Chapter Five. Bijal had no problems finding The Klit N’ Kaboodle because Fran had given her excellent directions

Bijal had no problems finding The Klit N’ Kaboodle because Fran had given her excellent directions. She was surprised to see that the place wasn’t small and unassuming, like so many queer establishments tended to be—especially one in such a rural area. Had Bijal been in a better frame of mind, she would have found their neon sign featuring a sassy-looking cat flicking its tail utterly hysterical.

Though the sun had set long ago, it was still far too early for any crowd to have gathered, which was fine with her. She wasn’t there to socialize or dance. She was there to have a stiff drink and ponder if she had possibly made a mistake in accepting this job.

Hardwood floors and brass railings made the place seem a bit like an old nautical fish house. The lights had not yet been dimmed, and in the corner DJ equipment sat next to an area that was clearly a dance floor when they got busy. The blue patio string lights draped across the ceiling gave the place a rather charming feel.

She shuffled up to the bar in the center of the establishment—rectangular and surrounded by dark bar stools. Behind the bar was an expansive collection of liquor, overseen by a female bartender, graying and a little paunchy, who was wiping down the glasses with a linen napkin.

Bijal took the seat 180 degrees away from the only other person seated at the bar—a thin, sinewy woman wearing a Western cowboy shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps and a bolo tie. Bijal had no desire to speak to her, or to anyone, for that matter.

The bartender smiled at her and nodded. “What can I get you tonight, honey?”

“Um…do you have a happy-hour special?”

“The specials are right there,” the barkeep said, pointing to a small acrylic menu holder several inches to Bijal’s right.

“Great,” she said, scooping it up and perusing it. “I’ll have the…um…hmm.” The drink names sounded foreign yet disturbingly familiar. “I’ll have the pink twatini.”

“Good choice.” The bartender grabbed a bottle of vodka haphazardly by the neck.

“And I suppose I’d better get some food, since it’s been about nine hours since I’ve eaten. Do you have a menu?”

“Flip it over, sugar,” the bartender said as she prepared the astoundingly X-rated-sounding drink.

Bijal’s weary brain didn’t immediately know how to process the instructions, but the right synapse suddenly fired and she flipped the drink menu over to study the bar food. The last thing she needed was to be too drunk to drive home on a Thursday night.

As she scanned the modest selection of cuisine that fell under the heading Cunt-ry Cooking, she was struck by the same issue she had with the drink specials. “Hey, um, can I ask you a question?”

The bartender set down a very pink-colored drink in a traditional martini glass, garnished with a maraschino cherry with the stem tied into a knot. “The name’s Sue,” she said with a flirty smile. “And, sorry, but I’m taken.”

“Good to know, but I actually wanted to ask you about the names on your menu.”

“Oh, that,” Sue replied, crossing her arms. “Here’s how I see it. I’m getting pretty goddamn tired of women, especially lesbians, being called nasty names and made to feel like we’re somehow not as good as other folks. So in the way the African Americans have reclaimed the N-word to take away its power over them, I’m doing the same thing…in my own little way.”

Bijal blinked a couple times and reassessed the bill of fare. “Okay, I understand the muffaletta—that makes perfect sense. So do the fried clams. But what’s a ‘blooming pussy’?”

“It’s a deep-fried Vidalia onion with special dipping sauce.”

“Special vaginal dipping sauce?” Bijal asked, completely amazed that she was having this conversation.

Sue put her hands up playfully. “Hey, what you do with your nosh is completely up to you. We don’t judge here.”

“Clearly. And what exactly is ‘areola pie’?”

“Taken literally, it’s the best of both worlds. In this context, though, it tastes a lot like pecan pie.”

“Uh-huh,” Bijal muttered. Sue was very possibly totally fucking insane. When Bijal unintentionally caught the eye of the brawny cowdyke across the bar—who then nodded at her and smiled—she quickly directed her attention back to the menu, hoping that would effectively send a leave-me-alone message. “Then I’ll forgo the ‘dick-free oyster platter,’ which is…kind of confusing. I mean, I’d hope that everything is dick-free. I’ll just get a basket of the ‘faggity-ass french fries.’”

“You’re in luck,” Sue said, keying the order into the register. “We just put new grease in the fryer.”

“Today?” Bijal asked.

“Well, no. Not today, but recently. In the last month.”

Bijal couldn’t contain her frustration any longer. “Wow, and to think that just this morning when I accidentally spat toothpaste into my hair, I thought that meant I would have a bad day.”

“Things are looking up.” Sue was apparently oblivious to the sarcasm.

Bijal exhaled loudly and blew her hair out her eyes. Remembering why she’d stopped here, she tasted her twatini, which was actually pretty good. She took another sip and closed her eyes. To her chagrin, when she opened them again, the brawny cowdyke picked up her mug of beer and sauntered toward her.

Could this day get any worse? Would her brazenly gay fries perhaps come with a side of labia remoulade and pickled clitoris?

“Hello, beautiful,” the brawny cowdyke said in a voice that sounded like she gargled with ground glass in her free time. Remarkably, somehow Bijal had expected her to sound like that.

“Hello,” she answered flatly, not even trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm.

“I’m Flayme. Flayme Coverdale.”

“Hi,” Bijal said, purposely withholding her own name. She stared back at her drink and tried to figure out what she had done that she was now paying so dearly for. Was it that lost night in Manhattan?

“You’ve never heard of me?” Flayme asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

“Are you the lead singer of Whitesnake?”

Flayme looked confused. “So you’re not here for the signing?”

“Someone plans to interpret this conversation for the hearing impaired? Can we just tell them not to bother?”

“ Christ, but you’re sassy,” Flayme rasped with a grin. “It complements your hotness nicely.”

Bijal stared at her, unimpressed. “Does this usually work for you?”

“What?”

“This carpet bombing of flattery and flirtation.”

Flayme leered and the left corner of her mouth rose. “I’m an author, and I’m here to sign some of my books. I thought you might be here for that, given the early hour, but I hadn’t factored in that you might just be a hardcore alcoholic.”

“We’re a much maligned minority, the hardcore alcoholics,” Bijal said, lifting her glass in salute. “Cheers.” She allowed the fruity beverage to slide coolly down her throat. A quick glance showed that Flayme was still staring at her. “So what have you written? Anything I might know?”

“Well, right now I’m promoting my new lesbian romance You Fist My Heart. ”

Had she called it a romance? “Wow, that does sound romantic,” Bijal said in a deadpan voice. “You could have gone with You Heart My Fist, but I guess that just wouldn’t pack the same wallop, huh? No pun intended with the word ‘pack.’” She took another sip of her drink and prayed for tipsiness.

“It’s a tearjerker,” Flayme explained.

“Sounds like it could be if you’re not relaxed enough, yeah.”

“This may come off like a line, but your flippancy and indifference really turn me on.”

Bijal propped her chin on her fist. “Something tells me that if I kicked you in the back of the head, that might turn you on too.”

“Baby, you can read me like a book.”

“A book with the word ‘fist’ in the title?”

Flayme gave what Bijal assumed was her best come-hither look. “I won’t lie. I like to get a little freaky.”

“Quite frankly, I’m shocked,” Bijal replied sarcastically.

“Hold on for a moment.” Flayme walked back over to the opposite side of the bar and returned with a small cardboard box full of paperbacks. She grabbed a copy and handed it to Bijal. “This is for you, sweetie. I want to do pages seventy-three to seventy-five with you.” She winked brazenly.

Bijal was caught somewhere between horrified and curious. She had to admit, this was at least a new approach. She took the book, which had a rather angry-looking fist on the cover bursting violently through a pink papier-mâché heart, and opened it to page seventy-three. “Wow…which one of us brings the bowling pin?”

“I have one.” Flayme sounded smug.

“I had a sneaking feeling that you just might. My God! Is this part about the cantaloupe even possible?”

“Would you like to find out?”

“You know, I’d have to say that by design the vagina is plenty sticky on its own without shoving various fruits up there.”

“Hear, hear,” came a voice from behind her.

Bijal turned to see who agreed with her and gasped when none other then Colleen O’Bannon pulled up the bar stool to her right. She was instantly overcome with nausea.

“Hi, Bijal,” Colleen said with a smile.

“Fuck,” Bijal breathed, the lone syllable protracted for several seconds in her nervousness. “Is it possible for us to ever meet under respectable circumstances?”

“Ooh, Bijal,” Flayme repeated. “That’s a great name. Mind if I use it?”

“I think I might, yes.”

Flayme’s sexual interest in Bijal seemed to utterly dissolve at that very instant, and her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized both Colleen and Bijal—perhaps trying to deduce the nature of their relationship. She extended her hand across the corner of the bar to Colleen. “Hi, I’m—”

“Flayme Coverdale,” Colleen said, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “You wrote Leaving the Handprint of Love: Spanking Stories for Very Naughty Girls. ”

Bijal stared, catatonic—unable to move anything except her eyelids.

“Always nice to meet a fan,” Flayme said through an alabaster grin. “Would you like an autographed book?”

“I’d love one,” Colleen replied.

Flayme snatched back the book she’d given Bijal and picked up a pen, which she clicked with great flourish. “Who am I making this out to?”

Colleen began spelling it for her. “S-p-y-x-i-e. It’s pronounced ‘spicy.’ Spyxie Sugarbottom.”

“That’s a very sexy name,” Flayme said as she scrawled feverishly across the cover page.

Bijal was still agog. “Wow, naughty, spicy, and sexy.”

“I have many layers,” Colleen said, with the slightest hint of a smirk.

A group of four women walked in, clutching books to their chests and looking very eager. It was apparent they were here for Flayme.

Bijal glanced back to Colleen, noting how her appearance had changed now that she was wearing more casual clothes. In faded low-rise jeans, a crisp purple blouse, and a buttery-soft-looking leather jacket, she was absolutely stunning.

“Here you go, Ms. Sugarbottom,” Flayme said, handing over the paperback but not releasing it right away.

“Thanks. What do I owe you?” Colleen asked.

“Nothing, sweetheart, but I did add my phone number. If you’re feeling appreciative later, give me a call.” Flayme turned and nodded at her fans, who were milling around a table in the corner with copies of her other titles. “Sorry, ladies, but the throng awaits.” She stood, picked up her box of books, and moseyed away.

Bijal tried to read the inscription but couldn’t without leaning into Colleen’s space. “What’s it say?”

“‘To Spyxie. When you get tired of the sarcasm and disdain and are ready for a night you’ll never forget, call me.’ Then she put her number. Do you think she’s referring to you?”

The humor in Colleen’s voice somehow helped Bijal feel more at ease. “Yes, but I’d just like to go on record that before you sat down, she said my sarcasm was a turn-on.”

“I didn’t…interrupt something, did I?”

“Just an unwelcome sexual advance. You’re a fan of hers?”

Colleen began flipping through the book. “No, I’d never heard of her before.”

“So you just happened to know all about the happy red handprint of love, or whatever it was? Who do you think you’re fooling?” She took a large swig of her drink.

“It’s on the poster on the front door. I saw it when I got here,” Colleen said discreetly. “And, come on, that’s a pretty unusual title.”

Bijal grinned. “Please tell me that Spyxie Sugarbottom is your chat-room name.”

“If only. But it sounded like she was looking for a provocative one.”

“More like a pornographic one. I hope you won’t be upset if that’s the name of the protagonist in her next book, Up to Her Elbow: Reaching for Love. ”

Colleen’s mouth curved in amusement. “Is that the sequel to I’ve Had You Up to Here?”

“Maybe so.”

“No worries. Perhaps I gave her something she could use.”

“So it was just political subterfuge?”

“It’s really more an attention to detail, though I prefer the term ‘sorcery.’ It sounds more mysterious.” Suddenly, Colleen stumbled across a passage that changed her expression to one of horror. “Oh, my God!”

“Wait till you get to the part with the bowling pin.”

Colleen closed the book and pushed it away from her. “Leave it to a lesbian to figure out a way to mix sex with bowling.”

Sue reappeared from the kitchen with a basket of fries and set it in front of Bijal. “Here you go, honey. Hey, Col. You want your usual?”

“Please. Ah, I see you’re reclaiming your femaleness by ordering from Sue’s post-pejorative menu.”

Bijal blew on a fry to cool it. “Do I ask for ketchup or menstrual relish?”

Sue chuckled. “I’ll bring you a bottle of Heinz and a maxi pad. Do you two know each other?”

“We do, yes. Sue, this is Bijal Rao. She’s in the business.”

Bijal was impressed that Colleen remembered her full name, then dismissed it as more sorcery.

“Aw, that’s a shame,” Sue said, setting a glass of something amber-colored in front of Colleen. “You seemed like a nice kid.”

“I used to be,” Bijal replied dejectedly as she ran her finger along the rim of her martini glass.

Sue leaned on the bar. “Have you had to sell your soul, sweetie?”

“Not such a good day, huh?” Colleen asked.

Bijal scoffed. “Noticed that, did you?”

“Maybe,” Colleen said, reaching into a paper bag beside her and retrieving two liquor bottles. “But perhaps this will help.”

Sue looked ecstatic. “You brought them!”

“Of course I did,” Colleen said. “I keep my campaign promises.”

Bijal looked at the labels curiously. “What are they?”

“Last week, I was telling Sue that the whiskeys she stocks are complete crap,” Colleen explained.

“Even though I carry Arc of Orion,” Sue said defensively.

Colleen shook her head. “But your well drinks all taste like paint thinner. Orion is your only top-shelf brand, which isn’t much in the way of variety.”

“You’re insufferable, Colleen—and you always have been.”

Bijal considered Sue’s words. It was clear these women were close and had been for a while. Were they romantically involved? Sue had, after all, already mentioned that she was “taken.”

“So I agreed to bring Sue some of Orion’s other products so she can taste the difference for herself. Are you game, Bijal?” Colleen asked.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know much about whiskey.”

Colleen glanced at the remainder of the pink twatini in Bijal’s hand. “What’s your usual drink of choice?”

“Um…anything served with a tiny umbrella, a plastic monkey, or a swizzle stick shaped like a naked woman.”

“Sounds fancy,” Colleen said jokingly.

“I’m a woman of modest means and tastes,” Bijal replied.

“As are most of the women who come into the K and K,” Sue added. “Which is what I was telling Colleen the last time she brought this up.”

“I’m not suggesting that you stop carrying economical brands, just that you give the patrons a few more options. Let’s have a few shot glasses, Sue, and a bottle of your crappy stuff. We’ll have a little Whiskey 101.”

“Okay,” Bijal said with a shrug. Why did the thought of Colleen and Sue together bother her so much? Was she stupid enough to want a little fling with her opponent? As she watched Colleen open the bottles and pour three small shots for Sue and three for her, with eyes strikingly green and hands strong and capable-looking, Bijal decided that yes, she was indeed that stupid—perhaps even more so.

“All right, ladies,” Colleen said. “Before we start, there are three aspects of tasting to consider. The first is the nose, or aroma of the liquor. Before it ever hits your lips, don’t just sniff it for the overall scent. Rather, close your eyes and try to pick out different fragrances. You might smell things like different spices, herbs, or fruits.”

Bijal and Sue each reached for the glass on her far left and brought it near enough to investigate its scent.

“Shit!” Sue coughed. “I think I burned my nostrils!”

Colleen chuckled. “Don’t inhale it, Sue. Just breathe in.”

“I smell petroleum,” Bijal said. “And asphalt,” she added before setting it down.

“Hmm,” Colleen murmured. “Okay. So the next thing is the palate, which is what you get when you initially take a sip. After that, you get the finish—the flavor that comes after you’ve swallowed, like a second, smaller taste. Go ahead and take small sips of the one you’ve smelled.”

They both drank and paused before Sue said, “Varnish with sort of an old tube-sock finish.”

Bijal slammed her empty shot glass on the bar dramatically. “I second the varnish, but to me, the finish was more like airplane glue.”

“Nice,” Colleen said. “That was your trusty well liquor, Sue.”

“Oh.”

“Now try the glass in the middle. That’s Arc of Orion’s Single Barrel Ten-Year-Old Bourbon.”

As they had before, Sue and Bijal closed their eyes and inhaled. But Colleen had been right that this was a far more complex smell.

“Um, caramel?” Bijal asked.

“Very good,” Colleen replied. “What else do you smell?”

“There’s kind of a fruity scent,” Sue added.

Colleen nodded. “Yup, some say apricot. You may also get leather and spice.”

“Yeah, I get the spice,” Bijal said. “Can we taste?” Colleen nodded, so they both sampled the bourbon. The disparity from the last glass of swill went well beyond the nose, that was certain. “Wow, I got sort of a nutmeg and wood flavor.”

“That’s the oak casks it’s aged in,” Colleen said.

“Yeah, exactly,” Sue said. “And a finish that was like a sort of vanilla heat.”

“Right,” Bijal said excitedly.

Colleen appeared pleased with their responses. “The last one is our small batch reserve. We call it Betelgeuse.”

“After that weird movie with Michael Keaton?” Sue asked, breathing in her final sample.

Bijal laughed, perhaps louder than she should have. “It’s probably named after the star Betelgeuse, which, if memory serves, is in the constellation Orion, right?”

“Correct,” Colleen replied. “You get bonus points.”

“Wait,” Sue said mockingly. “Don’t I get any points for knowing the movie starred Michael Keaton?”

“Only if you can somehow tie it in with bourbon or some other whiskey product,” Colleen said with a cocked eyebrow.

Sue stopped and thought for a second. “Well, that movie made me want to drink,” she explained weakly.

Colleen and Bijal looked at each other and laughed. “Sorry,” Colleen said. “Nice try, though. So what do you get on the nose of this one?”

“I get apple and vanilla,” Bijal said.

“Totally,” Sue said. “But oaky.”

“You guys are getting really good at this.”

After tasting the final whiskey, Bijal found she liked this one the best by far. “Ooh, there’s clove.”

“And something kind of sweet,” Sue said. “Like molasses or honey.”

Bijal nodded. “And the finish is like a toasted…nutty flavor.” She finished it off. “This stuff kicks ass.”

“So am I hearing that you’ll carry more top-shelf brands?” Colleen asked.

“All right, all right.” Sue sighed. “I’ll carry your snobby, highbrow, artsy-ass booze.”

“Good,” Bijal replied. “Then can I have some more of the Winona Ryder reserve?” She extended her glass, and Colleen filled it generously.

Sue cleared away the remaining empty glasses. “So, Bijal, do you work on Capitol Hill?”

“No, I’m a campaign worker.”

“Yeah? Whose campaign? Anyone I might know?”

Bijal noticed that Colleen was now fiddling with her cell phone, blatantly disengaged from the conversation. “Mayor Denton,” she replied softly.

Sue moved closer. “I’m sorry, who?”

“Mayor Denton.”

Sue immediately fell into hysterics. “Shut your cheeky muffin hole!”

“I should go,” Bijal said, feeling instantly self-conscious again. She slammed back her whiskey and set the glass on the bar.

Colleen set her hand on top of Bijal’s before she could push away from the bar. “I’m not here to chase you out, so how about this? Let’s just not talk about anything remotely strategic—nothing about the campaign that could even be interpreted as sensitive.”

“Okay,” Bijal replied skeptically.

“And if one of us says something unintentionally, the other will politely stop the conversation and disregard whatever it was.”

“You think we can do that?”

Colleen smiled. “Well, if not, I’ll have to stop talking to you. And, so far, I was kind of having fun.”

“I suppose I’m willing to try if you are.”

Sue was still softly chuckling to herself. “This is going to be awesome,” she said before crossing to the other side of the bar to take someone’s order.

“So, may I?” Bijal asked, pointing to her empty glass.

“Certainly.” Colleen pushed the bottle over to her. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Bijal filled the shot glass again. “If I get to ask you one too.”

“That’s fair, I suppose. Are you out at work?”

“That depends on if you’re one of those gays who thinks it’s her duty to out everyone.”

Colleen shook her head. “Nope, this is all off the record.”

“As in, do they know that while my candidate’s husband is spewing hate speech about gays, I’m secretly hoping he’s struck by lightning? I don’t think they have a fucking clue.”

“That must be really challenging.”

“It is, in a way,” Bijal said. “But I’m not defined solely by my sexuality, just like I’m not defined by being a woman, or Indian, or a Capricorn.”

“Good point.”

“You know, I’ve never agreed with any candidate on a hundred percent of the issues.”

Colleen sipped her drink. “But isn’t equal rights a pretty major issue to compromise on?”

“ All issues are important. I can’t cherry-pick. And it can’t be much easier for you. Being out in Washington makes you a very conspicuous target.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t have done it another way. I refused to run for office while trying to keep it a secret.”

“Too many people already knew?”

Colleen’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment. “Well, that, but, more importantly, I would have been sending a message that I was ashamed of who I am. And I’m not. My entire campaign message was that no one deserves to be marginalized.”

Bijal watched Colleen’s middle finger as it lazily traced the rim of her glass. “So do I get my personal question now?”

“Sure.”

“Are you and Sue…wait…let me reword that.”

“Just so you know, I’m not a genie. It doesn’t need to be worded in a precise way or something horrific will happen to you.”

Bijal thought back to Fran’s earlier question for the congress-woman. “Are you single?”

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