or the Drill Hall. Clubs exclusively lesbian were generally weekends only. While London clubs were trendier than those in the sticks, and far more likely to have available women, the morning reality of the walk of shame was tedious if it was local. Forty miles away was inexcusable. She drove back to Laverstone, which gave her the opportunity to change her dress and boots then take a taxi to a disused factory which had been converted into the town’s newest, trendiest night club.
The Fishbowl was already heaving when Felicia arrived, despite the early hour. She paid the entrance fee, glad of the anonymity of a rubber stamp on the back of her hand, and went through the fire doors of the club proper, her eyes adjusting to the darkness after the brightly lit reception area.
The music pounded out a mixture of trance and house, sampled punk rock interspersed with the melodies of Bach, backed with an incessant drum beat. Felicia wandered around the ground floor, eyeing up the talent before heading upstairs to the floors playing Goth, rhythm and blues and chill-out music. The crowd down here was mostly young, and offered little to pique her interest so, with a brief trip to the bar to buy a bottle of water, she headed up.
The stairwell was blocked by a group of men–boys, really–who looked at her with raised eyebrows and wolf whistles.
“Where are you going, gorgeous?” The leader, a youth in his mid twenties with the requisite long dark hair and stubble, barred her way. His two companions nudged each other and grinned.
Felicia stopped and looked at him. In her boots, she was an inch or so shorter than he was. His eyes held humor and merriment, the dilated pupils betraying more than just the dimness of the lighting. “You have nice eyes.” She smiled softly and held his cheek in her palm. “You can call me Fliss but you’re really not my type.”
“What type is that? You prefer your men with a few more muscles, maybe?” He flexed his arms, causing his chest to ripple under his tight shirt.
Felicia laughed. “One less muscle, more like.” She smiled at him as she pushed past.
The pickings in the Goth room were slim but more interesting–vampire wannabes and desolate maidens, salacious males dressed in Edwardian finery and pale Emos in torn t-shirts. Felicia sat alone in one of the booths and watched the display of posturing; the men pretending to be icy-cool while betraying their interest in the available girls–or boys–by the tightness of their leather trousers.
Her gaze flicked across to a group of velvet-clad girls in their early twenties. A little young for her taste, they nevertheless elicited a primal response as she looked them over. In the semi-darkness Felicia could see only the perfect makeup and casual disdain they appeared to display toward the predatory males, but one of them, her typically dark hair falling past her shoulders, caught her eye and smiled before dropping her gaze to concentrate on the vodka soda she held.
Felicia smiled to herself, feeling the familiar prickle of desire. The girl was an apple waiting to be plucked–bi-curious if not already a lesbian, though inexperienced. She mentally marked her as a possible if she found nothing better.
She drained her water and left the bottle on the table, rising to check out the next floor. She skirted the area quickly, having little in common with the post-teens dancing to drum and bass and their assertions that BB King was a sample master. There was little available talent anyway–mostly boys and straight girls here. Any who would fit her tight list of requirements would drift naturally to another floor as the night progressed in any case.
The stairs were softer on the topmost floor, muted carpet instead of the industrial metal rungs and walkways of the lower floors. The heavy bass faded as she pushed through twin sets of double doors into the chill out room.
Felicia entered to Ella Fitzgerald at a low volume, the buzz of voices as muted as the wall sconces. This room was set out in a series of booths, perfect for private liaisons and quiet conversation. For intimate encounters there were private pay-by-the-hour rooms that could be hired on the restricted access floor above.
Felicia ordered a soft drink from the central bar and browsed the area, taking note of two or three possible targets for her elusive affections. She picked a sofa that had line of sight to a group that interested her, sipped her drink and watched. She had to be certain the women were both lesbian and single, or at least up for a little anonymous loving. She wasted the whole of her first drink watching a redhead in a group of three women, assuming that she was a gooseberry to the two who laughed and fondled each other next to her, but when the redhead left to go to the toilet, the other two broke off and awaited her return, seemingly uncomfortable with horseplay if the third of the trio were not present to witness and offer silent consent.
Her second target was more promising, a soft butch woman in a leather jacket with, but not with, a feminine beauty who was close to hysterical. Felicia couldn’t hear the conversation, but she could tell by the girl’s body language her trauma centered on an absent lover. The stabs at the table, the abrupt changes in mood from anger to hurt and the comfort of the friend all served to indicate the butch was single.
A sudden stare in her direction from the distressed party told Felicia her attention had been noticed. She nodded and smiled, raising her bottle of fruit juice to acknowledge the attention. Their conversation wound down and the girl left.
Felicia waited, locking eyes with the other woman as they fought a silent battle over who was the more aggressive. The butch looked away with a smile before picking up her drink and wandering over, sitting opposite Felicia without even an introductory May I?
Perhaps Felicia hadn’t won supremacy after all.
She pushed her empty bottle across the table and cocked her head. A raised eyebrow was her reward, but her new companion took the cue and went to the bar, returning with another of the same for Felicia and a whiskey for herself. “Have I seen you before?”
“Maybe.” Felicia was non-committal. “Who was the girl?”
“My sister.” She laughed. “Would it matter?”
“Not to me.” Felicia raised the bottle in thanks before taking a sip. “What’s your name?”
“Jenna.” There was a pause until the butch chuckled. “Are you going to tell me yours?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. I need to call you something, though.”
“So that you can remember the notch on your bedpost?” Felicia smiled. “What would you like to call me?”
“How should I know?” Jenna lowered her voice. “How about ‘slut’?”
“How about ‘mistress’?”
Jenna raised an eyebrow. “You’re a top? That surprises me. I thought all you chic girls were do-me queens.”
“And I thought all you butches were desperate to please.”
“Point taken. I shouldn’t judge by appearances. My apologies.”
“Sometimes appearances are all the information we have. Conventions of form or dress connect us to the past and form an acceptable display of social mores. It’s often the only way we can recognize our own kind. You’re forgiven, for now.”
“Thank you.” Jenna dipped her head, a wry smile teasing the corners of her lips. “And what kind are we? How do you see me, good lady?”
“A lady now, am I?” Felicia smiled. “You’re a butch, tits bound under that shirt and packing. You’re charming, dependable and trustworthy, at least to your sister. You work out a lot, to judge from those muscles, and you’re probably in transition.”
Jenna froze, the whiskey half way to her lips. “What makes you say that?”
“The hair on your arms, the complexion of your skin, your bitten nails and your hair has been recently cut. Rather shabbily too, I might add, though it could be personal taste.” Felicia smiled and raised her bottle in a mock salute. “Good luck to you. I admire someone with the courage of their convictions. I could never