Cold Art

It's a little too cool in here, she thinks, icy hair contrasting with the dark navy polo necked long-sleeved teeshirt which stands out in a white-painted gallery of frigid modern art like, well, like it's supposed to. The other patrons are subdued, subtle and almost pastel. Younger folk in silvers (metallic and soft), grey, and light green, shuffling in high-curving white Nikes; the more mature crowd in beige, light brown, cream knitted jumpers, padding along in indoor-coloured Hush-Puppies. Katherine's tight, red, smooth denim jeans, her worn, black, no-label hiking boots and long, wild hair barely restrained in a pony-tail clip are as eye-catching as she could have wished, if she had been in that kind of mood. Now she's here and looking for all the world like Exhibit A in the Fashion Crime Parade of most of these folk's inner eyes, she decides to go along with the whole thing and maintain a look of cool and mildly interested cynicism, deliberately swinging hips, curling lips and devilish eye contact with nervous women who clutch their boyfriends' and husbands' arm or pretend to not understand.

Damn Gretchen. She has used emotional blackmail to drag Katherine all this way and then promptly abandoned her as soon as she has welcomed her loudly in a "I have so many friends I only need to spend 17 loud seconds of How Are You Darling with each of them" fashion. Serves her right for sleeping (once) with a neurotic, obsessive, narcissistic, skinny, emotionally needy, frigid, almost certainly straight and maniacally trendy middle-class woman who thinks that dressing like a seventeen-year-old shop-lifter and frankly pretending she talks like one naturally will win her popularity and... she realises that she is losing the essential air of slightly malicious scharden-freude that she had picked out of her mental wardrobe fifteen minutes earlier and is pretty much glaring morosely at the leg of an offensively bland bench painted roughly in an annoying shade of cream with an even more eye-gratingly pink back and plonked at a carefully-careless angle of 17 degrees to the long wall of paintings. Exhibits, rather.

Reassembling her detachment will take some time, so she settles for a completely bland facial expression and picks a random wall item to focus on until she has regained both equilibrium and sense of humour.

Who picks silver and pink as art themes, anyway? Or frosted green and 23 shades of nearly-white, for goodness' sake? Maybe if she could be arsed to read the accompanying brochure... maybe if she could be bothered to a) find and b) fork out an exorbitant fee for same she would understand what the heck this was supposed to be about. As ever, actually, this exhibition was about displaying oneself as a connoisseur and incidentally young and popular person of taste and intelligence.

She is feeling restless. In a warmer atmosphere she'd say she was feeling horny, but this place... Frigidity is the key, certainly. She smiles, her humour returning in a flash of lop-sided, genuine grin to her face. Gretchen's talent is sterile and her soul incredibly frigid due to her lack of self-confidence. She has almost certainly picked this collection of her and other people's work to reflect this. If they all knew what this was about, they might not be so keen to exhibit their DKNYs and L'Oreal crops here after all.

Inner warmth somewhat restored, she starts to circulate again, an open smile on her face, eyes warm and full of expansive good humour. This proves even less trendy than the previous cynical demeanour, but she cares not a whit. She has promised Gretchen an hour because Gretchen is wily and knows that people come for 10 minutes, a glass of wine and a canapé if they come at all and so has elicited solemn oaths from reluctant press-gangees on the grounds that if they come once for longer she won't insist they come back another day. She might as well make the most of the time in hand and find someone to irritate, chat up or gossip with in a corner. Unfortunately, Gretchen seems to have anticipated the latter and timetabled cronies away from each other. Maybe she is becoming over paranoid or impressed with Gretchen's talent for manipulating her friends. Whatever, she can't find the likes of Alice, Sue, Jane, Martin, Richard or P anywhere. She sighs. P would have been an ideal choice here, scoping out the pretty ones, laughing at the trendoids, passing on valuable information, scandalous rumour and frankly lies about various mutual friends, enemies and acquaintances.

She has just spotted the ideal person to irritate, when (luckily for Gretchen), her eye is caught by a bold flash of colour. In this frosted wasteland the rich swirls of dark greens, pinks and reds stand out like someone crying out a joyous welcome at a winter funeral. She is aware that this is overly-poetic imagery, but parts of her brain are becoming numb with boredom and retinal fatigue from all the white is playing havoc with her colour sense. Walking at an oblique angle towards the colour, the woman comes into view by degrees. Small, dark-haired and dramatically untrendy. She has decided that tropical is the way to go, and it suits her incredibly open body language, her warm confidence, the way her eyes flash at people she's meeting and greeting. There aren't many of these and Katherine has managed to deliberately take 15 minutes to collect all this information. Gretchen arrives and deftly splinters the group in three different directions, with the new woman walking quietly away on her own back to where Katherine was earlier. The cold feels pinching on her skin more than ever, highlighting the surface of her arms, the tops of her cheeks, her temples and the small of her back. She thinks incongruously of wolves hunting and wonders if she is feeling a little feral, senses heightened by the bracing nature of the chill in the air.

Probably, she smiles to herself, it's about 26°C in here and I'm the victim of ego, lust and an over-active imagination. She is stopped in mid-grin by an old acquaintance who always wanted to be more and always seems determined to make it so under the somewhat twisted impression that sharing intimate details of emotional trauma (real or imagined - who can tell?) will make them buddies. She always feels tired, guilty, pissed-off and pitying, in no particular order, after meeting them and she decides that Gretchen be buggered, she is not there to be the entertainment, or, for that matter, an amateur counsellor to a myriad fashionable or otherwise fuck-ups, no matter how patronising and guilty this sentiment will make her feel – she wants to spend some energy on herself for once at one of these occasions.

Wittering an inane and frankly probably incomprehensible excuse at The Whiner, she skitters on into the middle of the room, trying not to look around too wildly. She's lost her. Bugger and blast it. Katherine feels she needs just a little of that fertility in this barren landscape, even a moment more in her eyeline, to feed her hunger.

There! Bright colours flash in the left-hand corner of her eye, disappear behind a pillar, reappear and head determinedly through a door. A self-contained package of tropical loveliness. Katherine makes just as determined a line over to the vanishing point, confident that it can interpreted as nothing more than a natural desire to go to the toilet. Brushing through a petrified forest of silvery sightseers, she employs smiles, nods and the occasional elbow to make her way through the suddenly packed crowd. Gretchen has an emotional tap on more people than she thought, or folk really will do anything for a free drink and expensive-looking hors d'oeuvres of an indeterminate origin plus the opportunity to be photographed taking in all the culture, darling.

The toilet is even whiter than she had imagined, and she wonders for a moment if Gretchen has taken it upon herself to make absolutely certain that every part of the building matches her vision for the exhibition. Luckily there are no twisted pieces of pastel metal mayhem on the walls and no sightseers. The woman is checking herself out in the mirror and she looks over her reflection's shoulder at Katherine's reflection, eyes meeting, mouth curving wickedly.

She is so vibrant, this woman, even more so than in the arena outside. Her hair and eyes are dark and glossy with health, her make-up subtle but determined - the lips are dark, plump and red, the eyelids slightly darkened with brown and green, very fine crows' feet evident that make her appear as if she has smiled just like that all her life. Everything curves, from her silken hair to her glossy mouth to her full hips to her thighs and - she imagines - the calves, the inner thighs, the musky mons. She gives the impression, not of plumpness, but of ripeness, an incredible fertility.

Katherine moves closer unwittingly, and feels a very physical, shockingly apparent sense of actual heat from this woman's back, feels it washing over her lips and chest. She is somehow taken aback, but still can't help moving forwards. Any closer and it will be entirely clear what her motives are. The woman turns, smiles a little more, and leans into a classically coy seduction pose - bum back against the stand in which the two sinks are embedded, hands either side, torso forward, head looking up. Katherine moves forwards again, as if tugged by the groin, and they both gaze at each other.

Then, so quickly no-one could be able to say how it happened or who started what, they are leaning into each other, lips locked and bodies slotted, curve into dip. This never happens with men; valleys and hills don't echo each other, fit so naturally as this with men. Katherine likes men but when she wants this soft, lush sense of fitting together, a man is too rigid, there is too much drive for one thing so, another so, the same each time. Their softnesses ease together, it is something she could sink into for the rest of her life, but keener urges draw the heat down to her groin. Grinning again, they stagger and crash into the nearest toilet cubicle, just remembering to lock it before grinding against the wall, thigh to groin. Katherine pushes her against the wall, clitoris urgent against the firm muscles of her upper thigh. She can feel the other woman's heat rocking fiercely against her, looks down to see her eyes closed, head tilted back against the wall, already half-way along the path to release. Katherine almost comes just seeing this, and has to work hard suppressing a groan of pure lust. She meshes her mouth with the other's again, and their tongues battle hotly, wetly, ridiculously. The other whimpers into her mouth and small orgasms rock both of them, a short flash of fire taking the edge off the initial rush, allowing other considerations in.

She has closed her eyes to enter the kiss and the way their bodies twine; suddenly she finds herself propelled backwards into the opposite toilet wall and pressed firmly against it. She can never say why she, a naturally dominant woman, finds being physically controlled by another woman, especially one ostensibly smaller and weaker than her, so obliviatingly erotic. Nothing else can make her body tingle like this, the complex combination of emotions always threatening to overwhelm her, body and soul, the few times it has happened. Her hands are locked down by her sides, and the warm, soft mouth moves down her cheek to her neck.. It can stay there until the next millennium, it feels so good. If only she hadn't worn a polo neck today, it could have been more extensive. One hand is freed, then pressed firmly back against the wall by a thigh. A small hand turns down the collar of her top and that mouth goes further, tongue flickering over flesh, teeth nicking ever-so-slightly. Her turn to whimper. Hands now on her breasts, impatiently sliding down and under, onto shuddering flesh, and she cannot hold back for longer than a minute before reaching out to touch the other. Her eyes open, and then they are kissing again, and hands fumble with Katherine's jeans and the hem of the long skirt, and she is shocked all over again by the sheer physical heat of this woman, radiating into the heavy-breathing cubicle.

Such is the power of this heat that they don't freeze when someone enters the next-door cubicle. They just hold their breath and become more stealthy. Mons and thigh are rocking together again, but short hairs trace patterns over sensitive skin, moisture leaves trails, nails mark out the names of desire on quivering flesh. Again the woman takes control and dips her fingers suddenly beyond the barrier of elastic at the crotch and into Katherine's wetness. She can't help it - a groan escapes her and is partially muffled by those full lips again. She is soon so lost that her hands flail nervelessly, and start to clutch at the other's blouse as the woman goes deeper, churns, circles, pounds and moves with an inexorable rhythm inside her. One finger becomes two, and with a muffled exclamation becomes three, easily sliding in the loose wetness which clutches at her. She moves faster, then holds deep inside Katherine, then fast and light again, then deep and still, then suddenly and without any preamble, heavy, strong, almost brutal slow strokes which strike fat wet sparks inside her and make her bite her hand to stop from yelling the pleasure in a loud and guttural language she has just invented.

The rhythm intensifies, becomes faster, more urgent, still implacable, and Katherine comes in a serious of violent jolts that threaten the stability of the cubicle walls. With a brief, apologetic look, she collapses to the floor, discovering vaguely that somehow her knickers are around her ankles and the woman's hand still inside her. She feels quite vividly as though she is pooling (physically and metaphysically) on the floor of the toilet, and equally feels that she does not care in the slightest. The woman removes her fingers and starts to clean them methodically with her tongue and lips, smiling all the while. Katherine takes her hand and finishes the cleaning, enjoying her own taste and the relish of anticipating what this woman will taste like.

She pushes herself up to her knees and the woman onto the closed lid of the toilet seat. The woman is looking dubious, but Katherine forestalls her by lifting her skirt in a series of delicate and wicked kisses travelling teasingly slowly up her legs and thighs. As she reaches the top, she becomes deliberately ever slower, but more extensive, taking time to lick and nip the skin as the woman did to her neck before. She looks up over the rucked material of the skirt to the woman's face, eyes closed in ecstasy, hands already gripping the sides of the seat. She teases her continually, brushing her nose over the swell in her knickers, driving her tongue up to taste the crevice at the very top of the leg where it joins the pelvis, running her fingertips up the back of the thighs, causing them to quiver. She is rewarded by an uncontrollable rocking motion towards her mouth, and she stokes herself imagining the taste, the wetness, the lust she is going to find.

Relenting, she slowly pulls the woman's underwear down, then even more slowly runs her fingertips back up again before lunging nose and mouth without warning into the warm, wet folds, creating havoc in a frenzy of licking and sucking. Under control again, the first hunger for that special taste blunted, she takes her time doing what she does best. Katherine has a long, strong and narrow tongue which she can move with devastating accuracy and speed. She divides her time equally initially between the clitoral bud and as far inside her as she can reach, the folds of wetness tart and delicious on her sensitive tongue. She can never get enough of the endless variety of tastes and textures in that one place. Added to this the shivers of delight, the stifled moans and uncontrollable rocking, and you have a very beautiful, potent thing.

She decides to work, as ever, on the assumption that people will often do to you in this kind of situation what they would like done to themselves, so steadies the woman with one hand on her lower back, inserts two fingers, and pounds fast into her while flicking very quickly and lightly on her clitoris. The result is electric, and the woman's feet drum rapid tattoos of delight on the floor, dangerously close to her knee on one side. She holds this pattern for a while until she judges the moment is right and suddenly plunges deep into her, simultaneously sucking down hard on her clit.

A moment of absolute stillness, and them the woman bucks, moans and sways on her hand, fingers clutching the air spasmodically. She removes her mouth and gives her a rapid series of hard thrusts which send her entirely over the edge, hammering on one wall of the cubicle and dropping her head back alarmingly fast onto the top of the cistern. Katherine makes to remove her hand but she is faster, snake-fast, holding her inside for just that bit longer. Katherine can feel the waves of contractions ripple through the walls of her sex, and feels, as ever, incredibly privileged to be present, to have caused such a thing to happen.

They smile at each other for a moment, Katherine still crouched, bare-arsed on the floor at her feet, and then start to methodically and slightly ruefully dress themselves.

More grins as they wash their faces and the woman applies fresh lipstick and brushes her hair. She leaves and Katherine is left staring slightly awe-struck at her own face before unclipping her hair, raking it back with her fingertips, clipping it again and shaking it, then walking out of the toilet, back to the frosted art throng.

At last! P, Martin and Jane have arrived, no doubt breaking several Rules of Gretchen by dressing in, respectively: all black, shimmering shades of peacock greens and blues, and an incredibly older-dykey outfit of tight black leather jeans, enormous and ancient Docs, purple silk shirt, leather waistcoat and freshly-orange number-four crop. Bless them, she thinks, smiling broadly and fondly. All of them are laughing too much and talking too loudly, occasionally pointing at various beautiful people and whispering to each other.

Before she can make her way over, Gretchen nabs her in a sudden broadside. "Where were you? I thought you'd left. You promised..."

"And I'm here, aren't I? I never left - I've been here and mingling and admiring art and everything. I've been here so long and taken in so much art I even needed to go to the toilet."

"Hmm." Gretchen starts on about, well, herself of course; theme with variations. Katherine catches P's eye, signals for help with her eyeballs, then has to exercise great self control not to laugh at the ludicrous faces being pulled. After a while, she has to cough and look away to prevent shaming herself when they start into a spirited pantomime of Katherine (Jane) being bored frantic by Gretchen (Martin) while looking polite (a stretched grimace which she hopes fervently isn't even an exaggeration of how she looks at the moment) while P tap-dances in the background, much to the distaste of onlookers (themselves). Her eye is caught by a familiar flash of tropical green. Her mouth curves inadvertently and her whole attitude softens. Gretchen breaks off the soliloquy, watching her eyes follow the colour around the room. "I thought you might spot her. Your `type'," she even makes the inverted commas gestures with fingertips: "way beyond your league and almost certainly straight."

Less straight than you, darling, thinks Katherine. She nods and does the Uh-huh? noise which she's been making to every other thing Gretchen has said for the last 3½ minutes in any case, being very well-trained. It's about time to stop this silliness, she thinks, smiles tightly at Gretchen and attempts to push off abruptly to P's party, who are attracting attention for their now even-more-spirited performance of Katherine strangling Gretchen. The original gobbles and flaps to hold her back.

The other, who has been watching and surmising, walks back as though towards the toilets and incidentally towards them. As she passes, she drapes a sinuous arm across the length of Katherine's shoulders and grins wickedly at her, right up close in her face. Katherine grins back and they transfer the grin to Gretchen for a full ten seconds; the woman leaves, hips swaying. Gretchen's mouth flaps until she comes out with "No..." but by this time Katherine is already more than halfway to her friends and just about to pretend to slap all of them.