Chapter Thirty-Four
The Blue Angel is unusually quiet for a Saturday night. Poppy wonders if maybe it’s because Bette isn’t on the bill.
“I don’t like her doing these parties,” Agnes says. “I never should have allowed it.”
“She’ll be back on Tuesday,” Kitty Klitty says reassuringly. Agnes mutters something in Polish.
Scarlett Letter is headlining in Bette’s place that night. Poppy thinks it should be her, but Agnes still considers her a newbie.
“Don’t you start getting involved with those parties,” Agnes says.
“I won’t if you let me headline.”
“You show me something worthy of a headline! And for your smart mouth, you can do the tip jar tonight.”
She can’t win with this woman.
Poppy watches Scarlett from the side of the stage and is bored. Her eyes wander to the audience, and she recognizes a woman in the first row. With her limp, yellow-brown hair and boxy suit she’s in desperate need of a makeover. And looks very out of place.
Then she realizes why she looks familiar. It’s Mallory’s boss! Well, former boss.
But why is she back at the club? She can’t be trying to bust Mallory—she’s already been fired.
When Scarlett finishes her performance, Rude Ralph reminds everyone to tip generously on their way out.
Poppy hates holding the tip jar. As a performer, she should be elusive after the show.
If anything, the stage kitten should hold the tip jar.
But Agnes insists the audience tips more when it’s one of the performers.
They also tip more when performers walk around wearing nothing but pasties and a thong, which Poppy opted not to do tonight.
She’s in a pissy mood, so she put her costume back on. Still, the bucket fills with twenties.
And then Mallory’s boss places a hundred-dollar bill on the pile.
“You were amazing,” the woman says.
“Thank you.” Poppy smiles. Finally, someone has something positive to say!
“And … you’re gorgeous.”
Poppy smiles. “I’m Poppy.” She holds out her hand. The woman might need a makeover, but at least she has good taste.
“Patricia,” the woman says, shaking her hand. To Poppy’s surprise, she feels a pulse of excitement when the woman closes her cool fingers around her own. “Want to get a drink?”
“With you? Now?” Poppy is confused but flattered. It feels good that someone is picking her.
“Sure.” Poppy hands the tip jar off to Kitty Klitty. “I just need to change.”
Once they’re on the street, there’s an awkward silence.
“We could go to Dogstar on Avenue A?” Poppy says. “Or B Bar. That’s right around the corner.”
“I live uptown,” says Patricia.
Poppy hesitates only for a second. Why not?
“Sure,” she says.
Patricia hails a cab.
She lives on 72nd Street off Lexington in a quaint brownstone. Poppy notes how serene the streets are compared to the action in the Village.
“So you’re the one who got Mallory fired,” Poppy says. She figures she might as well make small talk since Patricia isn’t particularly chatty.
“Are you friends with her?” Patricia asks.
“Not really,” says Poppy.
“Are you the one who called me that day?”
“Yes,” she admits. “You didn’t have to fire her, you know.”
“I didn’t fire her. Our boss did. And it wasn’t only because of the dancing.”
“Then why?”
Patricia smiles and shakes her head. “We shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“Well, we don’t have much else in common.”
This gets a laugh.
“Fine. If you must know, we didn’t think she had sufficient long-term potential.”
Finally! Someone who wasn’t enamored with the great Mallory Dale. The more this woman talks, the more Poppy likes her.
“You don’t have cats, do you?” Poppy asks.
“Yes—a tabby. Is that a problem.”
Okay, so nothing’s perfect.
“Not at all,” she says.
The apartment is decorated like a Jonathan Adler showroom, colorful and modern. Poppy wonders if she’ll ever have enough money for a nice apartment in New York.
Patricia offers her a glass of wine and Poppy says sure, wishing it was champagne.
“I have a great malbec or shiraz if you like red,” Patricia calls from the kitchen.
“Either’s great.” As far as Poppy is concerned, she’s speaking a different language. But she’ll roll with it.
Patricia returns with two full glasses. She sits next to Poppy on the couch. An orange cat circles her legs, and she nudges it away with her foot.
“Cheers,” Patricia says, touching her glass to Poppy’s. “I have to confess: I’ve been thinking about you since my first visit to the club.”
“Really?”
Patricia nods. “You wore that trench coat with the red lacy thing underneath.”
Poppy sees the reverence in her eyes, and it’s the biggest turn-on she’s ever experienced. It’s like what she gets from the audience when she’s onstage, but times a thousand.
She sets her glass on the lapis blue-lacquered coffee table and takes Patricia’s glass from her hand.
As soon as Patricia relinquishes her drink, Poppy feels in control and knows what she wants to do.
Leaning forward, she puts her mouth on Patricia’s, and to her shock, the rigid lawyer responds like she’s been shot out of a cannon.
Patricia moves on top of her, and Poppy welcomes the firm, practiced touch teasing her nipples, the feeling of Patricia’s body pressing against her own.
Patricia removes her own pants and blouse, and Poppy is surprised to find that the woman’s breasts are large and round, with areolas the size of quarters and the color of pale tea.
She’s dying to suck them. Patricia lies back next to her, and Poppy props up on one elbow, tracing Patricia’s nipples with one finger.
She’s amazed by how much they turn her on and bends her head to suck them.
Patricia has a surprisingly slammin’ body—full breasts, womanly hips, but a flat belly and long legs.
Who knew you could hide all that under a business suit?
And finding it under the navy pinstripe skirt and tailored jacket is somehow much sexier than finding it under a pair of tight jeans and crop top.
She imagines going out to dinner with Patricia, and no one else at the restaurant would guess what was waiting to be unwrapped at home.
But she’s getting ahead of herself. Alec said the reason none of her hookups amounted to anything was because she didn’t have an emotional connection.
But that aspect of relationships is a mystery to her.
The only thing she understands is being beautiful enough to attract people—and being good enough in bed to keep them coming back for more.
But even that doesn’t seem to be working lately.
She can’t worry about that now.
She brushes her mouth across Patricia’s breasts, her hands sliding down to rub her pussy.
It feels strange to touch her at first: Patricia has more of a bush than she’s seen in a long time.
Surprisingly, this doesn’t bother Poppy.
She’s really into her body—the way it looks, the way it feels, the way it smells.
For the first time, she understands the expression animal attraction.
There’s no logic to it, but she wants nothing more than to explore this woman all over in every way she can.
Poppy maneuvers herself so she’s positioned on her side with one leg over Patricia.
She bends her head to take her breast in her mouth, circling her tongue over her nipple.
Patricia emits a soft noise, and Poppy feels heat between her legs.
She pulls her panties down so she can feel Patricia’s leg against her bare pussy.
The urge to grind against the woman is so strong that she allows herself to do so, even as she wonders if it’s okay.
Then Patricia grabs her ass, pulling her tight.
“Move up a little,” Patricia says. Poppy complies and feels Patricia’s finger slip inside her from behind. Poppy moans. Patricia’s hand moves in and out while she kisses Poppy’s neck.
“Don’t stop,” Poppy breathes.
“I won’t. Come, baby.” The combination of Patricia’s touch—her fingers gently caressing her outer lips, but firm and deep inside her—and the term of endearment send Poppy into her first orgasm. When she stops quivering, Patricia pulls her up so they’re face-to-face.
“You are so beautiful,” she says.
Poppy smiles and asks “What do you want me to do?”
“Come to my bed.”
She leads her into another room, in the center of which is a king-sized sleigh bed. Poppy hesitates, but Patricia tells her to lie down.
“Let me look at you,” she says, and Poppy happily complies. It feels good to be objectified, to be someone’s ideal. For the first time since moving to New York, she feels like the prettiest girl in town.
Patricia soon moves from looking to touching her: She dips her head between Poppy’s legs, licking her outer lips slowly.
Poppy reaches down and plays with Patricia’s hair while the woman’s tongue moves in circles around the lips of her pussy.
Poppy feels excessively wet, but Patricia doesn’t seem to mind.
She uses her fingers again, and then, just as Poppy feels close to coming for the second time, she pulls herself up so she’s lying directly on top of her, their pussies kissing.
Somehow, this feels almost more intimate than intercourse with a man.
They rub against each other, a slow but intense grind that brings Poppy to the edge of climax.
Then Patricia switches position so she’s above her, bending down to eat her pussy while pressing her own cunt into Poppy’s face.
Poppy holds Patricia’s ass while gingerly running her tongue inside her pussy, and feels Patricia doing the same to her.
When Patricia presses her tongue inside her, Poppy does the same, so they’re simultaneously fucking each other with their mouths.
Poppy works to keep up with Patricia, but she feels herself sliding into an orgasm and can only put her head back and let the waves rock her body.
She cries out, and Patricia slides her fingers inside her, bringing Poppy to a sensation she’s never experienced before.