Read Online Just Add Water (1) by Jinx Schwartz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jinx Schwartz
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promptly. So much for the friendly female atmosphere.
Winch handles reduced my seventy
dollar manicure to bloody stumps, a diabolical boom repeatedly attacked my
head, and I ached from unaccustomed physical labor. Cowering before the mast, I
was grateful for the pitying looks of the others. I’d seen many a pirate movie
so, fearing a keelhaul in my near future, I tried sweet talk.
“So, Dilly,” I wheedled, “how did
you get the cute nickname? Because you’re a dilly of a sailor?”
“Nope,” she said, then
unaccountably stuck out her tongue. My look of total incomprehension, one I had
worn most of the day, prompted a huff of exasperation. “Because, you fluff
ball, I don’t need no stinking dildo.”
Hooting arose while I tried to
close my mouth. Hetta Coffey—world-traveler, bon vivant,
sophisticate—blurted, “You’re a dyke?”
Hostile silence fell upon the good
vessel Sappho . I belatedly remembered
who Sappho was. Zut Alors! I was in
the middle of San Francisco Bay, surrounded by now antagonistic shipmates and
sharks, on a boat named for the poetess of Lesbos.
“No, girly,” Dilly snarled, “I’m a lesbian. Are you telling me you
don't know this is a lesbian sailing group?”
“Well, of course I...uh, no.”
* * *
“Jan, I’m going to kill you.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Why don't we
start with the name of the damned club? Gay Nineties, Jan, not Nineties something .”
Jan raised a weak defense. “I
learned a lot today. The women on my boat were very nice and they taught me a
lot of neat stuff.”
“I’ll tell you what I learned. To
stay away from dykes on docks, the Sisters of Sappho, and women named Dilly.
And to make my own sailing reservations.”
Jan grinned and despite my chagrin,
so did I. By the time we climbed onto barstools at my tennis club and downed a
beer, we were giddy with laughter and fatigue.
“I guess we’re even,” Jan chortled
into her drink.
“For what?”
“Oh, let me count the ways. How
about when you made me take belly dancing lessons because you heard it turned
men on. All we attracted was an alcoholic Arab. Then there were the skiing
lessons so you could schuss after some Swedish instructor. I ended up in a
cast. And how about the—”
“Okay. Enough. We’re even. More
than even, because today was way up there in one of my worst day experiences.
Maybe you were right in the first place. Maybe this sailing thing wasn’t such a
great idea.”
“I disagree. I
enjoyed myself. Oh, and I lined you up for a couple of dates. Two can play your
sleight of card game.”
“Cute. Okay, so
to your own amazement, you like to sail. What next?”
Ester, the
bartender, had been eavesdropping. A woman after my own heart. “Hard day on the
Bay?” she asked.
I rolled my
eyes. “Let’s put it this way, Ester. If I ever do buy a boat, I’ll name it the Hetta Row , so there’s no confusion.” I
told her of my delightful morning with Dilly.
“Oh, boy, you
did have some day on the Bay. I got a
story for you. Two of my more desperate friends found out about a group of
lesbians planning a trip to a Club Med in Mexico, so they signed up, thinking
with all those Lizzies there, the man-field would be wide open. Turns out,
though, the gals arranging the trip had dictated that all other guests, and any
male staff, be banned during the entire week. My friends spent the whole week
holding hands to fend off unwanted attention.”
The bar was
empty, so Ester came around and sat down with us. “You know, there’s a yacht
club in Oakland with a sailing group called Women on the Estuary. I’m a
member.”
I narrowed my
eyes with mock suspicion and Ester laughed. “And no, Hetta, it’s not gay. Maybe
a couple of them, but who cares?”
“Not me. I just
don’t want Dilly the Destroyer at the helm.”
“Our sailmasters
are men,” Ester explained, “because they own the boats.” I saw Jan’s eyes
promptly. So much for the friendly female atmosphere.
Winch handles reduced my seventy
dollar manicure to bloody stumps, a diabolical boom repeatedly attacked my
head, and I ached from unaccustomed physical labor. Cowering before the mast, I
was grateful for the pitying looks of the others. I’d seen many a pirate movie
so, fearing a keelhaul in my near future, I tried sweet talk.
“So, Dilly,” I wheedled, “how did
you get the cute nickname? Because you’re a dilly of a sailor?”
“Nope,” she said, then
unaccountably stuck out her tongue. My look of total incomprehension, one I had
worn most of the day, prompted a huff of exasperation. “Because, you fluff
ball, I don’t need no stinking dildo.”
Hooting arose while I tried to
close my mouth. Hetta Coffey—world-traveler, bon vivant,
sophisticate—blurted, “You’re a dyke?”
Hostile silence fell upon the good
vessel Sappho . I belatedly remembered
who Sappho was. Zut Alors! I was in
the middle of San Francisco Bay, surrounded by now antagonistic shipmates and
sharks, on a boat named for the poetess of Lesbos.
“No, girly,” Dilly snarled, “I’m a lesbian. Are you telling me you
don't know this is a lesbian sailing group?”
“Well, of course I...uh, no.”
* * *
“Jan, I’m going to kill you.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Why don't we
start with the name of the damned club? Gay Nineties, Jan, not Nineties something .”
Jan raised a weak defense. “I
learned a lot today. The women on my boat were very nice and they taught me a
lot of neat stuff.”
“I’ll tell you what I learned. To
stay away from dykes on docks, the Sisters of Sappho, and women named Dilly.
And to make my own sailing reservations.”
Jan grinned and despite my chagrin,
so did I. By the time we climbed onto barstools at my tennis club and downed a
beer, we were giddy with laughter and fatigue.
“I guess we’re even,” Jan chortled
into her drink.
“For what?”
“Oh, let me count the ways. How
about when you made me take belly dancing lessons because you heard it turned
men on. All we attracted was an alcoholic Arab. Then there were the skiing
lessons so you could schuss after some Swedish instructor. I ended up in a
cast. And how about the—”
“Okay. Enough. We’re even. More
than even, because today was way up there in one of my worst day experiences.
Maybe you were right in the first place. Maybe this sailing thing wasn’t such a
great idea.”
“I disagree. I
enjoyed myself. Oh, and I lined you up for a couple of dates. Two can play your
sleight of card game.”
“Cute. Okay, so
to your own amazement, you like to sail. What next?”
Ester, the
bartender, had been eavesdropping. A woman after my own heart. “Hard day on the
Bay?” she asked.
I rolled my
eyes. “Let’s put it this way, Ester. If I ever do buy a boat, I’ll name it the Hetta Row , so there’s no confusion.” I
told her of my delightful morning with Dilly.
“Oh, boy, you
did have some day on the Bay. I got a
story for you. Two of my more desperate friends found out about a group of
lesbians planning a trip to a Club Med in Mexico, so they signed up, thinking
with all those Lizzies there, the man-field would be wide open. Turns out,
though, the gals arranging the trip had dictated that all other guests, and any
male staff, be banned during the entire week. My friends spent the whole week
holding hands to fend off unwanted attention.”
The bar was
empty, so Ester came around and sat down with us. “You know, there’s a yacht
club in Oakland with a sailing group called Women on the Estuary. I’m a
member.”
I narrowed my
eyes with mock suspicion and Ester laughed. “And no, Hetta, it’s not gay. Maybe
a couple of them, but who cares?”
“Not me. I just
don’t want Dilly the Destroyer at the helm.”
“Our sailmasters
are men,” Ester explained, “because they own the boats.” I saw Jan’s eyes
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