by Katherine Love
(9/20/00)

My friend Rachel is behind me, curling my hair and talking to me while I ignore her and stare past the mirror at Susan, feeling uncomfortable and ridiculous in my revealing, girly costume. Everything would be fine if only Susan weren't here to see me.

The last time I had sex, I kept thinking about Susan. Rachel had found me in the practice rooms on a Friday night and dragged me out to "have fun," which for Rachel meant getting drunk at a friend's party and dancing to loud techno music. I started talking to a prospective student who was visiting for the weekend, and wound up taking him home with me. He was a sweet guy and not at all bad-looking, but as he tugged my sports bra over my head, I found myself wondering what it would be like to slide my fingers under one of Susan's ribbed tank tops and lay my hands on her muscled body. As we tore off each other's boxers, I found myself wondering what Susan wore underneath her crisp navy blue pants. As his tongue lingered too briefly between my thighs, I wondered in a panic if I'd know how to handle a woman's body, and even as I thrust myself up and down above his sweating frame, I reached out to clasp a fistful of his short hair, my eyes closed, and I saw Susan.

"Finished," says Rachel. "You are officially a Hot Box Girl." She turns me away from the mirror and eyes her work critically. "You look beautiful, Caitlin. You should wear your hair down more often."

"Oh, God," I say. "You sound like my mother."

Rachel laughs. One of the other dancers smiles at me over the costume rack and gives me a thumbs-up sign. "So will you wear jeans to the honors music recital?" Rachel teases.

"No, I won't wear jeans," I say, exasperated. "I'll do the Susan thing."

"What, a leather jacket?"

"Oh, leave me alone!" I watch one of the male chorus members wince on the other side of the room as a makeup artist moves in with a tube of mascara.

"I still don't understand what you have against dresses," says Rachel.

I don't answer. The boy I'm watching bats his eyelashes in the mirror and giggles. "You ever notice that men dress to blend in but if two women wear the same thing to a party..."

"It's ugly," says Rachel. "I've seen it happen."

"I just don't feel very professional as a decoration, that's all. Besides, Rachel, who says I'll even get in the honors music recital?"

"Please. I think you practice more than the rest of the department combined." She squints at me for a moment, reaches for a black eye pencil, and starts touching up my makeup. "So what's Susan's secret? Last year you barely touched the piano. Does she keep a whip?"

I haven't told anyone how I feel about Susan. "A big leather bullwhip," I say.

"She must not use it on my boyfriend," Rachel says, moving to my right eye. "He's the biggest slacker in the department. Still damn good though."

"She saves it just for me," I say sweetly. I contemplate the image of Susan in tall boots holding a bullwhip.

"Caitlin, hold still or I'm going to fuck up your eyes and have to start all over."

I focus my eyes across the room, where the male lead is nodding earnestly at some last minute notes from the director.

"You know," says Rachel, "I bet anything it will rain again at the honors recital. It's rained every time I've done makeup for a show in this theater, and it's rained every time I've been in the audience."

"I'm sure it's all you, Rachel. You personally offend the weather-Gods."

"Shut up. I hear one year the power went out."

"Ooooh, that would suck."

"In the middle of a show," she continues, now scrutinizing my lipstick. "And of course this dinky place doesn't have any backup power. We must be in blatant violation of two dozen fire codes. It would probably take twenty minutes to even find flashlights."

"It would be kind of funny, though, don't you think?"

"There. Done," says Rachel, closing her makeup case. "I promised Eileen I'd do her next, I'll see you later. Knock 'em dead."

"Thanks, Rachel." She walks over towards the costume racks. I stare at myself in the mirror. My dress is silky and pale pink with thin straps that cross in the back and a skirt that flares out in ruffled layers, stopping inches above the knee. My usually tangled brown hair is primped and perfect, falling in gentle curls to the tops of my breasts. I do a couple of dance steps, then glance around the room self-consciously. Everyone's busy fussing with their makeup and hair and jewelry; no one's paying attention to me. Honestly, I've been looking forward to prancing on stage in this costume. It's a fun role, and I look good. You'd never know I had to spend a week practicing just to walk in these heels.

"Take back your mink," I hum. "Take back your pearls." I blow myself a kiss in the mirror. Suddenly Susan's reflection appears beside mine.

I sink into a chair. "Just warming up," I say brightly, hoping she can't tell I'm blushing furiously under my makeup.

"Oh, no you don't," says Susan, shaking her head. "Stand up. I get to see this."

"Oh, God, Susan, this is humiliating."

"Stand up." Her smile is mischievous.

It's hard to argue with Susan. I stand and wait for her to laugh at me.

"Wow," she says. "This is a side of you I've never seen."

"Pink's not really my color."

"You look amazing," she says.

"Ha ha," I say. "Thanks, Susan."

"You look really sexy," she says.

Her voice is low and I suddenly realize she means it. I swallow and try to keep my voice light. "Thank you," I say again.

"Powerful," she says. "You should try dressing like this more often."

"You're joking."

"You could have half the men on campus following you around like puppies."

"Powerful might actually be the last word I'd use."

Susan shrugs. "It depends how you use it. I mean, when I play piano or sax, I don't want people to see me as a sexy woman, because it takes away from really listening to me as a musician, but there are certainly circumstances where you can use it as a power to get what you want. Depending on what it is you want."

"Are you telling me you get all dolled up and feminine when you go out on the weekends?" I try to picture Susan in make-up and high heels.

"No," she laughs. "No I don't. But I date women who do."

"Oh," I say dumbly. I am not sure how to process this information. "So the women you date have all the power?"

"Well . . . not exactly." Her mouth twitches with amusement. "There are other forms of power. But I don't usually get into my perversions with my students."

I swallow again as the stage manager yells places for musicians. Susan calls "break a leg" over her shoulder, then walks on stage like she owns it. Suddenly I'm sure I don't know any of my lines. As the overture starts up, I move to the wings and stare while Susan's instrument moans under her flying fingers. Men I can handle, but this woman makes me feel twelve.

On Tuesday I put on the dress with a pair of tall leather boots. I get nervous the moment I leave my room. I tug at the hem all day long and barely hear a word of my morning lecture. I keep expecting people to stare, to stop me and ask, "What's the occasion?" but no one else seems to care. Susan doesn't even say anything about it when I show up for my lesson, just congratulates me again on the show and opens the piano. My tempo is off all hour and I lapse into a bad habit of mine, lifting my fifth finger when I play through bars that only use the other four. "Pinky, Caitlin," she keeps chiding me. I just want the lesson to be over.

As I'm leaving, Susan's voice stops me. "Your outfit's a bit out of character, isn't it?"

"I borrowed it," I reply without thinking. It feels true.

"What's the occasion? Hot date?" Her eyes travel my body with amusement.

"Hardly," I say, blushing.

"It was the show, wasn't it," she says. "You liked driving those boys crazy." She lingers on the word "boys."

"Guess so," I say. I somehow manage to excuse myself using only monosyllables. I run to Rachel's room and ask if I can look through her clothing.

I start wearing dresses every Tuesday. I tell Rachel it's for my acting class. When I've exhausted her wardrobe, I make friends with the girls on my hall. I put on lip gloss; I start borrowing shoes. The dresses get more elaborate. I eat quickly and change clothes on my lunch hour. Every week Susan says something like, "Guess that new boyfriend is something special, huh Caitlin?" I learn to just laugh.

I'm the only sophomore accepted to the honors recital. Susan hugs me at the next lesson as I walk in the door. "Caitlin, congratulations!" One hand rubs back and forth across my spine. My eyes close. She sits near enough to offer the scent of her shampoo, a whiff of her tobacco, and the faintest trace of Old Spice deodorant. I hit my opening chord in the wrong key.

"Nervous already?" she teases.

"I guess so." I start again.

"Pinky, Caitlin." She brushes her hand lightly against my finger. Her skin is warm. I breathe in through my nose, trying to smell her. I want her to touch me again. The little finger of my right hand strikes two notes and I point it forward intentionally. Susan says nothing but gently taps it down. In the final chord, I let the pinky fly up again. Susan shakes her head and rests her left hand over my right, pressing the rigid finger back into place. "Good," she says softly. "I want to hear it again."

At my final lesson, I put my hair up and borrow the slinky black dress Rachel wore to her high school prom. Susan nearly chokes. "That boyfriend of yours is a lucky guy," she stammers.

I run into her Thursday in the hallway outside the practice rooms, decked out in my usual jeans and T-shirt.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, swallowing hard.

She says she's rehearsing with one of her students. The recital's in two days. "How come you're back in uniform?"

I can't speak.

"Broke up with the boyfriend, eh?"

Her body is two feet from mine. I can smell the leather of her jacket and the scent of her sweat.

"Yeah," I say. "I realized I like women."

"Touché," she says slyly, and disappears into her practice room.

"See!" whispers Rachel excitedly. "I told you it would rain during the honors recital! I told you!"

"That's more than rain," says Susan. "It's a nightmare out there."

I tug on my fingers and don't say anything.

"Caitlin, I've never seen you this wound up before a performance!" Rachel exclaims. "Relax."

"I'm okay," I lie.

"You look tense," says Susan.

"I'm fine." I sit down.

"You won't play well if you're that tense. Here..." Susan stands and massages my shoulders. I close my eyes, thinking Susan is the last thing that will relax me.

Rachel looks at us. "Isn't this your last semester teaching here, Ms. Curtis?"

"It's my last day," she pronounces with triumph.

"Oh oh," says Rachel. "Caitlin, what are you going to do without Ms. Curtis and her whip? Bet you won't practice eight hours a day anymore."

"I don't practice eight hours a day," I say quietly. I'm glad Susan is behind me and can't see my face.

"Back straight, Caitlin," says Susan. I obey. "My whip?" she laughs.

The next performer begins her piece. Susan soothes the knots at the top of my spine, her fingers dancing across the back of my neck. Thunder crashes above the slow music the poor girl is playing, but I can still hear Susan's breath. My thin shirt feels like yards of fabric separating her fingers from my bare skin. Her palms are on my shoulders when the pianist finishes to thunderous applause and more violent roaring from the storm. I'm on next.

"You feeling better?" Susan whispers.

"I wish I were wearing spaghetti straps," I whisper back.

She laughs so softly it's barely a breath in my ear. "Go," she says, giving me a shove. "You're on." Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I pick up my music and walk limply on stage.

I sit down at the piano and spread out my music. I take a moment and will the ink on the page to form itself into coherent lines and notes. I exhale slowly, force my mind to clear, and lift my hands to play. At my opening chord, there's another crash of lightning and the wind howls. All the lights go out. Even the exit signs are down. The room is black and I can't see the piano keys two feet below me.

The audience stirs; I hear nervous chatter and the swish of five hundred chairs folding up as people stand. I envision mayhem, hysterical masses rushing blindly for the door. Five hundred bodies squashed and disoriented. Five hundred voices screaming in confusion and fear. Fuck, I think. This is going to be a disaster.

Firm footsteps cross the stage. "Remain in your seats, everybody. Please. Remain in your seats." It's Susan, filling the room with her voice. "We have temporarily lost power. Please stay in your seats; there's no use trampling each other to get outside. Consider this an intermission. We'll have the lights up shortly and the concert will resume. Again, please stay in your seats."

There's another loud clap of thunder but Susan's assurance seems to soothe the room. I hear whispers and even laughter. I start to pick out voices. I hear the booming voice of my work-study supervisor from the library, a big woman who sits in the front row of every concert. I hear harsh talk in low voices from the house managers back stage trying to figure out what to do.

I hear Susan approaching me.

"Caitlin. Come here."

"Where are we going?"

"Follow my voice. Walk towards me."

"Susan?" I stand up and stagger forwards a few steps, my arms reaching out in front of me through the darkness. "How far before I fall off the stage?" I ask, laughing. Above the din I hear footsteps circling behind me. "Susan?"

I feel hands on my waist. "I'm right here, Caitlin." She pulls my back against her chest and tightens her arms around me. I take a sharp breath and feel myself getting wet. "Shhh, Caitlin. Do as I say. One sound, and I'll stop." Her hands begin drawing up my stomach, massaging me in slow circles. Her touch is rough. Her voice is commanding. "Tell me who've we got in the audience tonight?" she asks, breathing the words into my ear.

"Mm," I murmur. "What?"

Her hands slide up to my breasts. "I want to know who's watching."

There's a loud laugh in the audience and I go sober. "They can't see us, can they?" I whisper.

"Not a thing," Susan whispers back. I feel her lips against my earlobe. "Now tell me who's out there."

I go limp against her as she lightly pinches my nipples through the fabric of my shirt and bra. "Um, my boss, Mrs. Hendrix."

Susan undoes the top button of my blouse. "Who else?"

"All of my friends."

"Like?"

"Well...my ex-boyfriend."

She laughs. I feel her hands on the second button, then moving down to the third. "What about parents?" she whispers.

"Oh, God." I picture my parents' reaction to seeing this woman's fingers scraping across their daughter's body. "Not unless they decided to make a surprise visit."

There's one button left. "You know the president of the college is out there."

"And the head of the music department."

"The entire music faculty," she says, licking the rim of my ear. "Are you thinking about all of these people?" My shirt hangs loose and open. Her hands slide up my naked belly and over my bra. "I want you to think about these people." The silky fabric caresses my skin as she slips it off, leaving a trail of goosebumps down my arms and shoulders. She whispers so softly I almost can't hear her over the room. "Take off your bra, Caitlin."

"What?"

I feel her breath against my ear. "I said I want you to take off your bra."

She steps away from me and I shiver. I don't move for a minute. I stare out into the audience, hearing their voices and imagining their eyes. My arms cross. I take the elastic between my fingers and slowly lift it off my breasts and over my shoulders. I tug it over my nose and feel my hair pull up and then fall back across my neck as I hand the bra to Susan.

"Good girl," she says. I lean back into her as her hands move over my hips, and then she cups one hand between my thighs. "Good girl." I feel her mouth at the back of my neck and her fingers move to undo the button of my pants.

"No!" I shake my head and pull away but her arms are around me. "Susan, wait..."

"Shh," she hisses. "One sound and I'll stop."

I freeze. My legs are trembling. She holds still a moment, giving me a chance to speak. *One sound and I'll stop*. I press my lips together and bow my head.

She takes my zipper between her thumb and forefinger and slides her hand down along my fly. She orders me to step out of my shoes and then lets my pants drop to the ground. Her thumbs loop around the elastic band of my underwear and her palms press their way down my thighs, taking the underwear with them, leaving everything exposed. I stand invisibly naked in front of the audience, convinced I can pick out my ex-boyfriend's sarcastic cackle and the resolute sigh of the college dean. The air is cool against my skin and I can feel the degree of my arousal as droplets escape slowly down my inner thigh. For one moment there is only euphoric fear, lust, and adrenaline, and the next I am covered in Susan.

Her kiss is strong; her tongue invades me. I squeeze her helplessly, the voices of the audience roaring in my head. She moves her mouth to my stomach and then my thigh, kneeling in front of me. I grab for her shoulders just to keep my balance as her finger teases the opening of my vagina from behind. Slowly her finger presses into me, and my mouth opens in a silent moan. I stare over her head and imagine the packed house of unseen and oblivious spectators.

She pulls me to the ground and climbs on top of me, sliding her fingers into my mouth. The hard wooden floor is cold against my back. I wind my tongue around Susan's fingers, sucking my juices clean. She takes my hands and runs them over her body, letting me touch her through her clothes, but then she pins me to the ground. Her weight crushes me against the floor. "Don't move," she whispers. "And don't make a sound."

She rolls off. She shoves my legs apart and I feel her tongue slide again up my thigh, but this time she doesn't stop. I feel her breath between my legs and then the warmth of her mouth, and the flicking of her rapid tongue. She feeds me two fingers one at a time and nudges them slowly in and out. I hold my breath, struggling to keep silent. Susan holds her fingers still inside of me and licks with vigor. I writhe against the floor and bite my arm to keep from screaming, until I reach the breaking point. My body clenches tight inside against her fingers and the world goes red.

Susan holds me, not speaking for a moment, one hand caressing my hair. I can only lie next to her, shaky and dazed.

"Susan," I breathe. "Susan. Oh my God."

"You better get your clothes on kiddo," she whispers. "They'll have the lights on any minute now."

"You fucking bitch," I pant. She laughs and gropes around the stage for my pile of clothes, which she's neatly folded. She hands them to me and slips an arm around my waist.

"I have been wanting you for so long," she murmurs, tangling her fingers into my hair.

"I thought you said you didn't go into your perversions with your students."

"Mmm, good thing you're not my student anymore."

"Does that mean . . ." I hesitate. "Will I see you again?"

She laughs and I shrink against her, feeling awkward, vulnerable, and still dizzy. "Yeah, I think you owe me one." She touches my face with her hands and kisses me softly. I can feel the grin on her lips. "But for the next few minutes," she whispers, "I think it would be in both of our best interests if I got as far away from you as possible." She squeezes my hand one last time and her footsteps trail off into the wings.