A Lady's Passion

By Roberta Angela Dee

The sun was rising, and as it rose, and as its light entered her bedroom window, Rebecca put her lips to mine and filled me with the taste of her sweet emotions.

I looked at her and smiled. She smiled back, then turned her back to me in order to take a few minutes more sleep. I moved closer to her and kissed the back of her neck. She giggled like a little girl with a new doll. She giggled as I did the very first time I was kissed by a boy. How strange it is the some childhood events stay with us, frozen in our memories like old leaves imprisoned by ice during Winter.

There was a fragrance to Rebecca that was as clean and fresh as dew on Spring apples. It was perfectly feminine, and remained so even after so many hours of passionate love.

Rebecca had made love to me using every part of her body to explore every part of mine, except, of course for that part of me that served as a reminder of the boyhood I once knew. How distant the memory seemed now.

She had heard me moan like a Bourbon Street whore, tempted me to part my thighs like a virgin bride intent to consummate her marriage. She had witnessed the most fragile qualities of my femininity and made me feel more womanly than the heroine of a romance novel.

I had heard women say that at the height of love they begin to feel like little girls again. It's a feeling that comes when a woman completely surrenders herself to her lover. It's the moment when she's most vulnerable, yet feels the most secure and protected. She's a little girl in her daddy's arms again, as vulnerable as she is safe. It was how I felt as I moved closer to Rebecca and savored the warmth of her flesh. I felt like a little girl.

Who was this incredible woman? I had never imagined that any lesbian would ever find me attracted. And there I was -- in bed with a lesbian who had made love to me so intensely that I would continue to be fatigued a full day afterwards. Lord have mercy! There truly is a God!

A part of me -- perhaps the more bitchy part -- wanted to invite every transsexual who had ever told me that I would have to have surgery before I could realize the splendor of the kind of love I had just experienced with Rebecca. I wanted to invite them to watch Rebecca dismiss all their silly theories while she made love to me.

Only 30 minutes later, Rebecca rose to shower. I made breakfast and then told her that I wanted to visit one of the dress shops in the French Quarter. The prior evening, I had seem a leather dress in a shop window. It was a rich tan color, absolutely beautiful. What impressed me most, however, was the intricate detailing in the leather itself. The impeccable detail combines with its design and drape would make it a dress no woman could see and not envy.

Westwego was about as rural as any populated area in America. It was comprised mostly of apartment complexes, small houses, shacks, automobile service stations, and a generous number of convenience stores. There was, however, a K&L Drug Store about a mile or two from our own apartment complex. Rebecca reminded me that she needed to stop there before proceeding to the Quarter.

"I need tampons and a bottle of Scotch," she said with a sophisticated Southern voice so sensuous that it would force any gentleman to grovel at her feet. It was a voice as thick and sweet as a young man's ejaculate. And I was certainly a lady who found pleasure in the taste of gentleman's fluid of passion.

In Louisiana, one could purchase liquor in a drug store or a fuel pump station. It was not as it was in New York, where liquor could only be sold in state licensed liquor stores. K&L was an especially interesting establishment. I could liken it to a mini K-Mart or a mini Walmart. The store contained a wide assortment of trinkets and baubles. Going there made me feel like a school girl visiting a nickel and dime store for the first time.

For those of you too young to know, nickel and dime stores where once very popular across the United States. One could go there and find a wide variety of inexpensively priced items. These stores frequently carried items that would attract children, inexpensive toys and such. However, they were also keen to address a woman's sewing needs during a time when women mended clothes and did not simply throw them away to buy new ones. Today, mass production as much as feminism, has caused us to lose sense of how precious an item can be. Today, we simply toss away those things that no longer entertain our senses or our needs. Our values and our sense of value has somehow been cheapened.

I spotted Rebecca standing in line with her box of tampons and a bottle of Ballantine's 12-year old Scotch. Scotch was supposedly a man's drink, but Rebecca and I found that it could also work for a lady. Besides, Rebecca was well aware that after a shot or two of good Scotch, I would nearly always be in the mood for her amorous pursuits. Just looking at the bottle, I could hear her say, as she had the night before, "I love the way your pretty little twat quivers when it senses my tongue approach." She had, however, understated the completeness of my response, for in reality, my entire being quivered.

I could barely wait to reach the Quarter. We proceeded immediately to the dress store. Before going inside, I admired it -- this wonderful work of art propped in the front window, displayed like a priceless heirloom.

The proprietress was a dark-complexioned women. Her ethnicity was impossible to determine. However, what struck me most was that her complexion was flawless -- without a single pimple, pore, or imperfection.

I inquired as to the cost of the leather dress. She answered with a slow and a very soft voice, saying, "It takes a very special woman to wear this leather dress. I must measure the woman so that the dress fits properly. This is not a dress you pull from a rack at Macy's. This dress is very special."

"I can see it's special," I replied, still waiting for her to tell me its cost.

"You are not from this part of the country," she continued. "You do not understand the religions and beliefs here. You do not understand the earth and the plants the animal fed upon, nor how it becomes a part of this dress, nor how this dress becomes a part of the woman who wears it. This is not a dress one wears just to be a woman for a weekend. This is not a dress -- "

"I know this lady as well as any woman can know another woman," Rebecca interjected. "If I didn't believe she was woman enough, I would not be here with her."

"You are saying you are lovers?" the woman asked.

"I am saying that she is woman enough to wear any dress you have in your shop," Rebecca replied.

"Being a woman is not something that you can buy," the woman responded. "It is not something you have a doctor do to you so that you can walk around calling yourself a woman."

I told the woman that I understood what she had said far better than she could understand it herself. She smiled, then said, "It will cost you $750.00 dollars, and I require a $250 dollar deposit."

"That's not a problem," I told her.

"Then I will measure you today," she replied. "This is not something that I do for money. These dresses become a part of the woman who wears it. Trust me when I tell you that, if she is not a woman before she wears it, she will certainly be a woman afterwards. The leather is blessed that way."

She led me to a back room and had me remove my outer clothing, and then she started to take her measurements.

"You have pretty breasts," she said as she wrapped the tape around its fullest part.

"Thank you."

"Yesterday, a transsexual came in," she began telling me. He had just had a sex change operation a month ago. And he wanted to buy one of my dresses. I told him that I was no longer doing custom design work, that if he could find something that fit him in the shop, I would sell it to him. But I knew there was nothing that would fit."

She laughed, and I asked her why she had refused to make a dress for the transsexual.

"Because he was not a woman," she answered, sternly. She was very pretty and she certainly looked like a woman. But she was not a woman in her heart -- as desperately as she believed she wanted to be a woman, she had not yet become a woman in her heart, mind, and soul. She was nothing like you, and so I encouraged her to leave. I do not sell my dresses to pretenders."

"I understand," I told her. "The value of these dresses is far more than can be measured in dollars."

"Ah, yes," she answered, happily. "You are a woman. You understand."

Roberta Angela Dee
RADANGLE@aol.com