It is still dark outside and the sun is not due to rise for a while. The wind is brisk and cool against my naked skin and I can hear the surf crashing wildly against the rocks far below. I hear my Beloved approaching and I turn to greet her. Despite the darkness, moonlight ignites the highlights in her hair like smoldering embers in a blanket of coal. She sets a large velvet satchel down on the ground and steps into my embrace. Her long silken robe is warm where I press against her and cool where it flaps loosely around my back and thighs. She smells like autumn, and standing this close I catch just a hint of our morning lovemaking.

She presses a soft kiss against my neck before pulling away from me to unfasten the silk tie around her waist. The robe slips from her slender shoulders toward the ground where the wind grabs hold and whisks it away. She stands radiant before me. Her pale and flawless skin gleams in the moonlight and the darker tips of her nipples are just beginning to harden against the cold. My breath catches in my throat and my heart beats fast and heavy.

Our home consists of three buildings: two small bungalows-each with a large works.p.a.ce and a smaller sleeping alcove-and the main house. The three buildings are situated on the corners of a perfectly square courtyard. The fourth corner-diagonally across from the main house-is open, offering an un.o.bstructed view of the valley below.

These days we spend most of our time in the main house, although my Beloved still keeps her painting studio in one of the bungalows.

I can be found most often in the library. Our collection spans centuries, but our most valuable tomes are not literature at all. Along the eastern wall, behind a thick protective brocade curtain, are the shelves that hold our personal journals. There are hundreds of volumes, each leather-bound and inscribed with our names and the years covered within. Most mornings my Beloved and I read together from them. It is a curious and wonderful experience akin to remembering and learning at the same time. I do most of the writing, but she is responsible for the numerous maps and pictures that adorn the pages. The journals serve as the collaborative visual memory of our time together.

Along the back windowed wall of the library is my Beloved's pride and joy: a large screen composed of eight panels with ebony frames encircling gold that has been beaten paper thin and stretched across the frames like a canvas. On this golden canvas is painted a story like no other. It took my Beloved over half a lifetime to complete the painting, and even now she cannot resist fussing over its finer details with her brushes and her colors. Reading from left to right like a book, the panels depict the legend of the Dragon and the Phoenix and their never-ending quest for the Pearl of Knowledge. The first few panels are dark and violent, with the Dragon and Phoenix battling mightily for the Pearl, but successively the images become lighter and more peaceful, ending with the final panel: a triumphant joining of souls with the Pearl as a unifying rather than dividing force. It is a familiar story, painted on gold in vivid colors but also rendered in black and white throughout our journals.

The sky is slowly illuming. The glow of the predawn is dim above the horizon but strengthening with each pa.s.sing moment. My Beloved picks up the satchel from the ground and unties the drawstring holding it shut. Her fingers pluck away at the old, heavy knot with confidence.

When the bag is finally open, she reaches in with reverent care and pulls forth a large and luminous pearl. The diameter of the pearl is such that her fingertips cannot quite touch when she grips it. Tentatively, my Beloved offers it to me, cradled in the palm of her hand. The surface of the pearl is smooth and iridescent. As I step forward to take it from her I can see the writing etched just beneath the surface, catching and bending the light like facets in a gemstone. It reads: Every century a Race to run For the Pearl. From rising sun, Around the world, 'til day is done.

Memories kept for She that won.

For She that lost, a life redone.

The cliff upon which we stand is atop the mountain where our home is built. We only come up here for the Race since the climb is difficult and the view is almost as grand from the safety of our courtyard. Yet every time I come here I am struck by the majesty of it all. It is the top of the world and on a cloudless day like today, I can see the horizon extend in a perfect circ.u.mference around us.

I take my Beloved by the hand and walk her to the very end of the plateau. Her footing is firm and confident despite our tremendous alt.i.tude. I slip behind her, wrap my arms securely around her waist, and urge her closer to the edge for a better view. My body melts into her curves as I pull her against me.

"Beautiful," she whispers.

"Yes, beautiful," I reply.

She turns in my arms to face me. Her eyes are wide and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. "Is it always like this?" she asks.

"Yes, my love. Always." I kiss away the tears that roll down her face.

The night after I told her that I wanted to see the waterfalls, my Beloved brought me home. She set me up in one of the bungalows, which had a works.p.a.ce that looked like a small library with a table in the center. There was a stack of blank sc.r.a.pbooks on the table that she said I could use as I pleased. I spent a little time exploring my new s.p.a.ce but it wasn't long before I wanted to see her again.

I found her in the courtyard with an ancient journal she had never shown me before. She was wearing a dress made from multicolored layers of translucent silk and when she moved, I could see tantalizing hints of her body beneath. She motioned for me to sit across from her on the gra.s.s.

''There's a story I want to tell you," she began, "about two immortal souls, the Pearl that binds them, and a fantastic Race."

I watched as she set the journal down before her and caressed the weathered spine with reverence and tenderness. A gibbous moon floated in the night sky, bathing the courtyard with an ethereal glow.

"The souls are immortal, but their memories are not. Every one hundred years, the two souls must race each other around the world to see who wins the Pearl. The winner retains her memories for another one hundred years. The loser is reborn with no recollection of her past life.

The Race must occur or both souls will lose their memories forever.

"In the beginning, these two souls were fractious and vicious. Each viewed the Pearl as power over the other and they spent their lives battling for advantage over the Race.

''Over time, the fighting wore them down and they realized that this power they sought so mercilessly brought them only loneliness. This legendary hatred ultimately dissipated and in its place, these two souls discovered something far greater in love."

Her voice, like her laughter, was clear and melodious. She spoke the words of the legend with a lyrical cadence. It was a hypnotic and romantic fable that made my heart pound with yearning and inspiration.

I reached over and clasped her hand gently in mine. When she didn't resist, I brought it slowly to my lips, rotating slightly to place a single, soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. The sensation was electric, a pulse of desire and intensity that raced from my lips through my entire body. I saw, too, the effect of my kiss on her: the slight tremble in her body and her sharp intake of breath. Emboldened, I reached out and traced my fingertips over the smoothness of her face, imprinting the tactile memory of her beauty. Her skin, normally fair and luminescent, was suffused with a warm flush that extended down and over the curve of her bosom.

I leaned in and pressed another kiss gently to the side of her neck, savoring the staccato rhythm of her pulse beating beneath my lips and tongue.

She was able to undo her dress with her free hand while guiding my mouth to the soft swell of her breast. I continued my kisses around her nipple, feeling it harden with my touch. I took one, and then the other, into my mouth, reverently loving her with only instinct and her gentle moans to guide me. As absorbed as my senses were with the nearness of her, I forced myself to memorize the way the light played across her body as she arched beneath my caress.

I wanted to wait, to indulge myself in the feel and taste of her, but she urged me onward, her hand on my wrist pushing me lower.

"I've waited so long..."

She gasped when I stroked her but her hips moved against my hand in hunger, not pain. I traced a path of kisses from her breast over her stomach and down to where my fingers were warm and slick with her desire. I inhaled the intoxicating scent of her arousal-for the first time and the thousandth-and she writhed beneath my tongue as I tenderly stroked her open. Her hips responded to my touch, bucking against my hand and mouth in urgent need. I felt the reciprocal heat that rose within me, flaring ever higher in rhythm to my stroking until we became united in fire, burning beyond thought or feeling. I wanted to wait a little longer, to luxuriate in the wonder of the moment, but her need was insistent and I couldn't stop. I found myself swept up in her pa.s.sion, cresting immediately with the first spasms that clenched deep inside her.

When the frantic beating of both our hearts finally subsided, I brought her wrist once more to my lips, returning to the spot that began my journey. From her wrist I traced a light path following her pulse with the tip of my tongue. I kept moving over her shoulder and up the slender column of her throat until our lips touched and fused.

The sun is moments away from breaking the plane of the horizon, signaling the start of our Race. I turn to my Beloved and see the stiffness in her stance and the clench in her jaw. I reach out and touch her face ever so gently. This is her first race and she is anxious. I lean toward her and kiss the furrow in her brow. The muscle in her jaw relaxes infinitesimally. I won't push her further. This is the tenth race I remember, and worry still sits in my gut like a stone.

What if I lose and she doesn't love me in my next life? What if I win and I can't find her? Every lifetime is a first time for one of us.

When the sun rises, she will take to the skies as a Phoenix and I to the sea as a Dragon. It will take us the day to circle the earth with the winner arriving back to this spot before sunset. Then the two of us will return to our home for one last night together. In the morning, the one who won the Pearl will remain and the other will be reborn somewhere in the valley below our home.

As the arc of the sun edges above the horizon, I rum to her one last time and capture her eyes with mine. "I will find you," I promise.

I see the last of her tension melt away in the daybreak as her easy confidence returns. She smiles at me with a love I have treasured over every life for a thousand years and replies, "No, my love, I shall find you."

f.u.c.kING: A VIGNETTE OF THE MIDWEST.

LYNNE JAMNECK.

as it because she was leaning up against the red brick wall-was that why I noticed her? Navy cargo pants, Doc W Martens that were probably fraying at the seams. Her hugger T, black and slight from age, showed that, despite her butch appearance, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were nothing but womanly. Not small. A generous handful. And f.u.c.king perfect.

That would only be the first time that particular word would come to mind where she was concerned.

I find it terribly amusing that my male friends are hard pressed to believe that I work in a lesbian strip club. That, in fact, such an establishment exists at all. Their favorite argument is that lesbians just aren't that way. What way? They don't enjoy having another woman's t.i.ts shoved in their faces? Getting a lap dance from a chick with an a.s.s you can bounce coins off? The only difference is a d.y.k.e can maybe hide her hard-on better. If she wants to. Well. In her pants. It always shows on her face.

It's Sat.u.r.day night. My favorite day of the week. Sat.u.r.day nights the club is always full. At eleven p.m. they lock the doors and no one else gets in. It's a sort of unofficial private party. The right people are in the know, you know? Things get real rowdy behind those locked doors.

It's early evening when I see her leaning back against the wall like that. She's real lean and sleek. Short blond hair gelled back just like that.

Half past eleven and the crowd's going insane. Fuelled with enough alcohol and free-floating pheromones, everyone's intentions are set to overdrive.

Dylan's turning on libidos as she does her cowboy thang onstage to Sheryl Crow. "Maybe Angels." h.e.l.l yeah!

My set starts at twelve. I like that; on the cusp of the old and the new.

I watch from behind the bar as Dylan struts. Her legs are strong and confident as she kicks them out in front of her in that brash swagger.

She's wearing Levi's so worn they'll probably dissolve beneath the first insistent caress. Scuffed cowboy boots and a Stetson round the picture off well. But it's the brown leather chaps and that "come-on-over here-darlin'" smirk of hers and the substantial bulge in her crotch that drive the girlies crazy. She works those beautiful boy-hips of hers, working the crowd into a frenzy until a s.e.xy redhead bounds onto the stage amidst a howl of coercion and applause.

The bouncers here don't drag people off stage. It's not necessary.

And there seems to be an understanding amidst the spectators of who they can do it with. No one has ever invaded my s.p.a.ce while I strip.

They watch me. Somehow they never try and touch. , Dylan's John Deere T is on the stage. Her nipples are stiff beneath the overhead glow, her skin tanned. Dylan really works on a farm, see.

Stud farm couple of miles out of town. The Midwest sure has its perks.

d.y.k.e cowboys are beautiful creatures.

Dylan pulls the redhead against her, hand splayed on the small of the woman's back. Their hips move together slowly.

"Get a room!" a voice yells from a corner, laughing.

Angels, yes. Not maybe. Definitely.

Heather's up after Dylan, right before me. She's playful and teases the butches into clamping their beer bottles until their knuckles go white.

Heather does her thing to Tori Amos's "Sweet Dreams." Every time Tori croons "Who's your daddy?" several women volunteer with gusto. It helps that Heather mouths the words down to the crowd with her glossed, red cherry lips.

I'm still behind the bar with Sinead, the bartender. My little ritual. I have one or two vodka straights before I go on. Fluids the limbs.

I'm making a s.e.xist joke with Sin when I look up from my drink and see her there. The lean and sleek girl. She looks a little mean, huddled within the shadows. All the lights are focused on the stage.

"Who's your daddy?" Tori croons again. Heather blows a kiss at one of her prospects and the leather madam sticks a collection of bills in the barely there elastic of her panties.

Sin's gone, relating to the needs of customers at the other end of the bar.

"You're one of the strippers." Mean girl doesn't ask. She states.

"I'm up after Heather." I lean in closer because I don't want to have to shout. She smells of sandalwood. I notice her arms are really muscled.

I feel a faint flutter between my legs at imagining the rest of her body. "I have to get ready. She's almost finished. Let me buy you a drink. For while you're watching."

She notices I'm flirting with her right away but she remains cool. I smile. She says a cold beer would be great. I practically order Sinead to give her the coldest motherf.u.c.king beer she can find in the fridge before dashing off backstage.

While waiting in the wings for Heather to finish her set, I hear the unmistakable sounds of f.u.c.king from somewhere in the shadows. Then I see Donna, our stage manager, looking at me slyly from a nook in the wall, her hips pumping into the dark.

Don't forget my cue, I mouth as the applause outside starts to drift and Heather, naked, slips past me. A muted moan in the shadows is all I get for a reply.

Heather smirks. Her body glows with sweat. "Donna's f.u.c.king the hired help again, isn't she?"

Just then my cue sounds. I'm amazed at how Donna can make an announcement with such a steady voice while I know she's doing what's she's doing back there.

The song begins.

I've always loved the Boss. I wanted my girlfriends to be like him.

As the strains of "I'm On Fire" start, the club abruptly goes still.

The rumble of mixed voices falls in a hush. No one even clinks a gla.s.s.

Sin stops serving drinks and I notice how she winks at me just as the house lights go down.

The club is dark now. A subdued spotlight bleeds on me as I move to the song, tempting the need of the music into my legs, my back, shoulders, hips, arms.

I'm barefoot. I can't walk for s.h.i.t on high heels.

Part of my appeal, I know, is my androgyny. The butches and the studs come to see the vulnerability that hides behind my dark eyes and to appreciate the tone of my curves. The femmes come for the danger in me, my ability to play the switch. And the bois... They come because they see parts of themselves reflected in my angles.

She's sitting down, almost right at the back, watching me. Her legs apart and feet planted firmly on the ground, beer bottle in one hand and smoldering cigarette in the other. Jesus, she looks hot.

There is a hushed, burning appreciation as my clothes come off.

What I wear isn't fancy. It's not lacy and it's not silk. It's gender functionality. Maybe if you walked past me in the street you wouldn't look twice.

That's why the crowd gives me such reverence. I make the everyday untouchable.

"Where you from?" I ask her.

"New Jersey."

"Yeah? You got that grit. It fits."

She smiles. "That there-that's a great compliment."

We're standing outside on the curb. It's two o'clock in the morning.

The chill in the air makes me shiver as she lights a cigarette for me.

I inhale and blow smoke. "Listen, what the h.e.l.l is your name?"

She laughs. A comforting sound, low and easy. "Jake."