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Donna and Genetics and Donna and a Dress

A simple lesbian love story
You might find it easier to follow this series if you start at the first and read them in order. I hope you enjoy

Donna, pointed to an article in another edition of the same red-top she had shown me in the pub on the day our friendship changed course so delightfully. ‘It says here, College, that the people of the west have a genetic propensity to eat fatty food and drink alcohol, whereas your Asian does not.’ As she said this she was in the process of putting vinegar on her scampi and chips in a basket meal at the same table we had occupied back then.

‘I read something to that effect myself.’

‘Well, I am aware that you did not study genetics during your time at University but, in the light of my experience of discussing matters of import with you I think you might shed light on another matter that this article has set me to thinking about.’

‘I should be delighted to try but I suspect I know no more than you do.’

‘You are too modest, College.’ She bit into a piece of scampi and I could not help but notice that everything she did seemed deliciously sexy. Her quaint use of language had been gleaned, she’d explained to me, from her attempts to educate and disconnect herself from the less than salubrious environment her mother had created in her childhood. ‘Ok, so here’s the question.’ She pointed a chip at me, ‘if people were rated on a scale of one to ten where one is heterosexual and ten is us, my mother would rate a definite and clear one. I would suggest that in view of the nature of his relationship with my mother, my dad was probably not a bender but he might, I guess, have kicked with both feet so let’s say he was a five. With me so far?’

‘I seem to be following, thank you.’ Her knee pressed lasciviously against mine and she grinned. She had chosen this evening to be at her most androgynous. A denim jacket covered a t-shirt emblazoned with the phrase ‘Straight or Great?’ which I had not seen before. When I commented, gently, that I disapproved of so-called ‘Gay’ slogans she smiled.

‘You’re a one, you are, College. This was a protest we held when I was at school – they were building a new road which was destined to come through our playground and our PTA had these printed for us to wear demonstrating our demand that the road should curve around rather than through. I think our headmaster was secretly gay and did it for a joke.’ I wasn’t sure if she was winding me up, it sounded implausible.

‘Any how, back to my family. Here’s mum, definitely established as a one on the scale and my sister has, I would suggest, followed her down that path. Certainly her Dennis has the look of a man of whom constant and exhausting demands are made although, having said that, he’d probably find making a cup of tea demanding. Anyhow, if dad was a five, which is unlikely but I’m erring on the side of scientific caution here, that would mean that their progeny had a genetic tendency to fancying the other rather than the same gender. Am I making sense?’ I nodded. ‘Well, then, explain how come I am a dyke. Not that I am complaining, mark you. But it is a scientific fact that almost all lesbians had heterosexual mothers and fathers.’

‘I believe it was a monk by the name of Mendel who first experimented with inherited characteristics, using the pea as his model.’ This was to give myself a chance to think.

She smiled and her odd eyes sparkled. ‘You never disappoint, College. A bleeding fount you are, an encyclopaedia with tits.’ Her knee had insinuated itself between mine under the table.

‘My parents too showed no signs of homosexuality and yet here I am. I suspect that while some characteristics are inherited, others are innate and others are conscious decisions. I cannot remember ever feeling differently from the way I do now although I disguised myself to avoid being seen as odd by my school friends.’

‘I did that as well.’

‘I have always believed that my sexuality was innate but clearly not inherited. Others, like those who call themselves bi-curious are perhaps making a choice. Beyond that I confess your question exceeds my knowledge.’

‘Au contraire. That was a most interesting explanation. To discover that I am me and not merely a construct of a bloke I never knew and my mum, the slapper, is hugely rewarding. If you finish your cider, I’ll take you home, whip of the shirt you find so offensive and give you a seeing to in my own characteristic and inimitable style. How does that appeal?’ I confess it appealed greatly.

Donna and the Dress

Donna was wearing a dress. It was a very conservative black number with a pleated front and a bodice that contained her small bosom beautifully. I couldn’t see much of it, hidden by the table as it was, but a flash of bare shin was visible. I had never seen her dressed like this before and I have to admit I was taken aback. Not, you understand, disappointed, rather surprised to see my androgynous lover thus attired.

‘Wotcha, College,’ she said cheerily as she saw me enter the pub which you may recall as the scene of earlier events I have described. We were not living together, at least not most of the time. She’d drop by for an evening meal sometimes and stay for a couple of days. We spent a lot of time together, much of it conjoined in some delicious way but moving in had not seemed appropriate, nor had we discussed it.

‘I note you’re somewhat disconcerted by my vestments.’ I smiled and sat opposite her, my own, rather longer dress smoothed under my bum. ‘I love the way you do that, College, if I try I tend to pull my knickers down. Any how, as I was saying, here you find me in the garb of a woman.’

‘And very lovely it is too.’

‘Your compliment is accepted with grateful thanks. But, I suspect you are wondering what Donna the Dyke is doing in a frock?’

‘It had crossed my mind.’

‘I did not doubt it. I have not worn a skirt since my mum was appearing at the local magistrates for soliciting and her brief (author's note: 'brief is English slang for lawyer) reckoned a show of family respectability might do her a bit of good.’

‘How did your sister approach this?’

‘You often see the issue, I must say. My sister, Cassandra (the second ‘a’ is like the aaaaaah in orgasm) is not one to dress in a conservative manner. She has a penchant for that sort of dress which allows one to see what she had for breakfast. She is endowed with a substantial set of bra fillers and she is disinclined to conceal them from their admiring public. She sees them as a sort of advert for the other pleasures she has to offer. However, as Mr Braithwaite, Mum’s solicitor said, ‘Time and place, Cassandra.' She told him to go fuck himself and that she hoped the old bag would get life.’

‘Not a woman to mince her words.’

‘Indeed not. However, I digress. I have today been interviewed for a position.’

‘A position?’ I asked, my serious face glued in position. Her language always cracked me up and I had to make every effort not to offend.

‘Indeed, and I am grateful you avoided a cheap innuendo in view of my choice of the word “position.” As you are aware my current employment is somewhat, shall we say, precarious.’ To describe her work, as runner to a virtually unemployable local artist, as precarious was a bit like saying that the Himalayas are somewhat hilly. I nodded, unwilling to open my mouth lest I burst into laughter. ‘In view of my exposure to the artistic world I have sought to develop my career in that sphere of endeavour and I was interviewed for a position I sought in a gallery. Dead posh it is.’

‘How did the interview go?’

‘Well, thank you. I confess it did expose some small gaps in my knowledge of, for example, the Pre-Raphaelites and other schools but, since the job is primarily making tea and cleaning up after the posh bastards have supped their bubbles and bought a few million quids’ worth of oil on canvas, such shortcomings did not seem too important.’

‘When will you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘If your application was successful.’

‘Oh, I already do, it was, subject to one requirement.’

‘Which was?’

‘Not to dress up – it makes the rest of the arty buggers uncomfortable. I decided, however, that rather than dash home and slip back into my normal garb, I might just take the opportunity to gauge the impact of Donnainafrock on my lipstick lesbian friend. Were we to revert to your place after a couple of glasses of this amusing little Pinot, you might care to explore up the unfettered access a frock can afford you.’ This time it was my leg that had insinuated itself between hers.

‘It has not,’ she said with a lovely, lascivious smile, her odd eyes twinkling ‘escaped my notice that you are already intruding into my private space.’

And so to bed.

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