1956 is the golden age of pretty young carhops, and Dotty is no exception. It’s her birthday, but she couldn’t have guessed just how swell a turn her special day would take when two dangerous-looking cats pull up in a souped-up hot rod. Dotty’s always been a nice girl. Will she really toss her reputation to go play back seat bingo with a couple of fast dykes who want to give her “one to grow on”?
“You ever had grass?” asked Sir, taking out a hand-rolled cigarette from an inside pocket and lighting it up. I hadn’t, but I wasn’t about to look like a wet rag in front of these two.
“Sure,” I said breezily, accepting it and taking a drag. I coughed, but it wasn’t too bad. I even liked the taste of it; sort of earthy and pungent. The act of smoking it with them made me feel like the bees’ knees.
I could feel where her fingers had brushed mine when she handed over the cigarette, and I was suddenly aware of Miss Liz’s thigh pressed up against mine. I shifted a little, breaking contact, but she moved it right back. When she took a drag, her lipstick left an imprint on top of the one I’d made, and the sight of it made me feel a little giddy. She saw me looking and smiled slowly.
“You know what I thought when I first saw you?” she asked.
“No,” I replied hesitantly, embarrassed. I couldn’t help remembering my earlier dopiness. “What?”
“How much I’d like to kiss those pretty lips of yours.” Her hand drifted up to rest under my chin. “Would you mind very much?” I stared at her, wide-eyed. Just a few hours ago I might have recoiled, but gosh, was she pretty. I had more than half a mind to actually let her do it.
“You— you wouldn’t tell anybody, wouldja? I mean—” She laughed a little, shaking her head, and pressed a finger to my lips.
“We won’t tell, pinky swear.” She came in slowly, and I could smell her perfume: musk and powder and elegance. Maybe Chanel no. 5, I thought distantly, the instant before her soft lips met mine.