I purposely picked up the file folder and needlessly rapped the bottom of it against the table so all the pages that were already aligned would be level. Petra looked at me pleadingly, then at the signs bitching for people to be quiet, then back at me. I rattled the file folder. I didn’t need to look up to know that the librarian was staring at us again. I didn’t care.
I laid the file back on the table, fingering thePetralabel sensuously while she watched. My finger stopped at every large letter. Then I smoothed my hand slowly over the file. Half horrified, half mesmerized, Petra watched my slow, deliberatemotions like the voyeur she was.
Last minute, I had told her to meet me at the library. Then later, after that strange request, I instructed her to meet me in Special Arts Room Stacks. She kept asking why we were meeting there. What it was like. Every detail possible. The more I refused to tell her, the more frazzled she got until I told her to just knock it off. That she was lucky to be meeting at all. That wasn’t exactly true, as I was dying to see her since I’d been working on a deadline that sucked up all my free time. I hadn’t been able to see her as often as we liked for that week. Our usual had been disrupted. She texted me a blushing emoji and the one with the hands together as if in prayer or gratitude. She’d need both for this carefully planned date.
Petra loved receiving an order of any kind. She was being a good girl. Wordlessly watched me open the folder. Inside, on top of papers, was an index card I’d prepared. I slowly passed the index card to Petra. On it was a series of numbers and a few letters at the end. It could have been anything. But we both knew it was the Dewey Decimal system. I had done my research. I motioned for her to take it up to the desk. She hesitated and under our table, I pinched her thigh. Hard. She winced and pleaded with her eyes.
I flicked her thigh a few more times. It meant,quit stalling. Petra never usually disobeyed, but I had known this would be particularly challenging for her. She got absolutely mortified by strangers viewing her in any type of compromising position.
When Petra rose, of course, her chair also heaved across the floor with a sound explosion. I don’t know what the people who had ordered them for a library had been thinking. The three other people in the fishbowl all turned their heads to see who was disturbing them. The man with the ugly mustard toque, the woman who wore all pastels (very spring-like), and the olderwoman with the puff of white hair rising on the top of her head like smoke all glared at us. I grinned.
They each slowly turned back around to their research, all a respective hump over their books. But Petra and I were going to do our own research.
She walked painfully slowly up to the desk, not knowing what book she was even requesting. Petra didn’t realize that by creating an almost comatose step, she was calling extra attention to herself. Plus, she looked ridiculous, like she was heading to walk off a plank. She handed the card to the librarian with agony slapped all over her face. A gift from her to me and a gift to her from me. I loved when we reached a reciprocal place in our play together.
The librarian looked up the number in his computer, lightly click-clacking on the keys. Every single bit of noise echoed in the fishbowl. Petra was trapped, standing uneasily and waiting for the mystery book she had requested. What would he bring her?
Whatever it was, after retrieving it, the librarian looked at Petra distastefully. A deep red blush bloomed on her face. It spread across her neck as though she’d been dipped in boiling water.
It was a large book and it overpowered her small frame as she carried it back to our seats step by creeping, careful step. I knew Petra was afraid she would drop it. Especially because it came from the precious book section. But Petra was careful with everything. On the other hand, she was more afraid of reaching me and having to sit back down with the book than dropping it. At this point, anything would be better than having to come back and convene with me.
When she got to me, Petra put the book tentatively on the table and pulled out her chair with a loud thunder again. Our unhappy threesome whipped their heads around again.The woman with the smoke hair had been stroking it as she concentrated. It now looked more like fire than smoke, wispy, twisted strands flying every which way. Mustard hat had put on a ratty, ugly beige sweater. I guess he was cold but should be choosing his wardrobe more wisely. The woman in the pastels surprised me with her laser death stare because she’d seemed so meek. Well, there was a dark side to everyone. It went without saying that the librarian blazed laser eyes at us as well. There was a giddiness I couldn’t escape from disturbing all these people who were usually complacent and there to do real work. I can be such a bitch most times.
We both stared at the book in front of us. It was Madonna’sSexbook.
Petra thought the surprise was over. She was wrong.
I tapped the cover firmly. Much to Petra’s chagrin, she now understood we’d be viewing Madonna’sSexin a special, private collection room in the library, under the gaze of an evil owl of a librarian where serious people did serious research. Everyone, except for us.
“What’s one of the pivotal moments when you knew you were a dyke?” I’d asked her months ago.
We were sucking back milkshakes (her, strawberry like the pale pink dress she’d been wearing, and me, chocolate, like always). We’d been in a small booth in a diner. I was busy cramming her petite frame against the wall. Petra was loving every minute of it, but pretending not to, as she had to pretend this wasn’t happening in public for her to enjoy herself. Anything that made her feel small and powerless as possible was one of her things. And mine.
She immediately answered.
“Sex,”
“Uh-huh.”
I got that. Queer sex made me turn into a dyke, too.
“I mean Madonna’s book.Sex. My friend’s parents had it. Whenever I’d go over, my friend Allison and I would pore over it. It turned me on so much,” she’d confessed, eyes downward.
After Petra told me, I knew it’d be perfect to peruse together. Except how to find it? There were no more copies except for the few used online ones going for about a million dollars. But the special collection room in the library equaled success.
In huge letters that took up all the space on the first page, the book read:I’ll teach you how to fuck.
I let that sink in. This would take up all the breathing space anywhere, but especially in the library. The woman in the light blue hoodie stretched her arms up, hands together, as though they were being hoisted and restrained.
Petra looked at me. I tapped on the page, a signal for her to turn it.
On the next page, Madonna stared back at us. She wore a cut out, studded leather bra. Her finger was stuck inside her pouting mouth. Her other finger seemingly disappeared into her leather panty-covered cunt. I allowed Petra to look for a few minutes. She squirmed in her seat.
I opened my manilla folder again. Took out a thin stack of lined paper. The red lines were one long gash along the margin. The blue lines, veins trailing across the page. I put the paper in front of Petra and passed her a rollerball pen. Whatever she wrote would be slick.
She moved, agitated now, scratching above her wrist until it became red and blotchy.
I put a yellow sticky on top of the stack of papers.
