Free Sapphic Embrace: The Housewife by Kathleen S. Molligger Page A

fighting over the same old relentless failure of his life.
    Kathy always took me to the Grinding Gulch when either of us were upset. Even for good old non-lesbian me, who wasn't even totally comfortable with the idea of homosexual sex among women, the Grinding Gulch was an incredible place to hang out. Aside from the lack of men, I could easily forget it was a lesbian bar.
    The music was loud but not deafening, not drowning out the conversation, which was lively. The women who filled the bar were a gorgeous mix of races and ages, slim and petite women, kind-faced, makeup-drowned lipstick queens, leather-clad butch types, all were well-represented there, and everyone seemed to know each other. I sometimes thought that lesbianism seemed more like a club that I wasn't cool enough to be invited to rather than an innate orientation. Kathy had a grand time flirting with the women, dancing with them, delicately caressing their shoulders. They all knew her just like they knew each other. I was the only outsider there, possibly the only heterosexual in the room.
    I had to confess the dancing women were sexy -- not in a silly music video kind of way, with flashing lights and slow motion movement and fast-paced beats, bodies glowing and writhing in the shadows -- this was good and honest dancing. No stylized humping here, no dancing that was almost anal sex, no misogynistic and violent fads; here, the women danced to their own rhythms, holding each other's waists and shoulders, nuzzling lovingly.
    We danced when we first got there, but neither of us had the energy to go for long, we just wanted to get the tension out. When my feet began to get tired, I saw down, and Kathy followed suit a moment later. We talked and bitched about our lovers until the bar started to fill up with the night crowd, and regulars kept arriving, interrupting our conversation to say hello to Kathy, who politely greeted them and returned to listening to me.
    "Let's go somewhere," Kathy said as soon as it became apparent that we weren't going to be able to continue a normal conversation. The music was turned up, and the volume of the other people had increased, both to be heard and because they were drunker and drunker by the moment.
    I nodded and we left, Kathy paying the bill for both of us as we went. Normally I would have objected, but I didn't have the heart for it. We both knew that Kathy could afford it, and I couldn't (or to be more precise, Christine could afford it, and Jim could not).
    We couldn't think of any place to go -- all the other lesbian bars in town were too rough or too expensive or too far away, and all the non-lesbian bars would no doubt be dominated by crude men demanding cheap dates and cheaper sex.
    But we ended up in front of that fortuneteller, Madame Saffo, whose brightly colored storefront beckoned with neon lights and promises of a brighter tomorrow. A sign in fancy script described her specialties as "palmistry, divination and feminine energy". The inside was mostly blocked by furniture, rugs and knickknacks, but through the cracks I saw a lushly decorated office, pillows and blankets covering the floor and walls.
    I didn't normally buy into silly crap, and Kathy was an avowed skeptic. But passing it so many times had instilled curiosity in me, and I wanted to see if Madame Saffo lived up to my expectations. Besides, one of her signs greatly appealed to me : Let Madame Saffo show you a better wa y .
    "Come on, Kathy," I said, and she smiled wryly.
    "You seriously want to do that? Betty, it's bullcrap," she whispered, giggling at me.
    "I know, but come on, let's do it. I've never seen a psychic. It could be fun," I said, taking her worn chef's hands in mine and pulling her towards the door.
    Madame Saffo was dressed as a gypsy, with beads in her hair, and a crimson and burgundy scarf around her neck, darkly-colored blouse and wrap around her torso and waist. She was portly, with long fingernails with which she beckoned for us to sit