It’s Katherine, but everyone calls me Kitty
”Does this mean I’m gay?”
- Rebecca

an original fictional short story by candy washington

I was mesmerized by the fluidity of her body as it moved in time with the rhythm of the music. She must have caught my stare because she grinned as she bit her lower lip and waved a tiny “Hello.”

Without permission, my lips, in turn, mouthed, “What’s your name?”

I remember that she smelled like lemongrass as she leaned into me to whisper, “It’s Katherine, but everyone calls me Kitty.” 

Her voice was low and steadied as it flowed into my ear underneath the loud beats of the music pumping from the DJ booth and I felt her soft skin slightly graze against mine as we brushed up against each other in the crowded club. 

It turned out that Kitty was a friend of a friend, and Kitty was everything that I was not. She had a very short pixie style haircut that was raven black and looked like midnight against her honey brown skin. She was a freelance artist with every inch of her studio apartment consumed by paints, easels, and remnants of last night’s party. She preferred women to men and made no apology about it. 

Kitty was wild - and Kitty was free. 

I, on the other hand, was predictable - and there’s nothing more boring than a predictable person. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t stifled or repressed, I was just unexplored and complacent. But I thought I was happy. 

I liked my basic name, Rebecca, and my shoulder-length mousy brown hair. I liked my boyfriend, Lamar, who was averagely built with a hipster beard and who wore ironic thin-framed glasses to match. He was into video games, tech start-ups, and cryptocurrency. We’d met in our junior year of college and we’d just ushered in our sixth year together. 

I liked my cozy job at a PR firm and I had just been promoted to senior account manager, which was what had brought us all out tonight to celebrate. Lamar was feeling under the weather so he skipped the club night but promised a celebratory brunch of just the two of us in the morning. Which is what we did every Sunday morning.

Again, we were predictable. 

But watching Kitty move as if her faded rugged jeans were a second skin in a crisp emerald green tank top, I felt an excitement that I had never felt before. I had felt the call to be wild. 

My fingers yearned to run themselves across the small of her back as she leaned into me. I had never felt such carnal feelings for a girl before. 

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. 

Once in 8th grade while at an all-girl slumber party, we were changing into our pajamas and I saw how full Kyla’s breasts were. They seemed to have magically tripled in size and volume over the summer. 

I had wanted to touch them and to see how her flesh would feel inside of my flesh. She, like Kitty, had caught my stare, but instead of smiling, she snickered and said, “What are you looking at? Freak.” 

The gaggle of girls erupted into laughter as my cheeks flushed with hot shame. I diverted my gaze and excused myself to the bathroom where I cried into her mother’s set of embroidered towels for the remainder of the night.  

From that night on, I decided that I would never be considered ‘a freak’ again. I would walk, literally, the straight and narrow. I vowed that I would never expose the warmest and softest parts of myself that were vulnerable to ridicule and to the opinions of others. 

From that night on, I, Rebecca Hemsley, would be predictable, because predictable, was safe. 

But nothing about the wild lust pumping through my veins for Kitty was predictable. She must have smelled it on me because she started to grind up against me as the music seemed to fade into the distance and all I could see was her. 

“I’m Rebecca… but everyone calls me... Rebecca.”

She was kind and we laughed in unison at my weak joke as I quietly yet defiantly whispered my name into her ear. She pulled me in closer and let the words, “Are you into girls?” dance out of her mouth and into my eager ears.  

I shook my head, “No.”

But then, and I’m not sure if it was the tequila or my newfound wildness speaking, but I said back, “No, well, maybe. Actually, I don’t know.” 

“Well how about we find out?” she said as she gently took my hand and led me off of the dance floor and onto two stools at the end of the bar. I let myself flirt with her as she played with my sweaty hair and I sipped on my Old Fashioned and her on a dark IPA. 

Our friends had come over in between songs to take shots, order more drinks, and catch up on the latest inner circle gossip. No one suspected that Kitty was secretly caressing my inner thigh underneath the bar and that I had secretly liked it. 

We made excuses for not sharing a Lyft home with our other friends and were the last two standing of our group. I had been honest about Lamar and about how I thought I had been happy with him for the past six years, and about how I thought I had been happy with myself. 

But I had never wanted, needed, and yearned for Lamar the way that I had wanted, needed, and yearned for just one more moment with Kitty. 

She understood but it didn’t stop her from cupping my tiny face into her soft hands and encompassing my lips into hers for felt like an eternity, but yet, for not nearly long enough. 

When I agreed to share a Lyft back to her place, I laced my fingers into hers, and asked, “Does this mean I’m gay?”

She lightly cocked her head back and said, “Baby, does it really matter? Besides, the best is yet to come.”