M y heart was pounding. I skipped up the steps to Sarah's shack on Lake Lucille in Alaska and rang the doorbell. The bracing power chords of "Cat Scratch Fever" nearly blew me off the porch. That girl really knows how to wire her system!
The door opened, and there was Sarah, arms raised in triumph, her comely guns cocked, looking just like her pictures: fearless, buxom, curvy, and committed. What a pair she had.
"We're so glad you're here," Sarah smiled, winking at me. I winked back. She winked even more warmly. We stood in the foyer winking at each other. "Doesn't it feel good to wink?" Sarah said, holding one down for the count.
"There is strength in women's winking," I said, wishing for more mascara.
I could hardly discern what Sarah was wearing, each star and stripe on her designer flag sweats blended so expertly into the next—against the Betsy Ross decor of her little cottage, she was almost invisible! How modest. "C'mon, come on in," laughed Sarah. "Want some Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supreme? I just sent Bristol out for another round."
"Of course, Sarah, if it's not too much trouble," I said, blushing.
"Trouble? I'll send her sorry ass out 10 more times if I have to!" Sarah's cackle filled the house. She offered me a mug with antlers, something steaming. "Our brothers and sisters are struggling against socialism and death panels, and you think Bristol getting a workout in her frickin' Candies is trouble?"
I felt my face grow hot. How could I have been so elitist? As tears welled in my eyes, I felt two strong arms embrace me. Her quads felt pretty tight, too.
"Drink up," Sarah winked. I took the moose carafe from her and sipped. The liquid was burning, strong, a touch oily, just like Sarah.
"There is strength in women's pain," Sarah said. "Heckity, there's money in it!"
Sarah's baby browns flashed as she pulled me close. I could smell her Bumpit. "Susie, let's do an abstinence pledge drive! We're PAC heroines! We must be the fetus voice of those who have no fetus voice!"
What a moment! What a woman! I gazed at her, dazzled, feeling something so strong—a feeling I couldn't quite name—and whispered, "Sarah, you're so, so... scary."
Sarah showed me all of her teeth. "There is safety in scariness, Susie." She locked and loaded her mouth against mine.
My head spun. The feeling was overreaching, consuming, unsustainable. "Oh, Sarah, Saraaaaaah!" My head fell back, my eyelids fluttered, my lips parted. My body shuddered deep inside and I convulsed in the most intense, overwhelming dry heave of my entire life.
When I came to, I was back in my own bed, in my own secluded location. Could it have all been a dream? I ran downstairs, where my five lesbian roommates were testing sperm motility under a microscope.
"Did it really happen? Did she bring me home?" I asked. I couldn't unstick one of my eyelashes.
"Oh, BaconCakes was here, all right," Bunny said, pulling a cig out of the pack she kept rolled up in her sleeve. "She told us you wouldn't bite the barracuda—and I told her no one was surprised, given your bisexual, do-me-femme bullshit."
"But, but," I cried, "We were going to do Oprah together! She promised!"
"No more three-ways for you, Miss Polly-Wolly," Bunny said, blowing a smoke circle in my face. "Miz Palin be having my baby this year, bitch. You passed out and she found me."
Well, I never! What was it that Bristol said? Once you go all the way, life ain't nothin' but a wink and a prayer.
With apologies to Sweet Ann-Marie Hendrickson, the Firesign Theater, and the American People™.
Susie Bright's memoir Big Sex Little Death is out next spring.