"Pheromone Pharmacopia"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2001, All rights reserved)

Chapter 10 - "Misanthrope"

     I hesitated at the door, which could have been okay if I had 
recovered just a bit sooner.  It was a typical nightclub, flashing 
lights in some places and gloomy in others and a moment to absorb it 
was not unreasonable.  But I stood there a moment too long and the 
always-attentive Rachel picked up on it.  

     "You're upset," she accused.  

     "What?  No, just . . . surprised," I countered.

     "I thought you, I mean, I assumed you . . . understood."

     I turned to her and reached out to touch her cheek.  "Rachel, 
believe me.  You've done nothing wrong.  I was just surprised."

     She leaned her face into my hand, then looked up again.  "We can 
leave."  

     "Not unless you want to," I replied, then didn't give her a chance 
to make any new desires clear.  I took her arm and pulled her down onto
the floor, scanning over the heads of the shorter women for a table.  
That was really a ruse to keep from looking at Rachel.  After the first
 . . . confusion, it had sunk into me that she was the very thing I had 
been hoping she was - interested in women.  Interested in me in 'that 
way'.

     Which was even more of a problem, since I wasn't really 'that way'.

     I hadn't even made a good start on figuring out what to worry about
worst when my search for a table was rendered moot.  

     "Rachel!" a voice boomed.  

     I was suddenly glad I hadn't chosen the leather look, because that 
suggested dominance issues and the woman who plowed through the crowd 
could have broken me like a dried-out toothpick if I offered any sort of 
challenge - at least any sort of physical challenge.  And I don't care how
good our hand-to-hand training was.  She looked like the professional 
women wrestlers hoped they would look like when they grew up - the 'new' 
style; sensual, graceful, beautiful, but above all, strong.  Rachel 
grimaced as she looked at the source of all the noise, but she transformed 
that into a smile that looked genuine enough to belie any real fear.  

     "Drue," she said calmly, not really attempting to be heard above the 
noise.  

     The woman gathered Rachel up in her arms and swung her around, making 
me glad I was very well practiced in my heels so I could dodge out of the 
way.  In a casual show of strength, 'Drue' wrapped one arm around Rachel 
and held her just off the ground so that our heads were all at about the 
same level.

     "My oh my," Drue said with a comic leer at me.  Then she looked at 
Rachel and said, "You've been holdin' out on me, hun."  

     Rachel didn't seem to be offended by the casual way Drue handled her,
so I decided I'd just act casual as well.  Lord knows I was too confused 
to figure out anything *else* to do. 

     Rachel pushed quiet introductions from her squeezed lungs.  "Drue, 
this is Carol.  Carol, Drusilla."

     "Pleased to meet ya'," Drue boomed, sticking out her free hand.  

     Time seemed to slow WAY down all the sudden, almost like combat does 
to you, and a plan opened up before me like a revelation from above.  For 
the first time since I, um, since Carol was created, I didn't feel 
physically . . . impressive.  Not intimidating.  Whatever.  I know I'm not 
actually the best fighter on our team, nor the smartest, nor any of those 
things, but being so tall, I've always felt . . . I don't know . . . 
strong somehow.  I'm not that tall for men, but within the team, 
especially since I took such a liking to heels, I've always been . . . 
impressive.  Maybe that's another Duty issue, like I was required to be 
tougher than the other girls.  More like a man.  Maybe that's where 
Carol's sensuous overcompensation came from.  Whatever the genesis, for 
the first time I felt like *I* could be 'dainty', like the spectrum had 
moved so that I was well into the range of 'normal' women instead of an 
extreme case. 

     All that came to me in a half a heartbeat, and I felt a sense of, I
know this sounds silly, but 'delicacy' come over me.  I held my own hand
out in that soft, palm-down way that Sandy does so well and said, 
"Enchante."

     "Woo, a *French* chick," Drue said, resurrecting her leer.  

     "Hardly," I disagreed softly, shaking my head to reinforce a message
not supported by much volume.

     "Close enough for me," Drue said, laughing.  "I'm not interested in 
French *language* anyway."

     "Indeed?"  Then I turned to Rachel and said, "I'm so glad we found a
place where the . . . clientele is so 'subtle'."  

     Rachel blushed.  Drue brayed with laughter, but she had the poise to
accept the comment without argument.  I gave her even more credit because
she didn't try to justify herself, either.  She was as she chose to be, 
take it or leave it.  I could respect that.  

     Apparently Drue had a table already, or at least a part of one.  
There were more purses on the table than chairs around it, but three of 
the chairs that were there were empty.  Drue started bellowing for a 
waitress before she sat down.  I half expected her to pull out our 
chairs for us, at least Rachel's, but she just waved grandly at the open
ones before choosing one for herself.  

     The waitress that showed up was dressed in an obvious Playboy bunny
style, except she had foxy ears and a bushy tail.  That wasn't what I 
expected.  I figured, Drue notwithstanding, that women would like refined
elegance in their 'private' clubs, something like a traditional men's 
club.  That had obviously been wrong from the moment we stepped in the 
door, but I was still too busy absorbing to really think things through.  
I suppose I was still caught up in prejudices too, pigeonholing Lesbians 
as all fitting some sort of feminist, anti-sex-appeal stereotype.  Anyway, 
the waitress, 'Foxy Lori' as she introduced herself, was pretty in a bimbo 
sort of way; all blonde curls and ostentatious curves.  

     Which, as soon as she looked at me, turned out to be yet *another* 
unfair prejudgment.  There was amused intelligence behind those rich blue
eyes.  You could see the 'I'm making $500 a night, and you're paying for 
it' condescension there, but fun, too.  She was having fun doing something
she enjoyed, and if it involved acting outrageously 'sexy', she could 
handle that.  

     Just like someone else I knew.  Only I didn't remember having that 
much fun.  So who was really the bimbo?  

     Somewhere in there a drink got ordered for me.  I don't usually mix
my libations so I had intended to get a little more wine, but when Lori 
showed up again I found a strawberry daiquiri in front of me.  It tasted
much too good to complain about.  So did the next one. 

     By then Drue had moved on to attack yet another 'dearest friend' and
the music had even taken a quiet turn, so Rachel and I were able to talk.  
She was still worried.

     "I shouldn't have brought you here," she said.  "You were right, of
course.  It's not subtle at all.  I'm sorry."  

     "Don't be," I said, honestly happy.  "This is fun.  Drue's a dear, 
and my, um, I can feel my attitudes, ah, expanding even as we sit."  

     "It's just," Rachel began again, "this is, um, the first time I ever
came to accept . . who I am, it was here."  

     "Drue brought you, didn't she?" I guessed.

     Rachel nodded.  "She was just a friend.  I met her in Jackson's, as 
a matter of fact.  She just invited me to come to her club with her one
night.  I didn't know what to expect, and frankly, I was angry at first.
But . . . after a while I realized she had seen something in me that I 
hadn't seen in myself.  I thought, well, maybe I hoped that it would work
the same for you.  But I shouldn't have done it without asking."  

     "Maybe not, for most people," I said, agreeing on my way to 
disagreement.  "But I don't mind."  Then I lifted my eyes to look directly
into hers and whispered, "Really, I don't mind at all."

     Something very complex showed in Rachel's eyes for a second.  
Something I was afraid to examine too closely.  The absence of Drue's 
overwhelming presence had left a void and I found myself slipping 
back into the 'tall' role again to avoid dealing with it.  "Would you
like to dance?"  

     "Sure," she said with a sunny smile.    

     Whoever was selecting the music kept it on slow dances for several 
in a row.  If Rachel noticed anything funny about the way I seemed so 
naturally to lead, holding up the correct hand and all, she didn't say 
anything.  At least, not about that.  

     "Can I ask a personal question?" she whispered from my shoulder.

     I nodded, hoping and fearing what she would ask. 

     "Have you ever . . . been with someone . . . like me?"  

     "No," I answered.  "But I have 'been with' other women.  They just 
weren't nearly as lovely as you."  

     I could feel the tension when I said the first part, but the way her
curves softened to merge with mine at the end made it clear she was 
pleased with my answer.  Just then the music changed though, and that 
quenched any opportunity to follow up as effectively as a bucket of cold 
water.  

     Back at our table, we found fresh drinks courtesy of an unknown but 
probably very large benefactress.  Once again I didn't know what to do.  
The blatantly sexual SMITE Carol wasn't right, wasn't what I wanted to be
for Rachel.  Yet all my other reflexes seemed too . . . masculine.  Like
asking her to dance, and then leading when we did.  I could see myself 
falling into habits that were . . . dangerous.  

     So I just sat there, looking at Rachel when I could do it without 
being too obvious, trying to find a path to a destination I wasn't sure
I'd know how to handle if we got there.  She must have finally accepted 
that I wasn't upset, because I could see the confidence of the 'old' 
Rachel surface in a genuinely-amused smile.  

     "Finish your drink," she ordered, swallowing what was left of hers.  

     I did as I was told, then followed her out of the club.  I didn't 
know what to expect, really.  My mind was ranging from a hoped-for greater
intimacy to 'thanks for a nice time' dismissal, worrying about both and 
not sure how to handle either.  That sounds like an excuse, and maybe it 
is, because she surprised me as soon as we got between a couple of parked
cars. 

     Without a word, she turned to me and lifted her arms to surround my 
neck.  Pulling herself up to my level, she kissed me. Dear Lord, I don't 
think I have *ever* been so thoroughly kissed.  

     And the funny thing was, it was so softly delicate.  I had always 
expected passion to involve . . . power, I guess.  Mashing mouths and 
forcing tongues and crushing embraces.  I learned in a heartbeat that I 
had never been a very good kisser before.  In two heartbeats, I was into
graduate courses, finding the *right* way to share the dance of tongues 
and the warm pressures of true sensuality.  

     I'm still trying to decide just where I screwed up.  Or why.  I 
suppose the easy way out is to blame the drinking.  I had probably had 
more to drink that night than in the previous two years combined.  I was
on a runaway train, headed for a bridge that we couldn't get over, but 
I couldn't seem to do anything but stoke the fires hotter and hotter.  

     We ended up at her apartment.  It's a good thing she had to drive.
We teased each other the whole trip, which was only a couple of miles, 
but neither of us could take things too far.  When we got in the door
though, it didn't take any time at all for her little black dress to 
hit the floor and only my fumbling incompetence with the unfamiliar 
fastenings of my blue one delayed its fall to join hers.  

     "God, you are beautiful," she said when my corset was finally 
revealed.  "That has to be the sexiest outfit I have *ever* seen."

     "Second best," I disagreed, letting my eyes linger on the curves
so artfully framed by her own dark, satin-shimmery scanties.  Like my
waist-cincher, the cups to her bra left the most interesting bits 
exposed.  She also wore stockings, as my exploring fingers had 
previously discovered.  A garter belt framed delicate lace panties
that were more symbolic than effective, which was quite effective in a
different way.  

    Then - inevitably - it all came crashing down.  Her own digital 
explorations had danced lightly across my . . . secret, but she must
have decided not to trust what they seemed to indicate.   I could feel
her stiffen, though, concern pushing passion to the side.

    "Is this a . . . bad time for you, darling?"

    "No, of course not" I answered.  Stupidly.  I still didn't get it.  
I was in a private place with a beautiful, sensual, aroused woman and
I was ready to take advantage of that.  Only it was Carl who was ready 
to do something that Carol shouldn't have been able to do.  I suppose
it's a sign of how accustomed I had become to women's clothes that I 
could trade compliments on lingerie without finding it . . . unusual.  
But my little head wasn't worried about things like that.  It was 
much too focused on something it had been without for much too long.

     Something that Rachel, however, had no interest in at all.  

     Her delicate fingers probed again, then became less delicate.    

     It finally started to sink through my drink-fuzzed mind that she 
wasn't finding what she expected.   "Ah, Rachel, love, I, um, there is
something I haven't told you."  

     She stepped back, rubbing her fingers together as though she were 
trying to clean off something dirty.  

     "What ARE you?"

     "I'm me," I said, searching for a way to explain something I didn't 
understand myself.  

     "What sort of damn answer is that?!"

     "It's all I have," I offered.  "I'm sorry.  I'm . . ."

     "You're a fucking pervert!" she shouted, interrupting an explanation
 that had no place to go anyway.  

     She started hitting me, more than slaps, but too out of control to do
any real damage, just wild swings at my shoulders and arms.  

     "Freak!!  What makes you think you're as good as a woman?  What makes
you think you could EVER be as good as a woman?!  How could you DARE touch 
me, you filthy . . . animal!?!"

     I reached out, trying to hold her to stop her flailing arms.  
"Rachel, please, I'm sorry, but I really . . . "

     She dodged away from me.  "You're really NOTHING!  Do you hear me?  
NOTHING!  You're a fucking pervert, not even honest enough to be a real
man.  You lying, evil, . . . !"

     "Get out," she demanded, interrupting her own tirade, her voice now 
low and tight.  I reached out to her again, but through gritted teeth she
said, "If you even TRY to touch me again, I'll *fix* that problem of 
yours, with my bare hands if need be."  

     I looked into her eyes, trying to find any shadow of the warmth that 
had been there, trying to find something to build on.  But all I saw were
chips of coal, flat, dull, empty.  

     At least I didn't have to search for my dress.  It was still puddled
with hers at our feet.  My feet, now, since she had taken several steps 
back.  I struggled into it, followed by the dark glare of her eyes but 
offered no help, not even the false help of demands to hurry.  It was as
though we were on opposite sides of a glass wall, able to see but kept 
from any other interaction.  

     My purse was next to hers on a table by the door.  I picked it up, 
then one more time tried to link with her eyes, to tell her without words 
the things that words were inadequate to cover.  But her eyes looked right
through me to the door.  She didn't move as I let myself out, but the door
had barely latched when I heard the deadbolt and chain being locked from 
her side.  

     There wasn't any phone in the lobby of her apartment, so I had to 
walk to a convenience store to call a cab.  Somehow, those few blocks in 
my ridiculously high heels seemed like a fair price - a minimum price - to 
pay for what I had done.

**************

     Carol's eyes came back from the birds she had not really been 
watching to look at the sympathy in Marilyn's matching blue gems.       

     "What did you do then?" Marilyn asked gently.

     "Nothing," Carol replied.  

     "Your furlough was a week long."  

     "Oh, yeah.  Well, I didn't do anything special.  I had rented that 
hot Mustang, so I spent a day just driving through the mountains.  And I
went to another hockey game - that is, I went to another bar to watch a
hockey game.  This time the bartender was a guy, and he was nice enough to
keep the hounds away from me.  I actually headed home early, but I decided 
to drive instead of fly."  

     "Are you okay, now?"

     "Okay?  No, not really.  I thought I was.  I slipped back into 
'Carol' easily enough, the sexy SMITE Carol.  But today, when I built 
that panel assembly in the tank, I guess I just . . . "

     Marilyn offered a completion.  "Got lonely, for things you can't have 
any more?"

     "Yeah, I guess."  

     "So, what do you want to do?"  Marilyn asked, finally moving toward a 
solution.

     "What do you mean?"

     "Do you want out of the team?"

     Carol stood abruptly and said, "No!  God, Marilyn, all I *have* is 
the team.  You can't take that away from me, too."

     "I won't *make* you leave, of course.  But if you're really unhappy, 
we can work something out.  But you, personally, as Carol or as Carl, have 
a lot more than the team, though I can see how you might not think so 
after that experience."  

     "Yeah, well, she was right."  

     "Perhaps," Marilyn said neutrally.  "Like most human conflicts, there
are rights and wrongs on both sides.  Clearly, our, ah, 'unusual' 
circumstances are unexpected.  It's part of what makes us so effective, 
but there is a price."  

     Carol just nodded.  The blue-clad blonde moved over to put her arms 
around the taller redhead.  "Tell me, Carol, do you still think that what
we do is worth it?  Do you think that the SMITE team is a good thing?"

     "Duty, Honor, Country?" Carol asked.  "No sacrifice too great to ask
if saving the world is at stake?"  

     Marilyn didn't answer, but Carol didn't really need an answer 
because she knew that was indeed the question - and stating it was its
own answer.  So it was Carol who nodded, answering Marilyn's question 
instead.

     "I'm sorry things didn't work out better for you," Marilyn offered.  
"But I know you're committed to the team and will do your part, to the 
best of your very considerable abilities.  I'll tell you what.  After we
get done with this mission, I'll arrange for you to learn a few more, ah, 
three-dimensional responses.  It's been unfair to limit you to a sexual 
stereotype.  At least we can make you more comfortable in 'normal' 
situations."

     Carol nodded again.  "Thanks.  I'd appreciate that."

     "You never know," Marilyn said lightly, deliberately changing the
mood as she picked up her now-cold coffee.  "Maybe there's someone out
there who would really *appreciate*, what was it, 'nine kinds of hot
in a tall cool package.'  Especially with a little something extra."

     "Yeah, right," Carol sniffed, but a bit of light came back into 
her eyes as she clutched at the possibility, at least.