Widley's Lovers' Lane -- the old quarry

"I got an idea," Sherah says, and grins wickedly.

After getting a couple of Cokes at the McDonald's drive-through, Sherah drives her car out of town and through winding country roads in the green hills surrounding Widley. She slows down by a large steel gate and says "uh-huh" as she passes.

"Where are we?" you ask.

"The old quarry," she says.

She goes a short distance and turns off the road at an unmarked dirt track.

"You sure you want to risk stalling out here?" you ask.

"Hey, you're a good scout," Sherah says. "You'll walk me home."

You check your cell phone, which indicates 'No Service'. "Guess I will, if I have to," you say.

She narrows her eyes as she negotiates a tight turn and goes up a short slope, then bumps up onto a hard-packed dirt road. To one side is the closed steel gate. She turns the other way, up the hill. You climb a couple hundred feet until she picks a turnout in a flat spot, puts the car in neutral and sets the emergency brake, letting the Honda idle.

There's a nice view through the hills here, and you can see down at the bottom of the slope there's a pool where the bottom of the quarry has flooded.

"This a special spot for you?" you ask.

"Yeah, kinda," Sherah says. "Me and the other folks at Widley who have their own car, but maybe not their own room."

"Oh," you say. "You bring Amy up here?"

Sherah laughs. "You know, I don't think I've ever been up here with Amy," she says. "She's just, you know, I don't think she could sit on it long enough to make it out here." For once, her face seems open with a genuine smile rather than an ironic smirk or guarded stare.

"Not Amy, then."

"Yeah, but a few other girls. Damn, you know, maybe more guys than girls," Sherah says. She frowns and looks off to the side, thinking.

"Guys?" you say. "I don't believe it. More than once?"

Sherah laughs. "Get out much, Scott?" she says. She shakes her head, and the blue bead on her little pigtail shakes back and forth.

You look at each other steadily for a second or two as the engine continues to idle. Sherah looks a little superior. You hope you don't look too dorky.

"You've really taken guys up here? To make out?"

"Yeah," she says. "You'd be surprised, you know, but sometimes a girl has time hooking up with the right kind of gal on a Saturday night. And even with, shit, four or five girls for every boy, there's a few loose boys kicking around who have the right attitude."

"The right attitude?" you echo.

"That it's worth their while to go parking with me just to get me off."

"Who'd go for that?" you ask.

Sherah shrugs. "Sure. A few dudes. His girl's away, or he's too nice to score one of the straight chicks -- fucking self-inflicted victims of the patriarchy -- or he's a serious pussy worshipper, or maybe his Brazilian-waxed girlfriend reminds him of a plastic Barbie and he needs to see a girl with real actual pussy hair. Or he just wants to know what a lesbian tastes like. And he's willing to take me on my terms."

A tingle runs through your shoulders. You know what a lesbian tastes like. At least Amy told you that was Sherah's juices on her finger.

"Huh? Guys really go for that?" you say.

"Hey, some guys get into being a dyke's bitch for a night," she says. "They knew what I was offering. They accepted. They came out in my car to show me a good time. If they want something for themself, I give 'em a chance to take it outside before we go home." She looks at your unbelieving expression. "You think I'd just drive 'em home with their pants sticking out in front?" she asks. "That would be mean. And if they were really good boys, I let 'em watch me touching myself while they whack off." She looks up to one side and laughs. "That is, if they haven't come in their pants already."

"Whoa," you say. "That still seems a little harsh."

Sherah looks at the front of your pants and snickers.

Given the ratio of women to men at Widley, you figure Sherah must have pretty sharp radar for a certain kind of guy in order to have picked up more than one who was willing to be her play-toy.

"Hey, I don't play rough or call 'em names," Sherah says. "I don't hate men, I just hate the Man. And if the boy goes away happy he pleased me and a little better at worshiping the goddess of our common religion -- Cunt --- I think the world's a better place." She pauses, focusing her dark eyes on yours. "If I'm not mistaken, you share my religion. Am I right?"

Your eyes dart down to the silver-and-pearl vulva pendant nestled between her small black-clad braless breasts. Your face and ears feel warm.

"Yes," you say. You tingle all over. You think you've figured out how Sherah picks up guys.

"Amen, brother," Sherah says. "Praise the Cunt and pass the ammunition." She checks her watch, a men's model with a black band and bezel. The dial is decorated with a cross on a red shield. Swiss Army, must be.

She puts the car in gear and eases it back onto the dirt road around the old quarry. With a few bumps, you're back on the country road and headed for town.

You look down at your shirt, which is still smeared with mud, now dry, and in some places caked and cracking.

"You know," you tell Sherah. "It looks like we had a disagreement and you kicked me out of the car and down the hill."

She laughs out loud. "I never had to do that," she says. She frowns. "Not at Widley anyway."

"Sorry."

"S'ok," Sherah says. "You've earned your movie ticket, if you can hack lesbian vampires."

"Wasn't there a movie with David Bowie and Catherine Deneuve...?" you ask.

Sherah snorts. "No. Lesbian chainsaw vampires."

"Oh."

A couple miles out of town proper, Sherah pulls in at a little strip mall at a crossroads where one of the corners has an auto parts store.

"Moment of truth, Scott," Sherah says. She stops the car and puts it in neutral, setting the brake and letting the engine idle. "Care to do the honors?" She crosses her arms across her chest, over her black tank top. You see a little dark hair under her arm.

"Okay," you say. You turn the key off. "Ready?"

"Uh-huh," Sherah says. She poises a foot on the accelerator. You turn the key.