Page 50 of Obedience

‘Never. Not one. Not all my clients paid for sex…sometimes, they wanted me to take them out or pretend to be their partner at an event, stuff like that. But no, I was never close to orgasms with the ones I did have sex with. It was only ever when I was with you. Before you, well…before you jumped me in that bathroom I—’

‘I jumped you?’

‘Err, yes.’

‘That’s not how I remember it, Dylan. I was alone in that bath—’

‘Aaanyway,’ Dylan stretched around a wide effortless smile. ‘Before that, and not including wanking after meetings with you.’ Greta tutted in feigned offense at the word, prompting a quick correction. ‘Sorry, Doctor Vincent, masturbating. I hadn’t had an orgasm with someone else for about… Jesus, this is embarrassing… About seven, maybe eight years.’

‘Really?!’ Greta pulled back just enough to look at her.

‘I can’t have sex without feelings. It means nothing to me. I mean, I obviously can physically have the sex without the feelings, but I can’t come. I suppose I’m a bit Demi. I dunno. It just doesn’t work.’

‘So you’re saying you have feelings for me?’ Greta fished, pressing her head back down against Dylan’s chest to hide her hopeful smile.

‘Err, yass,’ Dylan playfully hissed. ‘Have I failed to make that abundantly clear?’

‘Our age difference is—’

‘Spicy chicken or not-so-spicy veg?’ Dylan interrupted, neatly sidestepping a conversation she very clearly had absolutely no interest in having.

‘Excuse me?!’ Greta pulled back, blinking at the sudden change in subject.

‘Your noodles. Spicy chicken? Well, they’ve probably never seen an actual chicken, but let’s not think about that. Or not-so-spicy veg?’

Greta cocked a brow, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Dylan. She knew a diversion tactic when she heard one, but in the warmth of Dylan’s bed, pressed against her body, she found she didn't mind being diverted.

‘Veg, please, Chef.’

‘Okay, Doctor. One gourmet meal, coming right up. Don't go anywhere.’ Dylan leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Greta’s forehead. ‘Sriracha?’

Greta smiled as Dylan reluctantly slipped out from underneath her. ‘Of course.’

***

They ate their noodles sitting cross-legged on Dylan’s bed, the room bathed in the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamps. The faint ethereal melody of the Cocteau Twins played quietly in the background. Greta had accepted the offer of one of Dylan’s vintage T-shirts. A faded Goonies one that was worn thin in places and had a hole in the sleeve. It clung to her curves a little more than she usually liked her loungewear to—a fact that earned her a slow, delighted grin from Dylan when her messy waves popped through the collar—but it smelled unmistakably of Dylan. It was a smell of oud and bergamot and something that Greta couldn't quite name, something uniquely Dylan. As she held it she hadn't been able to help herself; she’d pressed the fabric to her face, closed her eyes, and breathed in Dylan’s scent. Uncharacteristically, Greta had ignored how silly she felt pulling on a T-shirt with Do the truffle shuffle, emblazoned across the front and instead enjoyed the feeling of the soft cotton against her skin.

Sitting there with the warm ramen bowl resting in her lap, Greta strangely felt more at home than she had in her own “fancy pants” apartment for a long time. She sat with an unexpected ease, and had caught Dylan watching her with a small smile and a quiet, appreciative expression as they ate.

‘I loved that film,’ Greta said, gesturing with a head tilt toward the framed poster on the chimney breast, before bringing another tangle of noodles to her mouth.

‘Me too. It’s absolutely incredible. I adore queer cinema, but there’s something remarkable about Portrait. Even though it sort of leans into the cliché that the woman can’t have the woman because, well, fucking men.’ Dylan rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a masterpiece. The way Sciamma created a film so unapologetically feminist is just brilliant. No men on screen for ninety percent of it…just women seeing, being seen and falling in love.’

Greta nodded, her gaze lingering on the poster. She knew a thing or two about the weight of being watched and the relief of finally being seen. With her senses saturated, Greta leaned back, watching and listening to Dylan wax lyrical about the film. She was captivated by the sight of her. The way Dylan dropped her chopsticks into the bowl with a hollow clack so she could gesticulate passionately with her right hand. The care she had taken in serving instant ramen in a heavy, proper ceramic bowl with a napkin, as if they were having room service at a nice hotel. Dylan had “pimped” the broth with fresh ginger, chillies and coriander, and given Greta a wooden ladle and bamboo chopsticks.

It wasn't just Dylan’s enthusiasm that Greta was mesmerised by; it was her eloquence, her wit and the sharp, sparking intelligence that had been tucked away behind her obedient boundaries for two years. It was the way Dylan rubbed at her eyebrow with her fingertips when she laughed, or scrunched her lips together when disgruntled. Greta felt shallow at how little she’d thought of Remi; never truly considering what she was like outside the confines of a hotel room. But listening to Dylan speak—looking at her, flushed and animated, tattoos bright around the white cotton of her vest, soft grey shorts tight over her muscular thighs—the overwhelming need to know all of Dylan had settled deep under Greta’s skin. Every hidden corner of Dylan St John, every favourite thing, every habit, every scar. She watched avidly, her noodles forgotten for a moment, as Dylan continued her impassioned speech.

‘Lesbian cinema, and I mean the more mainstream films, have historically and still very much now really, consisted of plots that are so male-gazey, even when they claim not to be. Like Ammonite, for example. Have you seen it?’ Greta, mid-mouthful of noodles, simply nodded and arched an eyebrow in a silent, appreciative yes. ‘I mean, Kate Winslet, for fuck’s sake, yes, please!’ Dylan billowed her cheeks, exhaling a sharp breath as if the mere mention of the name had brought on a literal surge of heat. ‘Controversial opinion, maybe… I might be being hypercritical but I was so excited for that film, but still we had to endure two hours of unbearable suffering, repression, and restraint. And films like that always seem to have frustrating closed-mouthed, or stupidly OTT open-mouthed kisses like they’re bloody apple-bobbing, and culminate in sex scenes that probably hadn’t even been invented yet and that could have all only been written and directed by men…even if it was a queer man in that instance. I’m probably being dramatic but the sex scenes in some films feel like they’re made for blokes, not us. The scenes in Portrait were very lovely. Very suggestive. Very demure.’ She gave a breathy chuckle as Greta’s smile grew wider. ‘I might be a prude,’ Greta cocked a brow at the irony of Dylan’s prudishness—given her former employment—making Dylan laugh hard. ‘But I prefer that, and knowing it was directed by and starring queer women, it just feels authentic.’ She sipped from her ladle before resting it back in the bowl. ‘D’you know they didn’t even have a lesbian intimacy coordinator in Ammonite. Not one lesbian involved in the very lesbian love scenes.’ Picking up her chopsticks, Dylan leaned forward, using them to punctuate her points in the air. ‘Then, lo and behold, they can’t be together because of men.’ She canted her head, lips scrunched together. ‘I know that’s the outcome of Portrait too—them not being able to be together…but there are hardly any men in that film. No main characters. There’s the guy who comes for Marianne’s luggage and immediately pisses you off with the intrusion, even though the poor lad is just doing his job…and the boat guys that dump her, but other than that, it’s just them. The ubiquitous threat of heteronormativity isn’t rammed down your throat for the entire film. It’s got a different vibe, you know? And not in an anachronistic way, like we know that ultimately because it's set in the eighteenth century men will balls it up but the focus of the film is just them…getting to know one another…falling for each other without a fucking man looming in the shadows, balling his hairy fists, ready to drag her back to Hettieville, or wherever.’ Greta chuckled lightly. ‘You know those things are happening in the background…men oppressing women, stealing the work of their wives and shit like that but it’s just them. It is just so fucking beautiful.’ As Dylan held Greta’s gaze and gave her a soft smile, a blush suffused Greta’s cheeks. Dylan huffed out a breath and looked back to the poster. ‘At least no one died though, I ’spose. Well, no, actually, I died a bit at the end. That theatre scene with Vivaldi playing… Christ on a rickety bike!’ Dylan took a deep breath, her eyes bright with passion. ‘There’s just something about it all. The agency, the themes. There’s periods, abortions. And aesthetically? I mean, fuck, it’s like watching a live painting.’

Greta smiled, opening her mouth to finally weigh in but Dylan was obviously on a roll.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I bloody love a trope or ten and maybe even a teeny tiny cliché. Historically, our community hasn’t had the luxury of cheesy stories, or serious stories, or silly ones, so some are okay. But not when it comes to men.’ She shook her head. ‘When it’s about men and their interfering, meddling ways—mm, like Harge in Carol.’ She gave Greta a heavy eye roll. ‘Get off Cate Blanchett, fuck all the way off, and get in the sea. We know men did—and still do that, move it on and create something different.’

A sting of guilt rippled over Greta’s skin as she allowed a thought of Muriel to sit for a beat. The way she used to describe the things she loved. Greta almost physically shook her head to empty it. ‘So you watch a lot of TV?’ she asked, not choosing quite the right words, sounding a little judgmental.

‘Nooo,’ Dylan stretched the word out into a low, playful drawl. ‘I watch films,’ she corrected, her mouth hitching up into one cheek as she shrugged. ‘When I have the time, anyway.’ She poked at a stray noodle in her bowl, her expression softening. ‘I absolutely love queer stories. I adore them. I know I’ve had the privilege of seeing and reading a lot more of them…of having more representation in my childhood and adolescence than, say—’

‘Me?’ Greta offered softly, her voice devoid of any edge.