“Do you guys serve any food?” I meekly asked the bartender, while I tried to settle myself on a particularly uncomfortable stool.
He stared at me, scrunching his eyebrows a little, and turned away. I must have looked like an absolute tourist, because the regulars glanced over at me, shaking their heads. He reached under the counter to grab a canister of mixed peanuts and unceremoniously poured them into a Styrofoam bowl. He didn’t say a word after sliding it across the counter, but instead left to tend to another patron.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” a native woman easily in her thirties asked me, as I looked almost aghast at the meager offering in front of me.
“That easy to tell?” I questioned.
“Well, people don’t come to Rusty’s for a meal,” she joked, with sparks fluttering from her eyes.
“I had no idea. The fire season just ended, and I’m living out of a hotel until I find work,” I replied, maybe with a little too much information.
“Oh, that won’t do at all. Why don’t you take a ride with me? I’ll get you a home-cooked meal,” she said in a warm, motherly tone.
I was wary of her at first; the natives and the government have a long history, and it’s filled with animosity. I wasn’t the type of person to stereotype, even if many did. I was more interested in talking to a woman; in my line of work, it is a scarce opportunity.
She was a beauty, by anyone’s standards. She wore a red V-neck blouse with a tight pair of jeans that showed off her shapely rear, and the whole ensemble made her stand out as a feminine figure in a sea of western masculinity.
As I followed her out, I kept my eyes focused on her flowing dark hair as it swung in a pendulous wave across her back. I figured that nothing sensual could happen; lesbianism in this part of the country was rare, but I kept my hopes up nonetheless.
As we pulled up to her house, I was amazed at what a beautiful home she had.
“What were you expecting? A tipi?” she asked with a disapproving look cast on her face.
“What? No, no, no, I just thought it was a nice house,” I stammered.
“Relax, hon, I’m just fucking with you,” she laughed as she opened the door.
Inside, the house was amazing, with neat modern furniture and what I assumed was a granite countertop in the kitchen.
“I feel bad, I never asked you your name,” I said, trying to continue the conversation.
“Petal Skyflower,” she said with an unconvincing smile, trying to hold back a laugh.
“Nice try. I’m not falling for that one again,” I responded flirtatiously.
“Actually, it’s Janet,” she replied truthfully.
“I’m Abigail,” I nervously spouted back.
“Well, nice to meet you, Abigail, what brings you to Big Horn County?” she smoothly inquired.
“Work. I’ve been helping with the fires,” I replied, settling my elbows on her counter.
“Ahh, a government broad,” she started.
“You don’t seem like the usual type dear,” she sustained as she poured us an even-year Bordeaux, using the guise of heavy rains to drench conflagration, but like Greek fire, the libation had a lubricating effect.
“How long have you been doing this?” her questioning continued.
“About two years, ever since I graduated college. First time to Montana though,” I responded, tipping up my glass.
“Such an eager task for a young woman,” she quietly pondered as she made her way over toward me.
“I wouldn’t consider twenty-four young,” I defended myself.
“Ahh, but still in need of some experience,” she voiced in a sultry, fiery tone.
She put her glass down beside me and slowly caressed my shoulders. I simmered in the sweltering heat of her touch and shivered as the craving became an ember.
“Everything okay?” she asked, moving back in the saddles as if I were uncomfortable from her touch.
“It’s fine, it’s just I haven’t felt like that in a long time,” I said, aching for her embrace to warm my soul again.
“Well, in that case, I may just have to educate you,” she smiled as she landed a playful smack on my behind.
I so desperately wanted it to continue, but my anxiety started to get the better of me. My lust toward her and wanting to kiss her was smoldering, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I remember well kissing other women; it’s very different from sharing a kiss with a man. I’ll just say, I’m not a huge fan of tongue and groping. With a woman, you can lock into a kiss, just lips to lips, with romance and the erotic desire of wanting, without the aggression brought on by males.
Nervously, I tried to sip my wine and plan the next step. How far is she willing to go? How far am I willing to take this? The thoughts scorched in an inferno through my mind.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” she broke the silence with a shrug of indecision.
“No,” I said firmly, but still melting inside. “I want this.” I stood firm, staring deep into her eyes.
“Well okay then,” she grinned. “We can resume after I fill that empty stomach of yours,” she joked.
“What are you making?” I casually asked her, in order to change the subject.
“The hide of the buffalo,” she tried to say, breaking out into laughter as she grabbed a box of mac and cheese.
“Hardy-harr-harr,” I sarcastically retorted.
Later in the evening, after our ‘plentiful bounty,’ we retired to the couch in her living room. At this point, the bottle we were drinking from was nearly empty and, with our faces flush with virtually overflowing vessels, we laughed and joked like we were the only women on earth. Our stories and secrets were relatable to each other and I began to feel the sizzling smoke from the kindling we had provided.
