A Pair in Bartlett

“Yes! Yes!” Bonnie cried into her headset in the wee hours of the night. The springs from her bed rhythmically squeaked in the candle lit room as she bounced up and down to give her caller an added sexual sound effect.

A man groaned and panted, “Oh baby, oh baby!”

“Give it to me,” she begged.

“The man’s voice filled her ears with a low, barbaric grunt.

“Oh, oh, ohhh!” She gasped.

Staccatoed F-bombs burst from her lover’s mouth followed by tortuous moans. Bonnie looked at the painting of the Eiffel Tower on her wall. Its long, phallic shape shone in the candlelight and she focused on it to bring about the grand finale of this stimulating little conversation.

“Do it baby. Ohh, Yes! Oh please, now. NOW!

She heard strained efforts of pushing coming through the phone line. A whimper escaped the guy’s lips followed by a deep, ragged breath. A faint rhythmic slapping like the loose end of film spinning on a movie projector reel sounded in the back ground. The pleasure seeker panted hard and loud. 

Bonnie took her cue and made sexy mewling sounds for him. In seconds, a mighty, guttural groan reverberated in her ears as though her caller had budged a heavy piece of furniture.  Bonnie’s face crinkled up with disgust. Eww. She rolled off the bed and straightened her nightshirt trying to regain some of her dignity.

“Baby, that was great,” the man said still trying to catch his breath.

“It was so hot,” Bonnie lied. He had been her eighth caller that night.

“I gotta go hon. I’ll call you next week.”

The line went silent, and Bonnie pulled the headset off. “Whatever, your pickle is my nickel,” she said aloud as she switched on a lamp with a shudder then headed toward the kitchen.

She pulled the door to the fridge open and served herself a glass of Chablis. As a “phone actress” she had grown accustomed to drinking wine at three a.m. After all, it was hard work to fake having straight sex half the night. She carried her glass to the living room and stood by the window.

“That was the last call,” she commented to her gray, Himalayan cat, Valentino.

He looked up at her from the top of the recliner he was curled up on and blinked his icy blue eyes judgmentally.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she scolded. “It’s good money.”

Valentino put his head down indicating he wasn’t about to go there with her.

“I know,” she conceded, it isn’t what I came here for. Bonnie was a lonely, thirty-eight year old attractive lesbian with soft brown eyes, and a tall, curvy body. She decided one morning after yet another uneventful night out at the same old club with the same old people that she needed a change of scenery. It was time to stop wasting time, she thought, so she packed it in and moved to the picturesque town of Bartlett with the lapis colored sky, verdant trees and rugged mountain range. She’d lived in Bartlett a whole year now, and although she had made some friends, she hadn’t met any potential partners, and she was more frustrated than ever. Her phone sex rendezvous fed her bank account, but did nothing to satisfy her yearnings for a relationship. The only thing she had fallen in love with since she hit Bartlett was her home. She purposely requested a place just outside the city limits with a good view of a starry night and the realtor found it for her. It was just what Bonnie wanted, a cozy place for two. She never dreamed, however, that the two would be her and Valentino. 

She drank a little more of her wine, then let out an exasperated sigh. The shadows of Paris décor in her single-story, French cottage loomed large before her. At this time of night the grand Eiffel Tower was nothing more than a reminder of the body part she earned her living from; the lovey-dovey couple sitting at the bistro in the painting was a glaring example of what she didn’t have, and the ironwork Oo-La-La phrase on the wall dripped with sarcasm, as though it found her late night phone dalliances pathetically ironic. She finished her Chablis and swept the curtain covering the window off to one side. The moon cast silvery shadows on the pear trees in her front yard.

“C’mon Bartlett, pair me up,” she wished. With a wistful shake of her head, Bonnie let go of the curtain. She set the wine glass on a nearby end table and retired to her room.

Thanks to the wine, Bonnie slept soundly and didn’t wake up until almost noon. In the light of day, the phone actress did not exist; instead, the wannabe chef in Bonnie sprang to life. She had been dying to try out a beef bourguignon recipe from the cookbook her sister gave her, and today was the day. She scribbled out a list of ingredients, grabbed her car keys and headed into town. First stop was Wine World. Beef bourguignon was a fancy dish and required a wine beyond the level of Franzia Chablis in a box.

“Welcome to Wine World,” greeted a tall woman with a small oval face and hair pulled into a bun as Bonnie stepped across the threshold and activated the incoming customer chimes. She was ringing up a sale, so Bonnie wandered through the store trying not to look too pathetically out of her element. There were rows and rows of green bottles with signs hanging above them generically differentiating reds, whites, roses, and champagne. Why isn’t there an aisle marked “cheap, but good?” Bonnie mused. She read the labels of a few bottles of red wine, but none of them said Julia Child would use this for cooking.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” The woman who had greeted her asked as she came down the aisle.

Bonnie glanced up and saw bright pear-green eyes set in a graceful ivory face looking at her. It was the clerk who had greeted her. She was breathtaking up close.

“Hi. Yes,” Bonnie said trying not to stare. “I need a burgundy wine. I’m making beef bourguignon. Can you recommend anything?”

“Ooo, beef bourguignon—fancy. What a lucky guy.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t go to all the trouble for some guy,” Bonnie answered quickly.

“Oh, I see, a special girl.” The clerk nodded.

Bonnie sighed. “Unfortunately, no. I haven’t been lucky enough to experience the matchmaking magic Bartlett is famous for yet.”

“Well, maybe after making the stew your luck will change.” The clerk winked. My name is Francesca, but call me Francie,” she said sticking out her hand.

“Bonnie.”

“Let’s see what we have here that might work for your dish, Bonnie.”

Francie led her new acquaintance to the end of the aisle. She stepped with such lithe movement that Bonnie wondered if she was actually a ballerina moonlighting as a wine steward. I bet she looks great in a leotard and tutu.

Francie smiled and went into her layman’s wine spiel. “Ok, this is what we’ve got: Boillot is the good stuff and starts at about $30 a bottle; Cote de Rhone is the mid-grade and is around $16-$20 a bottle, and last, but not least, there is the Jadot Beaujolais that’s about $8 a bottle. How fancy do you wanna get?”

“What would you pick?” Bonnie asked completely overwhelmed.

“That depends. Are you asking me over for dinner?” Francie flirted.

Bonnie’s heart hammered in her chest. “I could be. Would you come?”

“For beef bourguignon? In a heartbeat. It beats the KFC I was going to bring home.”

“Well, I guess the cheap wine is out then, huh?” Bonnie laughed.

“Tell you what, I’ll spring for the wine since you’re cooking dinner.” Francie reached up and grabbed a bottle of Boillot. “C’mon, follow me.” She scurried around the corner and made her way to the front checkouts. Bonnie followed in a daze.

Is this really happening?  I have a date. A real date. With a gorgeous ballerina. Francie put the wine on the counter and another clerk rang it up.

“Here you go. That better be some great stew, Bon. What’s your address, and what time do I show up?”

Bonnie grinned and gladly gave her the information. “1212 Unity Circle at seven-thirty.”

“Got it, I’ll see you then.” Francie handed her date the sack with the wine and gave a little squeal. “I’m so excited!”

“Me too,” said Bonnie. “See you later.”

Two hours later, Bonnie was home sipping a glass of Chablis and enjoying the smell of simmering beef bourguignon. She sat in the living room and marveled over how much everything seemed to have changed in her life since the morning. The Eiffel tower now stood like a beacon on her wall. The couple in the bistro painting was happy and gay and made Bonnie smile. The ironwork Oo-La-La letters swooped as if they were ready to burst with celebration. Tonight the phone actress would engage in some real conversation and a little romance instead of vulgar talk and animated, virtual sex.

Bonnie couldn’t contain herself. “Yes, yes, yes!” She cried as she balled her hands into fists and playfully stomped her feet on the floor. Francie could not get there soon enough for her. She went to the window and looked out at the pear trees in her front yard. A contented smile spread across her lips. Bonnie’s moonlight wish to be a pair in Bartlett was finally on its way to fruition.

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