More Than a Kiss

The Ice Queen Cometh

Jordan whispered harshly, "What's with the sex toys talk? Are you trying to scare her off?"

Edison crossed her arms. "Wouldn't you like to know right off the bat if she's squeamish about lesbians? That way you don't waste your time?"

"Sex toys are personal. Not all lesbians use them, you know."

"Oh yeah? Name five who don't."

Jordan's eyes flickered to the front of the diner. "Oh, shit," she mumbled.

"Sex toys are a way of life…”

Jordan interrupted, "Not that. Oh shit, Petronella's here."

Edison immediately went into bodyguard mode. "Quick, hide."

Jordan looked around. "Where?"

"Under the table."

Jordan slid out of her chair and onto her knees. The tablecloth hid her from view. She scrunched herself into a little ball, knees under her chin, and watched in horror as Petronella's white heels clacked toward their table.

Meet Dr. Petronella Bleeker, the Dutch lesbian poet. She had gained a modicum of success for publishing a thin volume of poetry ten years ago. She won a few awards, made little to no money, and now much to her chagrin and humiliation was a professor at Portland State University. Petronella felt she was working below her status. A poet of her caliber should be teaching at Yale or Harvard or not even teaching at all. She carried a chip on her shoulder everywhere she went and never missed a chance to beat people over the head with it.

Petronella was revered by the lesbian community because she was the only poet who had ever successfully rhymed the word vagina. Petronella always dressed in all white. Even her hair was bleached white. It was her signature color because it was the absence of color. She was also fashionably thin – all gristle, no white meat.

To Be Continued…