My GF; Fucking & How We Met

"That's really sweet, but I actually already have all the drink need." My tone is friendly and flattered, but I glance down passed my drink and she follows my eyes and gets it. She apologizes sheepishly and steals away.

Nic stifles a giggle behind me. She's half-Black and half-Filipina, 25 or so, with pretty features and a cool 'fro. Sexy as any woman I've ever seen, but completely off-limits. Nic's a soft butch herself, partially because her face and body are so feminine that she'd need to be an outright king to look masculine. (That night Nic wore a wifebeater and blue cargo pants held up with red suspenders, but –slim though she is – her large breasts and full hips just gave the impression of borrowing a mechanic's clothes). Soft butch is also how her very dominant girlfriend – Dr. Marion Hartford, the CMO at Washington's largest health care cooperative and the unofficial HLIC of the Puget Sound – likes her to dress. Her relationship to Dr. Hartford is why I've never considered hitting on Nic. In fact, if she fell to her knees begging for it, I'd back away with my hands up imploring her pardon for leading her on.

We became friends by chance at her first EWGA event three years ago. Nic showed up in men's khakis and a button up collared shirt to the clubhouse luncheon and was seated at my table. Had she been a man, there'd have been no problem. In that sense she met the dress code, but damn do we women like to eat our own. (No pun intended in this case.) I was openly gay even then, but also a self-serving conformist in a sweater-set, so I was free to eat in peace.

A group of older conservative women began pointing while talking amongst themselves. Nic couldn't help noticing and was obviously mortified when the old biddies elected a spokesperson to give her "a talking to" about expectations and ask her to leave. Ethel Mills walked primly over, a toxic woman I knew from WWL (I know, I belong to a ludicrous number of woman's organizations, but Mrs. Quentin hates networking and Mr. Henriksen swears by it. They compromised and send me to all the women's organizations. I drew the line at WFRW.)

The estimable Mrs. Mills spoke in her most sugary tone of condescension and informed Nic of the dress code and her failure to meet it. I wanted to wait for the old prune's full explanation, but Nic stood to leave.

"Miss, welcome to EWGA and please sit back down. Mrs. Mills misspoke and meant no offense." Nic froze and waited.

The pernicious Mrs. Mills showed no such hesitation and addressed me with the singular lawyer smile, "Young lady, we have standards here-"

I fixed her with the exact same smile – the nearest verbal translation would be something like "I'd disembowel you for a Klondike Bar, bitch." – and quietly said one acronym, "G.L.A.A.D."

She turned on her heel. Nic sat back down right next to me. If anyone else had a problem with the way she dressed, they at least talked behind their napkins. Nic and I clicked over conversations about golf clubs and badly prepared salmon. She finished the afternoon 4 strokes ahead of me and I gave her my office number in case she ran into any further trouble.

The next day our office receptionist buzzed that a Dr. Hartford was there and asked if I'd see her. Now I certainly knew who she was, but had no idea why she knew or wanted to see me.

"Of course. Please invite her in."

Dr. Hartford is beautiful in a stately way and I get why Nic is so into her. She's also domineering and intimidating, even when I get the impression she's trying to be kindly and approachable. Dr. Hartford - beyond being the HLIC and professionally influential - is the oldest money in Seattle, has contributed to nearly every successful politician in the area, has a finger in every social pie, and is reputed to be extremely vindictive regarding even minor slights or breaches in etiquette. Until I figured out what she wanted from me, I kinda felt like pissing myself.

"You met and played golf with Nicole Peyton yesterday?"

"I did." Is she mad about the clothes thing? Wow, self-hating much?

"She and I recently started seeing each other."

"That's nice." Does she think I'm sniffing around her new girlfriend?

"She mentioned your standing up for her and making her feel welcome. And that she could call you with any problems?"

"I did." Does she need a civil rights advocate? Who could I refer her to? Boris and Chadwick are the best in the city, but surely she knows that?

"I found Nicole's previous friends unacceptable and forbade her seeing them. It is important she has appropriate female friends of her own age however, and I deem you appropriate. She is very shy and too nervous to call you on her own. You will be kind to her and assist her in making other appropriate young female friends?

"Of course." Thank goodness! She just wanted to help her new girlfriend into a social circle.

Dr. Hartford shook my hand and left. (If my terror seems an overreaction, please note that the Mills were removed from every guest list, Mrs. Mills was disbarred, Mr. Mills lost his construction license, and their house was foreclosed on all within three months of Dr. Hartford's visit. They left town. I'm polite and smart enough not to ask about it).

Nic called me not fifteen minutes later and asked mechanically about Labor Day weekend plans. I invited her to Bumpershoot with Teeg, Melody, and me. After getting their last names and putting me on hold for a couple minutes, she said she could go. I felt eerily it was a playdate, but Nic is a cool chick in her own right and she's always welcome. But I digress again. I was telling you how I met my girlfriend. Sorry.

So it was after 11 o'clock and Nic was clear on the actions needed to expand into Everett. While we were deciding which day we could both drive up, I heard a girl shriek, "Please don't?!" and yelp.

The majority of the clientele and I turned in disgust to see that an angry, hard-looking chick with prison tatts had a miserable blonde girl on her lap and was pouring a beer down the front of her white braless Sailor Moon tee shirt. It's probably hypocritical of me in particular to be affronted. I sat in that same booth three months earlier, pulled down the tube top of the girl in my lap, and played with her breasts in full view while making her bring herself off under the table. Still – despite my tastes and habits – I can and do differentiate between the breathy "please don't" of an exhibitionist enjoying attention and the honest alarm in this girl's voice. Either she was the best actress alive or she was legitimately freaked out. To intentionally humiliate a nice girl like her is just cruel.

Apparently bouncers Mabel and Kay agreed with me, because they were already moving on the booth of troublemaker. Again, it wasn't about the wetted shirt itself. Nic is into voyeurism (no underage sex or drinking though). Moreover, uninhibited girls with their beautiful bodies tend to attract interested women with their disposable incomes. Outright sex is both possible and encouraged, but assault is bad for business.

The girl stood and started away from the catcalls of the angry chick's rowdy buddies and their floozies at the large booth. Angry Chick grasped her wrist and wrenched her back down however, then tore open the pitiable girl's drenched white tee shirt and called her a string of cunt, whore, slut, etc.

Mabel and Kay reached the table quickly and started grabbing and chucking with admonitions to never come back. Angry Chick manages to spit in the girl's face and fling some final insults, blaming her for the group being thrown out. The bouncers had things settled immediately. Kay is retired military police and Mabel essentially looks like Dwayne Johnson in a wig, never more so than when she picked up Angry Chick and threw her bodily onto the sidewalk.

The girl was given some verbal consoling from the bar at large, but collective attention quickly turned back to drinking and dancing. The girl was still sobbing quietly, holding her shirt together with her arms crossed over her chest and rocking herself back and forth. Her body language reminded me of an abused puppy.

She jerked her head toward the bar. Some idea dawned on her and her misery turned to panic. I assumed she was realizing that, at 1130pm, she was a half mile from the nearest bus stop that would get her on a route across town and probably had at least an hour ride and a transfer to get to any of the other districts. Seattle has one of the best transit systems in the country and I feel relatively safe here, but to be traveling on foot and by bus after midnight in a city this size while wearing a torn, beer soaked white tee shirt is foolhardy at best.

I stepped over to her out of atypical pity and offered her my jacket and a ride home. She accepted gratefully, but started crying anew. She was wearing way too much makeup and it was exceptionally garish between the crying and wiped spit. Her mascara, eyeliner, and eye shadow were so caked and smeared together that her eyes were nearly fused shut. Starters needed to be getting her to a sink and getting that mess off her face.

"Don't worry, Kiddo. I won't hurt you. I just want to get you cleaned up and take you home."

"It's not that. It's all this. I can't pay."

She gestured at the table full of empty Heinekens, Buds, Coronas, and Coors. I guess she thought she was the last member of a dine-and-dash, or drink-and-dislodge as it were. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of this misused girl getting stuck with that troop's bill. She hung her head at my laughter though, and I felt bad for adding to her distress.

"No Kiddo. Nic or one of the waitresses will have charged the booth to a credit card and they'll put the bill on that. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh at you like that. C'mon, we'll get you all spic-and-span in no time and you'll feel better for it."

She nodded assent and I led her by the hand to the bathroom. She turned heads for the wrong reasons on the way. Besides her facial chaos, she was wearing my oversized (on her) leather jacket, a beige knee-length loose Bohemian pleated skirt, and neon New Balance running shoes. I assumed correctly that Angry Chick had pressured her into wearing a white top, her shortest skirt, heavy makeup, and no underclothes. Facing away from the girl, I was free to chuckle silently at the disparity between Angry Chick's intended ensemble and the result of the girl's innocent selections.

I had a chemically treated pocket square in my jacket for her to use (intended to clean up a different kind of sticky mess) and her face was fresh and clear in less than a minute of scrubbing.

Woa.

The prettiness of her face staggered me. (English Rose complexion, slightly more blooming with her hurried scouring.) Not ravishing or luscious, just so sylphlike and youthful and fetching...and just so very pretty. I gaped at her like she was a three-headed goat, which was not what she needed in that moment I suppose.

"Did I miss a spot or something?" She asked uncertainly.

"No. You're just very pretty." Oh shit. I didn't stop to lie and now she probably thinks I'm a cad throwing a line at her. Just the opposite, she witnessed me in a rare candid moment at an inopportune time. (I have used it as a line since though.) She blushed furiously and I gathered my wits, but decided the best course was to completely ignore the awkwardness of my gaffe.

"Let's head out." I thought better of taking her hand again, but she still followed me closely through the bar and out into the street. Nic laughed and made a rude gesture when I left with the girl. I ignored that too.

I couldn't ignore Angry Chick. We were spotted as we walked outside and Angry Chick plainly had not moved on. Cursing, she left the smoking area across the street at a run to accost us. Or, more accurately, to accost the trembling girl standing behind me with a death grip on my right arm.

Great. I was about to be swung at while my right arm was held behind me.

In all fairness, I wasn't going to win that fight with anything short of a shotgun. I'm no brawler and Angry Chick's mix of parlor and prison tattoos suggested that she'd been in and out of lock-up for several years. One prison tattoo of a naked girl on her forearm was very interesting though, because it was new (only partially healed), amateurish, and not gang-related. That meant Angry Chick was in jail less than a month ago and chose to get a shitty tattoo while there.

That observation coalesced in to a conclusion and a plan of action – or what was a plan of action for me – when Angry Chick was less than ten feet away and winding up for a haymaker.

^^^^Will post more if there's interest.