Lesbian Pulp Fiction. Katherine V. Forrest

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      We jumped from the truck, one after the other, and were swallowed in the barracks hall. The house seemed to come awake, invaded like a beehive. Doors slammed, women ran up the stairway, women called to each other from room to room.

      Mickey, in pajamas, began to dance in the middle our dormitory. Jacqueline was dressed in one of her elegant flowered linen nightgowns. She sat massaging her face with cold cream. Ann, who was already carrying out the duties of a corporal, even before being promoted, came to remind us that the reveille for tomorrow was for six o’clock, as usual, and to put out the lights. One door after another was heard closing, and the night quieted. There were still a few whispers from bed to bed.

      “I was dancing with a sailor, and he’s crazy about me.”

      “He’s a perfect dancer. He wants to take me out someplace where we can have fun. You know.”

      “He’s going to phone me tomorrow.”

      “But honey—it’s amazing—he knows my brother! They went to the same school in Lyons.”

      As for myself, I hadn’t met anyone special. I had given my name to a few of the men, perhaps for one of the evenings when a girl is so lonesome she’ll go out with anyone. I’d seen some of the girls do things they probably wouldn’t do otherwise, out of this loneliness, and I hoped it wouldn’t happen to me.

      The whispering gradually ceased. Ursula slipped through the room in the dark. She had been in the bathroom, as she was still modest about undressing; she had put on her regulation rose-colored pajamas. This was one of the nights when she slept in the switchboard room and she slipped out of the dormitory, going downstairs.

      When Ursula reached the little switchboard room Claude was already stretched out on her narrow camp bed. A storm light stood on the floor. In the feeble light Claude’s bright hair shone. Everything else was in shadow. Outside, the guns began to roar.

      Ursula went to sit on the edge of Claude’s bed. The alternate nights that Ursula was assigned to sleep in this room were impatiently awaited. For on these occasions Claude talked to her at length about her husband, about her lovers, about her life before the war. Claude told about places where opium was smoked, and about her travels, and about her pets. It was always passionately absorbing, and Ursula would listen without saying a word, extremely impressed by the number of important people Claude knew, by her countless adventures, and flattered to be spoken to with such intimacy. No one else had ever been like a real friend to her. Especially a really grown-up mature woman.

      Ursula adored Claude, and was attracted to her in a special way she could not explain to herself. Sometimes it seemed to her that Claude took particular pains to charm her as though she, Ursula, were a man. But that would be absurd, and Ursula rejected so ridiculous an idea.

      That night as she sat on the edge of the cot Claude said to her, “What a whorehouse that dance was! Where did you hide yourself? I drank I don’t know how many glasses of port. Everyone offered me port to drink. I’m sleepy. Kiss me, Ursulita.” She drew Ursula against her as she had that evening by the door, and suddenly she kissed her on the mouth. But this time the kiss was not so short. Ursula felt Claude’s lips burning hers. She didn’t know what was happening to her. She was lost, invaded, inflamed. She tried to get hold of herself as though she were drowning, dissolving in Claude’s arms. Claude drew her into the bed.

      Ursula felt herself very small, tiny against Claude, and at last she felt warm. She placed her cheek on Claude’s breast. Her heart beat violently, but she didn’t feel afraid. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. Claude was not a man; then what was she doing to her? What strange movements! What could they mean? Claude unbuttoned the jacket of her pajamas, and enclosed one of Ursula’s little breasts in her hand, and then gently, very gently, her hand began to caress all of Ursula’s body, her throat, her shoulders, and her belly. Ursula remembered a novel that she had read that said of a woman, who was making love, “Her body vibrated like a violin.” Ursula had been highly pleased by this phrase, and now her body recalled the expression and it too began to vibrate. She was stretched out with her eyes closed, motionless, not daring to make the slightest gesture, indeed not knowing what she should do. And Claude kissed her gently, and caressed her.

      How amusing she was, this motionless girl with her eyelids trembling, with her inexperienced mouth, with her child’s body! How touching and amusing and exciting! Claude ventured still further. Then, so as not to frighten her, her hand waited while she whispered to her. “Ursula my darling, my little girl, how pretty you are!” The hand moved again.

      Ursula didn’t feel any special pleasure, only an immense astonishment. She had loved Claude’s mouth, but now she felt somewhat scandalized. But little by little, as Claude continued her slow caressing, Ursula lost her astonishment. She kept saying to herself, I adore her, I adore her. And nothing else counted. All at once, her insignificant and monotonous life had become full, rich and marvelous. Claude held her in her arms, Claude had invented these strange caresses, Claude could do no wrong. Ursula wanted only one thing, to keep this refuge forever, this warmth, this security.

      Outdoors, the antiaircraft guns continued their booming, and the planes growled in the sky. Outside, it was a December night, cold and foggy, while here there were two arms that held her tight, there was a voice that cradled her, and soft hair touched her face.

       Spring Fire

      by Vin Packer