I don't do this very often. Maybe once or twice a year. Every time is the same and yet different; I never go to the same place twice, or pick up the same woman, and yet the ritual hasn't changed since my college days. I hunt step-by-step, the same actions in the same order, like performing an autopsy. I suppose it stands to reason that even my rebellions are methodical.

First I wash my face. I don't wear makeup when I'm on the prowl; it doesn't look good to be a butch with lipstick. Besides, when I'm doing this I need to be someone else. Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully wears makeup and high heels and walks the straight and narrow path. She is a good little Captain's daughter who reads _Moby Dick_ and wears the cross her mother gave her.

For tonight I will leave her behind.

When my face is clean, I look into the mirror for a long moment. This is the second step . The very first time I did this I tried to persuade myself not to. I looked in the mirror and said to myself: what would Dad think? What would Mom think? What would Bill, or Melissa, or Charles think? In the end it made no difference. I wanted to do it no matter what they thought. Now I have to remind myself of that, or I'll feel their eyes on me all night.

So. What would Dad think?

Jesus, I don't know. Maybe once I could have answered that question. But now...I've been working with weird shit for more than three years now, and it's changed me. Not so that anyone who didn't *really* know me would notice, and maybe not even them. I've learned that the world is stranger than it looks and that people are full of surprises, among other things. So maybe Ahab wouldn't be shocked to know his Starbuck is a dyke after all.

But I don't really care. And that's what matters.

Mom? Well, that's a no-brainer. If she knew about this she'd be shocked as hell and try really, really hard to get me to see a priest. Sorry, Mom. Not gonna happen.

Bill and Charles would react identically: they'd look at me like they didn't know me, shake their heads, and say "Dana, what's got into you?" Ha, I can just see them doing it in unison and then looking at each other with pissed-off expressions, as if it was *such* and original thought that neither of them could *bear* to have someone else voice it. Dear boys. I love them to bits but I don't take their advice.

Melissa...Well, Melissa doesn't know and she's never going to know, and that makes me sad because, of all the people I never told, I think she's the only one who might have understood this. I used to think, when she was alive, that she might even have approved. But I never told her. I couldn't.

And Mulder?

I think...I think he'd be surprised. He might wonder whether maybe *that's* why I never took him up on any of those semi- serious flirtations he throws my way all the time. (It isn't. I filed him under "not worth the effort" a week after I met him; at that point I was still concerned enough with appearances to bother with dating men, but not men like him. Decidedly not. He's a lot of work even just as a friend; I think if we were lovers I'd strangle him within a week.)He might be annoyed that he hadn't worked it out by himself. I like to think that he wouldn't be shocked or disgusted. I like to think that it wouldn't change anything. I could be wrong, but I don't like to think of Mulder as narrow-minded.

I'm sure there's an irony in there somewhere.

Step two is finished. Now for step three I need some props. These haven't changed (much) since college either. I keep them carefully stowed away in a duffel bag in the back of my closet. Well, I like a good metaphor as much as the next woman.

Folding comb. Zippo. Hair gel. Leather jacket. Jeans -- God, I hope I still fit into them. When I put on weight a couple of years ago I stopped hunting because I couldn't wear them. Yeah, I know it's pathetic. It's a kind of magical thinking, I suppose; wear the jeans and you will get laid. No doubt it's evidence of a minor obsessive-compulsive disorder or something. But it's part of the ritual and I can't reject it now. Actually, I kind of like the irrationality of it. It's a further sign that I'm leaving Special Agent Scully behind. She would *never* act like this.

Boxer shorts -- some women get freaked out by them but they're good for the image. (They're Jack's actually, or they were; he left them behind in my apartment once and I never gave them back. I take better care of them than he did anyway.) And finally this sort of tank-top/sports-bra/singlet thingy. No doubt it has a technical name but that's hardly the point. The point, or rather points, are that a) it flatters me, b) it's easy to take off and c) it looks butch. It's something a Marine could wear, if it were khaki instead of grey.

I spread all the things out on my bed. They look strange, grouped together like that, and for a second I am positive, more certain than I have ever been of anything, that they are not mine, that I have never done this before, that all the times I remember doing it were fantasies or dreams or someone else's memories. This moment of certainty terrifies me, but it passes quickly, and takes all traces of Special Agent Scully with it.

The rest will be easy.

I strip to my skin and put on the boxers and top, then the jeans. They're a tight fit, the denim thin and soft from wear, comfortable as a second skin. I only wear them to go hunting.

It's a warm night and I won't need to wear anything between the top and the jacket, which is good because I really don't have anything suitable. I used to have a t-shirt with a woman-symbol on it but it came apart in the wash years ago and I never replaced it.

Hair gel now, a good dollop on my fingers -- damn! Fingernails. I can't cut them, it's too noticeable, but there's nothing that screams "tourist" in a dyke bar louder than long fingernails. Oh, well, nothing I can do about it. If anyone asks I'll say I haven't got any in a while. Which is true, after all.

I smooth the gel onto my hair, comb it through, tie back the loose ends. Slick. This is a good look on me. Just one lock hanging free over my face -- perfect.

I wash the gel off my hands and put on the jacket. Nearly ready. Time for step four.

I look in the mirror one more time while I zip the jacket up.

"Tonight," I say to my reflection, "I'm getting laid."

And with that the transformation is complete. For tonight, Dana Scully is dead.

***

The bar is full of women -- dancing, talking, flirting. The music is loud but not earsplitting; songs I don't recognise. Dana Scully doesn't listen to music like this. But I can lean against the bar just as well when the music is unfamiliar, sucking on my longneck and checking out the talent. There's a good crop tonight. Young dykes in cutoffs and boots and ridiculous haircuts; fat dykes in baggy jeans and t-shirts; femme dykes in makeup and skirts; older dykes, tough as army boots and ten times sexier.

It isn't a physical type I'm looking for. I don't care if she's butch or femme or fat or two feet taller than me, as long as she's out for the same thing I am. I don't want hearts and flowers or even friendship. I just want a quick and easy fuck, no strings, no complications, which is easier said than done. It takes time and effort to find a woman with that same hunger, and a place of her own, and a high tolerance for leather and cigarettes.

But there's no rush, after all. The night is young.

I can feel the beer kicking in. It's ridiculous, I've only had one other bottle. This one'll have to be my last or I'll start babbling and whoever I pick up will know all about my other life. I can't risk that.

It's getting hot in here. I unzip the jacket and hold the bottle against my neck, which is a good way to cool off as well as a great way to show off my breasts. A lure, for whoever may be watching. I roll it around from one side to the otherm then take a sip -- a small one -- before setting it down on the bar and taking out my cigarettes.

Ah, nicotine...I gave up smoking when I was eighteen, but I still crave my mother's favourite drug, fourteen years later, and when I hunt I give in to the craving. It's not just the drug, though, not just the hit that goes straight to my brain like a vitamin I didn't know I needed; no, it's the attitude that gets me puffing away every time. The attitude of "so it gives me cancer? so what?". The tendrils of smoke rising in tandem from my mouth and the cigarette. There is a mystique of the cigarette, an aura of cool superiority around the one who smokes it...but that though conjures up an image of Cancer Man and I very nearly choke. No, no, no! *He* has no place here, is nothing to do with my night-time life, no part of this hunt I so rarely engage in. Whatever the bastard has taken from me, this is *mine*. I won't let him touch it.

"Hey, are you checking out the babes or just working on your James Dean impression?" says a voice to my right. I'm glad of the interruption. And, looking at myself, I have to admit I *do* look the picture of teenaged angst, furrowed brow and all, which is ridiculous for a woman who won't see thirty again.

I smile and turn to the woman who spoke.

"No reason why I can't do both," I say, checking *her* out unabashedly. She looks *good*. Big green eyes, so big they bulge a little, it should look freaky but it doesn't. Black hair to her chin (too black for her colouring, must be dyed), head shaved at the sides. Nice figure, trim and muscled but not too angular. Fuck-off boots and fuck-me eyes. I like her already.

"S'pose not," she says, returning the smile and the attention. "You got a light?"

"Sure." I light the cigarette she has in her mouth and flip the Zippo shut, one-handed. There's a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

"So tell me," she says, taking a drag, "how many times have you seen _Rebel Without A Cause_?"

I laugh; I can't help it. It's the look on her face, equal parts humour, lust, and honest inquiry. "You don't want to know, trust me."

She gives a little mock-frown and picks up my beer, takes a swig without asking. "I'm always suspicious of people who say that," she says.

"What, 'trust me'?"

"No, 'you don't want to know'. I mean, even I don't *know* what I want to know until I know it, right? So how could anyone else know what I want to know?" She shakes her head and puts the beer down. There's an accent I can't quite identify in her voice. "Does that make sense?"

"Yeah. Well, kind of. Maybe I really meant that *I* don't want you to know."

"Why not?"

I smile a small sardonic smile and raise one eyebrow.

"OK," she says, "if it makes you feel better, I've seen _Go Fish_ sixteen times."

Must be a dyke film, I've never heard of it. I laugh anyway.

The song changes. I don't know this one either but I like it. The singer's voice is slow and sweet and heavy, like warm honey. The woman smiles and leans back against the bar, her eyes closed, her head moving from side to side in time with the music.

I watch her. She's lovely, even with those remarkable eyes closed. The way she moves, swaying ever so slightly, the way she drapes her limbs against the bar, the way she holds the cigarette; all these things add up to an elegance that seems quite natural, un-fought-for, as much a part of her as her bones and sinews. She would be well worth catching.

And I wonder, does she want me? Or is she just a flirt? It's almost never this easy or this quick, so I'm inclined to plump for the latter. But I'll make a play for her anyway.

I reclaim my beer, finish it off, and lay my hand on her shoulder, bare but for the strap of her top. Her eyes snap open and she turns to me. Is that surprise on her face, or pleasure? Whatever it is, it's gone quickly, replaced by simple curiosity.

"My name's Danny," I say, and I've used that name so often it doesn't even sound like a lie. "What's yours?"

"It's Stella," she says, "but all my friends call me Flipper."

"Well, Flipper," I say, relishing the feel of her name, "do you want to dance?"

She takes a final drag from her cigarette and stubs it out on the floor. "Love to."

She grabs my hand and before I know what's happening we're dancing, pressed up against each other in the middle of the dance floor, her arms around my shoulders, my hands on her waist. She's taller than me -- I didn't see it before, she was slouching -- and her cheek is resting on my head. Slick or no slick, she's sniffing my goddamned hair.

She wants me.

I move my hands down, slowly, gently, to her hips and slide my thumbs in under her top. Up, down, up, down, gentle featherlight touches on her skin, so soft they're almost not there. I can feel her hands tightening on my back, her breath quickening.

She tilts her head back and looks at me, breathing hard, lips parted, those huge eyes as wide as they can go. I slide my hands around her waist and start stroking up her spine with the same delicate touch, slowly licking my lower lip, all the time looking straight into her eyes.

Take the bait. Oh, please...

...and then she's kissing me, sucking my tongue into her mouth, and oh God she tastes amazing and it's been far too long and her lips are soft and I can *smell* her, a little smoke, a little vanilla, a little sweat, but it's sweet, so sweet, and I'm trying not to lose control of my hands because if you stroke too hard it doesn't work, and her skin is hot and yes, this is it, she wants me, and I want her too, want to cup her breasts, want to see her eyes glazed over in pleasure, want to thrust my fingers up her cunt, want *her*. I want her so bad I can taste it. I want her so bad it scares me.

So I break off the kiss before I can drown in it, because I could, far too easily, and I whisper in her ear, "Your place?"

"Yeah..." she says, her breath hot and ragged against my ear, just close enough to send a shiver down my spine. "I just -- I just have to get my jacket -- "

I give the side of her neck a slow, deliberate lick and relish the tremor that runs through her. "Hurry."

She gifts me with a stunning smile before she walks away -- a little unsteadily. I can't help noticing the short conversation she has with a blue-haired woman on the other side of the dance floor while retrieving her jacket. Neither can I halp noticing the admiring glance the other woman throws my way, or the smug expression on Flipper's face. What can I say, I still have it.

I may not use it much, but I still have it.

***

Her place is tiny, a sparsel-furnished studio apartment about the same size as my bedroom, cluttered up with cardboard boxes.

"Sorry about the mess," she says while deftly stripping me of my jacket, "I've only just moved in."

"It's no problem," I say in between kisses, "I don't like a place that's too neat."

I can't believe how easy this has been. Usually it takes more-- more dancing, more conversation, more *effort* -- to find the right woman, to convince her to do this. It's just one more disadvantage to being female, I suppose. If I were a man I could just cruise parks and bathhouses and fuck as much as I wanted without ever speaking a word. But I have no desire to be a man, And *this* is remarkably close to one of those wordless encounters the vice cops have to deal with. I know next to nothing about the woman who is stroking the back of my neck, whose collarbones I am outlining with my tongue, whom I am forcing, slowly and gently, backwards towards her bed.

And that's exactly how I like it.

When the backs of her knees bump the bed she starts and gives a little high-pitched laugh. She's nervous. She's probably thinking: this is crazy, I don't even *know* this woman, what if she's a pervert or an axe murderer or something? Chances are she doesn't usually do this kind of thing; it's an impulse given into in the heat of the moment. Maybe she's on the rebound

I want to reassure her. I want to make sure she doesn't regret it. I'm going to do what I always do, of course; the same steps in the same order: effect the transformation; pick a hunting ground; stalk and snare the prey; take her back to her place; make her come till she can't see straight; leave while she's sleeping. But I can take it slow. I don't wnat to scare her, and I don't want to leave her with anything but good memories of this night. I would like to be remembered as a phantom lover who gave an unexpected gift, not as a seducer who took advantage of her weakness.

To that end I sit down on the bed, taking her hand in mine, rather than jumping on her as I first intended. I turn her hand palm-upwards, as if I was going to read her fortune, and begin once more with delicate featherlight touches, this time along the soft skin of the arm. I stroke up to the elbow and down again, slow, slow, just the tips of my fingers touching her, my eyes down. Her skin is almost as pale as mine. There are small white scars along her arm, and longer ones...I've seen scars like that before; they look like hesitation cuts. For a fleeting moment I think of asking her. But even if she wants to tell me, I don't really want to know.

"Wow..." she says, a slight hitch in her voice. I look up, and she is smiling; not the blinding grin she gave me before, but a smile tinged with uncertainty. "I never would have classed the arm as an erogenous zone."

"Anything is an erogenous zone," I say, my fingers creeping up towards her shoulder, "if you treat it right." By way of demonstration I lift her hand and suckle her fingers gently, one by one, at the same time drawing my thumb back and forth across her shoulderblades. "I'm going to teach you a lesson," I say, as I lick her wrist, tracing the vein that she has most likely tried to cut more than once.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," she says. Her voice has lowered an octave or two and acquired a vibrato which, added to its slight breathiness, is almost sexy enough to make me rip off her jeans and lick her out right now. But no, I swore I would take my time and I will.

"You'll like it," I say. "I'm going to draw a map of your skin. By the time I'm finished you'll know *exactly* where all your erogenous zones are."

"You're right," smiling, more steadily this time, "I do like the sound of it." She shifts away for just long enough to strip off her flimsy little top. I don't have time for more than a brief glimpse of her breasts before she's kissing me again, pressing up against me, just one thin layer of cotton between her hard nipples and mine. My breath catches in my throat. Oh yeah. Oh *yeah*.

It takes care to push her down onto the bed without breaking the kiss, but it's worth it. This encounter will have to last me for a long time; I must squeeze every last drop of pleasure from it; and the taste of her mouth, the feel of her tongue entwining with mine -- these are things I want to remember. On the cold nights, I will remember this and touch myself under cover of darkness, and shame will mingle with arousal until I can no longer tell the difference between them.

But now...now there is no shame, for now I am not myself.

It's a delicate operation, this carnal cartography. I want to lose myself in the taste and texture of her skin, the fire in my lips and fingers as I draw them, now hard, now soft, across her chest and down her abdomen; but I'm doing this for her, not myself, so I must keep abreast of her reactions. She is so responsive it's a joy to watch her. Her little shudders and twitches and moans are making me wet and even more eager than before to tear those jeans off of her and push my face into her cunt. I haven't even touched her nipples yet.

But I'll be slow. I did swear to myself that I would.

So it is only when I've given her torso as much as attention as I think it needs that I let my hands wander down towards her waist and tug gently at her fly. She assists me by rasing her hips and wriggling. It's a rather awkward manoeuvre, since I won't move off her -- I can't deny myself this contact, I'm never going to get another chance with her. But we manage somehow, and she is naked. And I don't want to stop touching her but I have to see her too, so I rise up to my knees on the bed and stare and stare and stare.

Oh *God* she is beautiful.

Her breasts are small and perfect, the nipples erect, the areolas a delicate pink. Her waist is slender and her hips are broad. And, oh, the shape of her, the arch of her belly, the length of her legs, so soft and curved but muscled underneath, the thatch of golden-brown hair between them...I could stare forever. I could feast on the sight of her.

Her lip is trembling. Her eyes are bright. She is aching for me to touch her, I can see it in the tension of her thighs and the way her hands ar fisting into the sheets. I can see, too, that she will not touch me first, for which I am grateful, whether she knows what I am or it's just nerves.

So I stop torturing her with my gaze and position myself between her legs, nudge them a little wider apart. I run my fingers up and down her thighs, moving closer and closer to her ass, all the time lowering my face to her belly. I tongue her navel and nuzzle the patch of skin just below it. I'll never get tired of the feel of a woman's skin against mine.

And I dip my face lower, and spread her labia with my thumbs, and lick.

Ohhhhh....

( fucked a woman once who called her cunt "the honeypot". I don't know where she got that from. The taste isn't sweet; it's bitter, like lemon juice or whiskey, but it's a good bitterness, a sharp tang that washes the day out of my mouth and wipes my memory clean. Here, now, there is only this: the taste of her, the feel of her, cunt and lips and teeth and tongue and the pulse of blood through both of us.

And then she climaxes, with a shake and a spasm and a long drawn- out moan, and triumph explodes in me like fireworks.

***

Some women like to be held afterwards. Some like to talk. Some get all energised; once (I swear I am not making this up) a woman I had just gone down on got up and started doing aerobics right there in front of me.

Flipper, now, Flipper is a snuggler. She feels good next to me, warm and comfortable. I'll have to go soon, but I can rest for a while in her bed. Just a couple of hours.

I turn out the light and snuggle a little closer.

I'll be gone before she wakes up.

[end]

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Kathrine F.