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And so, as life has intervened, this story ends up at thebottom of my to do list more often than not. That said, I do know whereit's going, the in media res opening has hove into view on the horizon,and that's probably about the end of the first third or so of the plot.So thanks for bearing with me, my slowness, and my imaginaryconversations with my utterly fictional editor (Fuck you too bitch -ed).In the meantime, I'd also suggest Madalynn Avery's Hot for Teacher, alsosadly incomplete, but with many more chapters than TWMD. Kisses andcummies -Gemma=================================================================Despite my fears, my flight was an unexpected oasis of normality. Maybeit was being out in such a public space, maybe it was getting away fromhome. Whatever it was, I felt more normal, more like me, real me, boyme, sitting on that plane than I had in weeks. Other than a brief flashof panic about what the agents might see while scanning my carry-onluggage, I didn't think. ”“Me? You got me drunk and—”“You got yourself drunk, I didn’t force you. What, are you ashamed?” She threw the towel at Michele. “Self-loathing lesbians are really boring you know.”“I am not self-loathing. I don’t loathe anything.”“Canned pears.”“Anything about myself.”“Why the attitude then? Shit, give me that towel back, I’m dripping on the floor.”Throwing the towel, Michele kicked off her panties (the only thing she’d put back on last night) and got into the shower. “The problem is—this water is freezing!”“Jiggle the right handle if you want it hot.” Zoe’s voice came from the bedroom. “I get it: You‘re upset about your boyfriend or whatever. But he‘s not here, right? Out of sight, out of mind.”“That doesn’t make it okay. Wait, did we really…?”“Really what? Fuck all night?”“Yes, did we really—holy shit, now the water’s scalding!”“There’s no pleasing you. Are you really telling me you don’t remember?”Wiping soap out of her eyes, Michele squirmed. “No,” she admitted. Zoe, standing in.
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It would be just temporary, right? Until we find a permanent place.’ And so it was that a bunch of Father Francis’ friends showed up that Sunday evening with boxes and pickup trucks. In an hour, they had loaded all of Sandra and Barbara’s belongings into the trucks, brought them over to the house and unpacked everything. . The women arranged their clothing in dressers and closets. The men moved furniture and other belongings. They all left, convinced that they were answering a prayer. These were good people who loved their priest and were pleased that he no longer lived alone. Queenie insisted on sleeping next to Barbara. The months began to fly by and the thought of moving to another place became less and less urgent. The unusual ‘family’ often had dinner together. Father Francis frequently was called upon to pick up Barbara from school when Sandra’s job as a court reporter ran overtime. No one in the church raised an eyebrow at this arrangement. No one doubted Father Francis’.

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