I have to actually make the words Lesbo Gang Bang come out of my mouth in front of this divine human being.

I take a deep inhale. “Lesbo Gang Bang,” I say all in one breath.

Jay wrinkles their brow quizzically, Adonis-like. “That’s the one I’m buying. My bid was accepted a month ago.”

“I…” I begin. “Mine too” is all I can manage to say, which I realize belatedly sounds childish, like a little girl about to have a temper tantrum.

“And why does this piece… resonate with you?” Jay asks, something like temptation playing on their lips.

“Well, for one, it eschews the male gaze. The sheer erotic power comes not only from the positionality of the models – the lone femme flanked by two butches and an onlooker in the back, giving rise to a sense of danger and urgency. But it goes beyond that – it’s the femme’s sexual agency that speaks to me. Gon plays with the tired trope of butch as aggressor, as predator, and inverts that idea by having the femme stare directly into the camera, at the viewer. Her gaze lets the viewer know she wants this, and it’s okay for us to want it, too.” I pause, realizing I’ve just ranted. “I’m an art buyer,” I say by way of explanation and apology. “And why are you so interested in the work?” I return Jay’s earlier challenge.

“I like what I like.” Jay shrugs, unapologetic. I can’t help but feel myself gush.

“Well, I’m sure we can resolve this amicably.” I straighten my back and nod, as businesslike as possible.

“No offense, but I think I’m the one who should take it home.”

Suddenly, I’ve descended from Sexy-Butch-Fucking-Me-On-Top-Of-This-Table Land and landed firmly on Planet Earth. “Excuse me?” I inquire incredulously.

“It’s meant for… me. I mean, I think I know more about being gay than…” Jay trails off. You’ve realized you’ve made a mistake, I think. But it’s too late now.

“You think you’re the only one entitled to lesbian art?” I demand. “You think because you look like that and I look like this – ” I gesture to my blouse, skirt, and heels – that you’re gayer than I am?” I’m fuming. “I’ve been harassed, kicked out of places, and near disowned. I’ve spent my whole life loving people like you –” I point in accusation “– and through it all I’ve dressed the way I wanted to, acted the way I wanted to, and fucked the way I wanted to.” I realize I’m shouting, but I’ve crossed over the point of no return. “And I’ll be damned if I let some wannabe art prick in a Rachel Maddow getup dictate to me what is and isn’t ‘meant for me.’”

The ridges on Jay’s forehead furrow together. I sense their whole attitude change. “I… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” I feel the sincerity in their voice. “Fuck, I really am sorry.” Their eyes reveal open vulnerability to me, a gift I realize is precious coming from them. “What I meant is that it’s really important to me, too. I grew up in a small town and I didn’t have, you know, exposure to that sort of –”

Just then, their phone rings. Jay’s eyes don’t leave mine.

“Answer it,” I almost command.

“It’s Gon.” After a brief exchange, Jay hangs up and pushes their phone back into their pocket. “She wants to meet us later on. She said she’s sorry for keeping us waiting.” Jay takes a breath. “Look, I feel really bad about what I was implying. You know what? I’ll tell her to give you the photo when she gets here. It’s the least I can do.”

And so, in a matter of minutes, I’ve won. Isn’t this what I wanted? Realization flushes under my skin. No, this isn’t what I wanted. Or, rather, maybe it’s what I wanted, but not what I need. My whole body softens. I may have won the battle, but I’m surrendering even before the war begins. The tension drains out of the air, replaced by my warmth.

“I really appreciate your apology. It’s just that I feel invisible at times. And I’m sorry for the Rachel Maddow comment. “This–” I gesture to Jay’s ensemble – “is definitely more of a k.d. lang look. Not the early years, but, like, once she got more mature and confident in her own skin. The whole thing definitely exudes confidence, which is very important in an outfit.” I realize I’m rambling. “Anyway, we can talk more about the photo later. I’m starving. All I’ve had to eat for the last 24 hours are those little pretzels they give you on the airplane. What time is it?”

Before I can find my phone to check the time, Jay’s glancing at their watch. “7:30.”

“Thank god. Places will still be open. What do you want to eat?” We move away from the foyer and over to the stairs. My hand grips the banister for support.

“You want to have dinner with me?” Surprise registers on Jay’s face.

“Well, we both have to eat. Did you have other plans?” I ask coyly.

“No, not at all.”