Bachelorette's Degree

June 22, 2016

Never tell tales out of school.

Unless those tales concern students who are out at school, in which case always tell them.

One such tale is titled "Guise and Dolls," and it's currently enrolled in Girls on Campus, taught by Sandy Lowe and Stacia Seaman at Bold Strokes. This tale proves, by degrees, that you can't judge a cover by its book. 

And, thanks to its star students' acceptance and admission, the story never cuts class.

Or sass.

Or...another relevant rhyme.

And now it's time for an examination of the out-at-school tale I've told:

"The only lady parts you like are the ones you get to do onstage," I tease.

Joelle kneels down, begins fussing with one of the many straps that trap her feet inside her shoes. The V-neck of her shirt dips into a U.

"I'll do it." I practically throw myself at her feet. 

Joelle stands. "It's nice to have friends in low places."

Friends. Why did I pursue a friendship with Jo when I can't pursue a romance with her? I mean, what is it about unrequited love that makes it so appalling and appealing at the same time? I hope the professor covers this topic in my Psychology of Women course. Otherwise, I may have to withdraw. "And to answer your question, I dated guys, but I always knew I liked the birds better than the bees, so… Hm. I think only half that euphemism is effective, but you get the gist."

Jo steps out of her shoes. "So did you ever let a bee sting you?"

"Nope." I flop back onto the bed, the pleats in my skirt spreading out like a paper fan.

"I think I'm allergic to bees," Jo says, unbuttoning her shorts. She grins at me. Looking away is not an option. "You've seen London. You've seen France. Now you get to see my—"

"Camouflage underpants? Who do you think you are—G.I. Jo?" I'm surprised they're so simple, but they're sexier that way: no frills, just thrills.

Joelle trades in her shorts for the pair of pants she got from her closet. She leads them up her legs, slowly concealing their svelte shape with the dark denim.

"Do these jeans make my ego look fat?" Joelle inquires, posing like a paparazzi princess in front of the mirror.

"Colossal." I pat her posterior. "Just like your caboose."

Joelle shakes her fanny in my face. "You can borrow them sometime."

"Oh, so you're going to let me get in your pants?"


My smile squirms. "Stop leading me on," I mutter, half-hoping she'll hear me and half-hoping she won't. It's my fault—I shouldn't be flirting with Jo, not when she knows I have feelings for her. And she knows. There's no way she can't know. It's plain as gay. Day. Whatever.

"I'm not leading you on," Jo insists, but her tone is too chirpy, like she doesn't take me seriously.

"You're a leading lady. It's what you do."

"I'm not always a leading lady. Freshman year I auditioned for Peggy Sawyer in 42nd Street, but they cast me as Dorothy Brock. It all worked out for the best, though, since Dorothy has this fabulous song about wanting someone to be gay with and play with. Not exactly your garden variety coming-out story, is it?"

Jo wants someone to be gay with? Great. Jo wants to play with someone? "Great, I'm in love with a playgirl."

"Luck be a lady. You're in love with me?"

"Like you didn't know." Atta girl—make her look stupid.

"I knew you were attracted to me, but amour? I didn't know I could wish you."

She's next to me on the bed, smiling with her straight teeth and sitting with her straight spine and… and… "Not exactly your garden variety coming-out story?"

"Oh, come on," she says, eyes spinning like a compact disc. "You think I've been flirting with you all this time for tits and giggles?"

The whirring in my ears mimics the frozen yogurt machine in the cafeteria. I open my mouth to squeak, but this time no sound comes out.

"Okay, clearly you didn't like that question, so maybe you'll like this one: what does a person have to do to get some lip service around here?"

Nothing, apparently—before I can do or say anything, Joelle is shoving her fingers into my hair, letting them tangle in the loopy blond locks. I guess gentlemen aren't the only ones who prefer blondes.

The kiss is long and long overdue. It is liberal and liberating, decadent yet decorous. It makes me want to do a keg stand (I don't drink), study a broad (but with no space between us), and go streaking across campus (fully clothed).

With lips that taste like tropical punch and a mouth that tastes like blueberry yogurt, Jo's kisses are more amazing than Joseph's Technicolor dreamcoat. Go, go, go, Jo! This girl kisses with precision, perfection, panache.

But then, I always figured she would. 

Jo College is not your average Jo.

If you took pleasure in that humani-tease, you might want to consider majoring in Women's Studies.

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland