Gay Girl Read online

  GAY GIRL

  By

  Joan Ellis

  Gay Girl

  By Joan Ellis

  First published in 1962.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce and redistribute this ebook or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. No part of this ebook may be copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the expressed written permission of the publisher.

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  She Winked Press

  An imprint of SRS Internet Publishing

  236 West Portal Avenue, #525

  San Francisco, CA 94127 USA.

  For the best in lesbian pulp entertainment, visit us online at

  http://www.shewinked.com

  ISBN: 978-1-936456-40-6

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER 1

  Phyllis Talbert ditched her cigarette, took a deep breath, and opened the door to Ronaldo's. Every night for the last two weeks, except the nights they were closed, she'd sat at a table on the sidelines, nursing a couple of beers. She didn't come here to drink, nor to sight-see—the way other young people drifted to Greenwich Village to sneak self-consciously into a gay bar like Ronaldo's. If you looked it squarely in the face, Phyl told herself, she was one of the sights.

  The crowd was thin as yet. Phyl always made a point of leaving before the real rush. Already the noise and the smoke and the loud-mouths at the bar repelled her as much as its other attractions drew her here. Phyllis Talbert didn't feel so isolated—so out on a limb alone—sitting here in the midst of these others like herself.

  She ran long, nervous fingers through her closely-cut, almost-black hair, let the fingers brush the porcelain-like pink and whiteness of her face. Her oblique blue eyes gazed out onto her surroundings as though not actually seeing anything. She reached into the pocket of her jacket for another cigarette, taking a light from the flashily dressed, overly made-up blonde at the next table, pointedly ignoring the invitation in the blonde's bold glance.

  "Hey, there's the fancy-dressed bull dyke again," a raucous voice at the bar kidded, and Phyl made a point of ignoring the leather-jacketed coarsely masculine girl who eyed her impudently. "Who's she waitin' for, Alice in Wonderland?"

  Her face stained crimson, Phyl riveted her attention on the pair of girls dancing together near the juke box. They danced in an orgiastic closeness that stoked the secret painful desire within her. Her fist tightened in frustration. Why didn't she stop playing stupid games with herself? She was here for the same reason as the other "bull dykes"—to pick up a girl. Then why didn't she? Why was it so difficult for her? Girls came in alone, or in pairs, and everyone knew what they wanted. Who was she to be so selective?

  Phyl forced her attention to the bar. What had that creep meant when she'd called Phyl fancy-dressed? True, her slacks and jacket were severely tailored, her blouse might have been a man's fine shirt, her shoes were moccasins—but every item she wore had been bought in a Fifth Avenue sportswear department for women. There was nothing of the cheap and obvious about her, like the other half-women half-men slouched about the bar, tossing off ribald jokes, killing time while they waited to pick up a girl for the night. Inside, they were alike. Her body ached to hold a woman, to touch, embrace, to love as a man would, within her physical limitations. Oh, and she had learned to! How she had learned in the last ten of her twenty-seven years!

  Phyl exchanged hello's with the barmaid, a gay boy dressed in abbreviated skirt and sweater. She felt slightly sick, seeing his heavily mascaraed lashes, the slash of lipstick. He, of course, was one of the sights the tourists came to gape upon. But he was always cordial, accepting her as one of the clan. Never in her life, Phyl admitted, had she ever felt that she belonged anywhere—or to anybody. A sense of gratitude flooded her in response to the boy's warmth.

  She hadn't really belonged to her parents, Phyl thought with the familiar resentment. They wouldn't permit that—either of them. Her mother was too busy fighting for a place in a man's world—determined to prove herself the equal of any male chemist in the profession. Her father—charming, weak, adulterous—spent a lifetime running away from responsibility, even that of loving his child.

  Why had her mother pretended all the years? She was so independent, so strong… so masculine, Phyl forced herself to acknowledge. That was the difference between her mother and herself. Phyl Talbert was a Lesbian—it was too powerful for her to deny it. She might not show the truth to the outside world, except in moments like this—but she wouldn't lie to herself. She could never love anyone except a woman. She'd known this since her seventeenth birthday, when another girl at a summer camp had initiated her into Lesbian love. She'd fought against it. How she'd fought! The days and nights of painful, desperate need. The loneliness. She closed her eyes for an instant, as though to blot out the memory.

  How could you live in a world full of people and be so utterly alone, Phyl thought wearily. Yet could she risk letting anyone know who she really was? Each of the brief furtive affairs in the past had left her determined to maintain this secret, and yet that determination had evaporated and she'd tried again. But she wanted something worlds apart from the other attempts to make a life for herself. Marriage was the solution. Not the kind recognized by society, Phyl conceded—but marriage between herself and a girl whom she could love as a man might love his wife. She'd heard of marriages like that. They transcended anything a man and woman might know together.

  Phyl didn't notice the girl at the next table until she ordered a glass of wine, and the low, soft tones of her voice captured Phyl's attention. The girl was slender, almost to the point of thinness—small, fine-featured, except for a mouth that was unexpectedly wide and passionate. Excitement shot through Phyl as she turned and their eyes met. The girl smiled faintly, and Phyl felt the familiar stirring low within her.

  This wasn't a girl like the regular trade here, Phyl saw with a rush of anticipation—not cheap, promiscuous, someone to throw into a bed for a night and to forget. This wasn't a "oncer."

  "You're from out of town?" Phyl asked gently, answering the smile.

  "Yes." The wistful hesitancy of her elicited from Phyl an urge to comfort. "I haven't been in New York very long."

  "Mind if I sit with you?" Phyl reached for her glass, waiting.

  "Please do." Something akin to relief shone in the bright eyes. "I feel self-conscious by myself."

  "I know." Phyl smiled in understanding as she transferred herself to the girl's table. Part of her mind wrestled with the possibility that this fragile, honey-haired girl might have no idea of the clientele of Ronaldo's. She might be straight, Phyl warned herself cautiously.

  "Do you live in the neighborhood?" Hazel eyes met Phyl's, with a curious friendliness, yet revealing nothing.

  "I have a place around the corner," Phyl managed—her breathing was suddenly difficult. But that much was true—she had a place, of sorts, around the corner. She'd had that fifth-floor, walk-up studio to give herself the appearance of a would-be artist for a month now—but no girl had shared that lonely bed with her as yet. It was as virginal as her smart, expensive uptown apartment.

  The girl sighed. "I've just moved into a hovel on Thompson. It was the only thing I could find down here that didn't cost half of Fort Knox." Her eyes held Phyl's now, and Phyl's heart pounded because that look was unmistakable. "My name is Eve Slater."

  "Phyl Talbert," she said softly, not lying because the name would mean nothing to a girl she met at Ronaldo's. "Why don't we go up to my studio? I can offer much better than the juke b
ox here if you like good music."

  "I like it good," Eve agreed, the wide soft mouth a moist invitation. "And I don't really like wine."

  "Coffee," Phyl decided. "Strong and hot. We can have it in front of the fireplace."

  * * *

  Eve stood with a pleasing diffidence as Phyl struggled to unlock the door. Damn, why did it have to be difficult just now, Phyl thought. Finally, the key made contact, and she swung open the door, wishing she'd done more to dress up the large square studio room.

  "You have a view up here," Eve said with a young enthusiasm, and hurried over to gaze expectantly out the window.

  "A view of the other rooftops," Phyl acknowledged. "After walking up four flights, you have to have something compensating."

  Her eyes strayed over the almost childlike thinness of Eve, realizing that she was nevertheless fully a woman. The breasts were high and pointed beneath the becoming striped yellowness of her sweater, her rear softly rounded under the simple skirt. The delicate, extremely feminine youngness of her would have tempted Papa Talbert right onto Eve's trail, Phyl thought bitterly. She wanted to love Eve, too, as her father might have done—but with the wonderful difference that Eve and she could experience the kind of love a man and woman could never taste together. What man could ever show a woman love in fullest meaning? Only another woman could do that.

  Eve turned, as though conscious of the other woman's thoughts. "I like it here, Phyl," she said, unconsciously adopting the masculine-sounding diminutive. "It's free and uncluttered and comfortable. I love the warm red colors."

  "I'll have to pick up a few more pieces of furniture," Phyl said, guarding the desire hammering way at her. She must be careful not to spoil this.

  "Tell me where the coffee is, and I'll make it," Eve offered.

  "The first shelf above the sink. The percolator's on the stove." Phyl lowered herself onto the low deep sofa that faced the fireplace. An evening chill had settled about the sparsely furnished room. "Shall I light a fire?"

  "I'd feel disappointed if you didn't." Eve's laughter drifted out, warm and secure. This was like a home now, Phyl thought with poignant gratitude. If only she could keep this feeling of peace and well-being that suffused her right now. To make her kind of marriage with a girl like Eve!

  Phyl was glad she'd bought the portable phonograph, but then she never felt right without music around close by—it helped a bit to assuage the awful loneliness… up to a point. She put a match to the already-laid fire, waiting only to make sure that it caught on, then moved with long, graceful strides to the stack of records heaped on the window seat. How different the place seemed with that girl out in the kitchen, Phyl marveled, and her hands and mouth and body tingled to know her intimately.

  From where Phyl stood, she could watch Eve's slight figure moving about the kitchenette. She was busy with something in the refrigerator, and then Phyl heard the broiler open and close again. Grilling cheese, Phyl guessed with pleasure. Those others, in that other uptown life, would collapse if they could see brusque, impersonal, professionally efficient Phyl Talbert delighting in the unsophisticated pleasure of coffee and sandwiches in front of an open fireplace in a forty-seven dollar a month walk-up studio!

  The Beethoven Pastoral, the pleasant aroma of fresh coffee and toasting bread, and especially the knowledge of Eve's presence enveloped Phyl in pleasurable anticipation. She moved hurriedly toward the kitchenette as she saw Eve coming in with the laden tray.

  "Here, let me help. You didn't have to bring everything in at once, you know," she chided good-humoredly, and an electric shock went through her at the touch of Eve's hands as she took the load from her. "Your hands are cold," she said, hoping Eve hadn't noticed the trembling of her own. "Let me warm them for you." She put down the tray on the low table, then took Eve's two small hands in her own strong, capable ones.

  "My hands are always cold, even in July," Eve said, her gaze centering on the fire. "It used to infuriate my husband for some crazy reason."

  "Used to?" Phyl kept her gaze on the fire, tensely alert. Eve was trying to tell her something. She'd been married, and it hadn't worked out.

  "We broke up about five months ago. I couldn't take any more of it. Funny," Eve smiled whimsically, "thinking back, I wonder how I ever stood it for four years."

  "You must have been awfully young when you married," Phyl said involuntarily.

  "I was running away." Eve's eyes remained centered on the crackling fire. "Straight out of one mess into another."

  "But it's all over now," Phyl said gently, fighting not to reach and touch.

  "I hate men," Eve burst out violently. "All of them! My own father was no better than the rest. He didn't care about my mother, only about having his own way when he was in the mood. And my husband Joe ran true to the male image." She closed her eyes tight for a moment, as though impatient to shut out the sight. "Joe was nice-looking, he had a good job—I fooled myself into thinking I could run away from home by marrying him. We broke up when he found out about the girl who lived across the way from us. She was married, too—and hated it."

  "I'll bet your feet are cold, too," Phyl smiled in silent understanding. Eve had been loved by a woman before; she'd been satisfied by it. That was good—Phyl didn't mind that she wasn't the first. "Here, let me warm them for you." She reached to lift Eve's feet onto the sofa, slipped off the fragile shoes and massaged one foot between her hands, conscious of the current of excitement her action triggered in Eve.

  "I'd never been in that bar before night," Eve said carefully. "But I was going out of my mind sitting alone in my room. I've been here in town only three weeks—I don't know a soul. I haven't even found a job yet," she laughed apologetically.

  "I'll help you," Phyl promised, releasing one foot to massage the other. Her eyes lingered on the high, full breasts that strained against Eve's striped sweater. Her hands ached to cup their fullness.

  "I'm glad I went to Ronaldo's tonight," Eve whispered, and it was like an entreaty. "I've been so lonely, Phyl."

  "You won't be any more," Phyl promised, and moved so that her hips brushed against Eve's thighs as she lifted the two cups of coffee from the table and brought them close.

  "Coffee smells wonderful, doesn't it?" Eve laughed with faint nervousness.

  "Coffee, freshly cut grass, honeysuckle on a hot breezy evening," Phyl smiled whimsically. "Eve, I want to love you." She couldn't go on with light conversation—not with this insane demand beating away within her. "I've stayed away from our kind of love for three years." Her eyes told Eve how she wanted to love her, how she could make her feel.

  "I couldn't go on without it," Eve said with painful frankness. "I'm so glad I found you, Phyl." She put the coffee cup on the floor beside the sofa and swayed slowly toward Phyl. "Make me forget Joe, darling! Make me forget his haste and his ugliness and his not caring about me. Phyl, make me satisfied."

  "Everything, Evie," Phyl whispered huskily. "Our way." Her arms pulled Eve close, her strong supple fingers massaging the tense back muscles. Her lean, firm body brushed gently against the softer, rounder body half-reclining beneath hers. Phyl sighed with anticipation, knowing the long wait was almost over. Her legs trembled with passion, as they tangled with Eve's, while her mouth sought and found Eve's mouth. She would satisfy Eve as her husband never could—better than that other woman, for whom she felt a sudden rash of jealousy.

  Her hands moved with confident skill, and her own excitement soared as Eve responded to that skill. She was glad now of all those other furtive affairs that had taught her how to please a girl, because Phyl knew she couldn't live any way other than this. And Eve Slater wasn't like those others. Eve wasn't a slut. Here was a girl with whom she could build a lifetime of their kind of love. No more creeping into a bed for a night's relief, and then crawling away in furtive shame the next morning.

  "Darling, make it real," Eve pleaded. "Make it everything!" She moved into a half-sitting position, and pulled the sweater above her head
, her young breasts jutting forward provocatively as she freed them for Phyl.

  Phyl's fingers were gently expert, and her mouth, and her tongue, and the room echoed with the soft sounds of passion. Eve's clothes lay in a fire-lit tumble on the floor, and her body was in half-shadows as Phyl turned off the lamps and stood stripping by the fire. Then Phyl lowered her hot, hungry body to Eve's, making the tour what her desire—and Eve's—demanded. It wouldn't be long now, Phyl thought jubilantly, as sensation built up within her. Another few seconds and Eve would know Phyl could make her fully happy. They'd be satisfied together.

  The phone rang and Phyl swore inwardly. Not now! For heaven sake, not now! They clung together while Eve half-sobbed, half-whispered her gratitude.

  "Phyl, that was good! So wonderfully good!"

  The phone rang again, and Phyl knew she couldn't ignore it. "Wait, Evie," she said softly, and strode across to answer it. "Yes?" She sighed, listening to the voice at the other end, cursing herself for giving the answering service this number—although she really had no alternative. "All right, I'll take care of it," she sighed and hung up. She walked slowly back to the sofa, bent to retrieve her clothes. "Eve, I have to go out for a few hours. Stay here, please."

  "But it's late," Eve stumbled, unsure now, realizing how little she knew of Phyl.

  "Stay here tonight." Phyl's hand pressed urgently on hers. "I'll explain later."

  "All right," Eve agreed after a moment. "If you want me to stay." But her eyes were troubled, Phyl noticed with vexation.

  "Darling, it's nothing," she insisted, dressing with practiced speed. "My job, that's all." Not another woman, she was trying to tell her. Not in the sense that Eve might suspect.

  "I'll be here," Eve promised, yet Phyl was hurt by the insecurity lurking behind the hazel eyes. "I'll make it as quickly as I can." Phyl reached into her jacket pocket, checked to make sure her car keys were there, then hurried to the door. As she raced down the stairs, she realized the Beethoven Pastoral is repeating on the phonograph. Her car was parked right around the corner, and she unlocked the door and climbed behind the wheel, she berated herself for the unnecessary mystery of her disappearance this way. Why hadn't she simply told Eve? Four words would have done it. Nervousness tugged at her as she switched on the ignition, shifted into drive. Suppose Eve decided not to stay? She wouldn't blame her, with this stupid secrecy of hers! Why hadn't she simply told her a patient had gone into labor and she had to get to the hospital to deliver her. Eve would have to know about that other life up town, about Cosmopolitan Hospital where Phyl was Dr. Phyllis Talbert, a staff obstetrician.