Salt & Vinegar

Lena and Justine (Jus) made a cameo appearance in Wedding Night.

They were inspired by The Kills song Cheap and Cheerful. Go have a listen.

Many thanks to Warrior_Wolf for the edits and helpful advice.

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LENA

I watch Jus stroll towards the kitchen.

"Get me a coffee will you, Doll?"

She gives me the finger, without looking around.

"Hah!" She's so cute when she's rude.

I throw myself onto the couch as I hear the espresso machine firing up.

It's a gorgeous day. The breeze is playing with the drapes around the open windows of our apartment. The soft movements cut the summer sunlight, casting an infinite variety of shadow patterns onto the wall and bringing my pictures in and out of focus.

My pictures are my life. I think I've always liked pictures. A small piece of the world captured and frozen for ever. You can just look. And the more you look, the more you see. So much in so little; in just an instant. A sudden smile. A cracked pavement. The incredible inevitability of a water droplet about to fall. Shape and form. Colour. Life.

I bought my first camera when I was eleven. It was pretty shit, but I'd spend hours after school just looking through the view finder, framing my world. I even took pictures sometimes. I only kept one of those. It's over there towards the top left. It's the swing in the playground near where we lived. The day was grey and the light just right. The playground was empty, freshly wet with rain. The swing was still and close up you can see all the subtle variations in colour from years of use. I spent some of happiest times in that park. Also some of my worst. A swing: inanimate but with so many memories. And not just mine, but probably for bloody thousands of kids.

I studied photography at college and finally got some quality gear. I've had a few breaks, a few awards. I do the odd gallery showing. I now pretty much please myself. It's not a great living, but I make enough freelance to get by. After all, there's more important things than being rich.

My second favourite photo is of me. And not because it's of me. Jus took it at the beach last summer. I just about ripped her fucking head off for touching my camera. Lucky she'd taken this before I'd realised. What's surprising is how good it is. She's normally so crap with pictures. Beginner's luck. What I love is the wind just gently blowing my hair. It's over my eyes and you can't really see my face. I'm just lying there. It's not even a particularly attractive pose. No, I love it because I remember the day and I know exactly what I was thinking at the time. It was about Jus, it was fucking dirty and I get wet again every time I see that shot.

Hell, I'll be candid. I think fucking dirty way too often. I blame the photography. I like looking at beautiful things. And the more I look, the more I want. Men or women, doesn't matter. I happily do both. Separately or together. But probably more women. There's something about the curves. The sensuality, even without sex involved. Of course, I much prefer there to be fucking involved.

I find pussies absolutely fascinating. So much variety. They're all different, distinct, unique. And I can't stop at looking: the taste, the feel, the texture, the smell. The way they move and open and blossom. Changing like the seasons. From autumn to summer: warm to sweltering hot. From moist to gushing like a torrent in a gully after a sudden shower. Shades of pink and red. Hidden and bare. Proud and aggressive. Soft and delicate. Am I fixated? Absolutely. I'm like a fucking 'crack' addict: pussy is my addiction. Funny thing is, Jus doesn't seem to mind. I sleep around a shit load. Always have. Always will.

Don't get me wrong, I love a good cock as much as the next girl. There's times when you just want to have a raging hot shaft pounding into your cunt. To feel a man's heat between your legs. You can get off with toys and stuff, but nothing feels quite like the real thing. A firm, velvety rod filling your hole. Shit, I'm getting hot now just thinking about it. Fuck. Don't mind me while we talk if I just... Oh Jesus, aaahh.

Where was I? Oh, supposed to be about me. Not much else to fucking say really. I'm loud and crude. Got no time for social graces. What you see is what you get. And if you don't like what you get then that's not my fucking problem! Well, sometimes it is. With Jus, I could cut my tongue out sometimes, but I can't help myself. And she can be such a sensitive, moody bitch sometimes.

"Hey! How's that fucking coffee coming?"

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JUSTINE

"Yeah, almost done. I'm just pissing in it."

"Do that and you can start thinking about where I'm going to make you take that hot fucking drink!"

"Kidding stoopid! Patience. Or you could move your lazy ass from the couch and come and help."

"Can't love, I've got three fingers wet."

Over-clocked libido? Sheesh! I don't know if women have an orgasm quota. If we do, Lena's in serious trouble. She'll have run through hers by the time she's 24! The love of my life is a nut-job. A glorious, wonderful, brazen goddess. And messed up, poor girl.

I remember our first meeting. Chrissie had taken me to the gallery to meet up with some friends. She'd managed to smooch two free tickets. Probably 'smooched' something else out of the guy too, knowing Chrissie. I wandered around while we were waiting and, the more I looked, the more I felt drawn to the photographer. There was no obvious theme, but they'd all been taken with such a sense of artistry, of atmosphere: of such soul and subtle sensitivity that I was amazed. I was curious about the person. What would he or she look be like, that had managed to steal these wonderful moments from the world's canvas?

When Lena entered the room -- I didn't know it was her, of course -- it was like she had just walked off the wall. Sounds so cliché, but it's true. The same feel of latent energy and hidden soul, the same dampened fire and pregnant passion as in her photographs. She stopped under one of the downlights. The radiant gloss of her black hair, the faint sneer of contempt on her mouth, arrogance in her entire being. It was though she didn't really know why she was here, couldn't care less and didn't give a toss that other people were even in the room. I was mesmerised. She'd stolen images with her camera. She stole me in a moment.

The funny thing is she doesn't realise how beautiful and talented she is. Or, if she does, she never shows it. She doesn't preen. She doesn't present. It's almost like she is what she is and, as she'd say, 'doesn't give a fuck'. You have to know her to see the genuine sensitivity that informs her photographic genius. On the surface she's harder than cut glass. Sharp, edgy: and she'll bleed you if you're not careful. She's done that to quite a few too.

Her body is dynamite; lithe, trim and so sinuous. I've never seen anyone move quite like Lena. Just her walk -- completely unaffected -- is enough to send a priest running to confession. Guys drool over her boobs and girls love her ass. She drives them all nuts, screws them and moves on.

She's into tats. I love to lie next to her just slowly tracing the patterns on her skin. She's got a full length sleeve down one arm and a nice piece of ink on her torso on the same side. But it's the one on her thigh I like best: a delicate work of Japanese peach blossom branches entwined around her leg with a couple of small twigs just reaching out towards her groin. As if to draw you inside. There are two birds with feathers picked out in breathtaking delicacy. It's in full colour and the floral tones match my hair. I like to think she got that done deliberately, but she's never said. Not many people to get to see that one, and I think that's why I also like it so much.

Hmm, no, let me reconsider that. Plenty of people get to see it, just not in public! She's an absolute nympho. Not that she'd ever admit it. Actually I think it's worse than that. She absolutely denies it to herself because she's afraid. Secretly fears that she's somehow damaged or broken. And so she shows this exaggerated bravado to the world. Strutting around to avoid any hint of weakness. What's really sad is that she treats herself with the same contempt she treats everything else. It breaks my heart sometimes. That's why I'm here. Because someone has to give her the love she denies herself. And I couldn't bear for it not to be me.

I actually can't believe we're still together. 14 months has to be some kind of record. Life for Lena is an 'all-you-can-fuck buffet'. She gets bored as quickly as she gets horny. Probably quicker if that's actually possible. I accept she sleeps around and strangely it doesn't bother me. She certainly doesn't ignore me. If anything, sex with her when she's having a fling is more intimate, more intense. Perhaps she feels guilty, but I really don't think that's it. As I said, I don't mind. And whether it's make-up sex, guilt sex, or just plain 'I-need-to-fuck-you' sex, with Lena it's all bloody incredible!

"Are you growing that fucking coffee!?"

Geez, it's like living with a two-year old.

"Bit slow today are you babe? I thought you'd have finished yourself at least five minutes ago."

"I did! I'm onto my second, bitch, you took so long. Oh, shiiiitttt ..."

Good thing the coffee's done then. Has been for ten minutes actually. It'll be the temperature she likes by the time she gets her ass in here in a couple minutes. She drinks coffee likes she smokes. Because it looks cool rather than because she likes it, like it's expected because she's an artist. Gotta look the part. The poor dear doesn't even know the difference between a latte and a cappuccino! Couldn't tell Columbian from Java if her life depended on it. I give her the good stuff just the same though. Small things to spoil her.

"Smells good. Thanks Jus."

"Well, look who's all mellow now. How's the couch? Do I need to go sponge Lena-juice off it?"

"Ah, shit. Probably. Sorry."

"Wow, two almost-polite sentences in a row, honey! You feeling OK?"

"Hah. Try me, bitch."

There's the smile. Good girl, Lena. God, I'll do anything to see that.

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LENA

It's hard to know what Jus is thinking when she looks at me like that. I like to try though. Well, sort of. I also like to just look at her eyes.

It was her eyes got me that first time at the gallery. There she was just looking at me. Not staring, just looking. Sombre, unblinking. I couldn't look away. It must have been only a few moments, but it felt like years. I had to see her again, but I made myself wait. We saw each other on and off over the next two weeks. I tried to make it casual, 'accidentally' bumping into her when we were out, chance meetings over coffee with friends and such. Eventually I got Chrissie to bring her back to the gallery. I couldn't stand it any longer. I was way past even bothering with seduction. I was fucking desperate, and insane with lust. I just about raped her. Savagely. Twice. I needn't have worried. I'd expected shock, horror, repulsion: it happens often enough. Instead I got a gorgeous smile, a wonderful light in her big eyes and a soft kiss.

Her eyes are the one thing I can't capture with my camera. Oh, I've bloody tried. I've got albums full of Jus. None that you'll see on the wall out here though. I can capture the way she looks, the way she stands, the way she sleeps. But film can't capture the subtle play of light and colour deep in her eyes. The play of emotion deep in their depths as they shift from blue to grey, like clouds shifting over water. They say everything, even when she doesn't speak. Through those orbs she bares her soul to the world. I cannot comprehend such transparent honesty.

Shit, I've gone all fucking poetic. That's her influence too. She's got a shit load of books -- literature, philosophy, poetry, history. I can't say I'm much of a reader myself, but I found a poem in one of the anthology volumes once and read it to her. Can't really remember how it went now. Something about sweet, red apples being not forgotten, just not picked yet. It sort of reminded me of her. When I read it to her, her face went white and her eyes turned the deepest blue I've ever seen. She was as still as a stone for almost a whole fucking minute and then tears started rolling down her cheeks before she turned and ran into the bedroom. So bloody emotional. So much for my attempt at sensitivity: she ends up sobbing her little heart out! I had to fuck some sense into her before the silly bitch would smile for me again. And then she tells me it was the nicest thing anyone's ever said to her. Go figure.

But, hell, what would I know. She's much more clever than me. By a fucking long way. A software analyst for god's sake. She's smart and she's sweet. She's also the most selfless person I know. She's cute when she's rude and bloody annoying when she's not. Is she good in bed? She's generous, sensitive and wonderful. Is she pretty? I guess; but it doesn't matter, because to me she is fucking beautiful. And there is no way in hell that I deserve her.

Why is she with me? I'm rude, crude and treat her like shit. She doesn't care. I cheat on her all the time. She knows, but doesn't mind. I'm a cold-hearted, ruthless and selfish bitch. I just can't figure out what she even sees in me. All I know is that whatever's good in me is all Jus. Without her I'd be a god-awful, fucking mess.

I forgot to mention one thing about Jus. Her pussy. I told you I have a thing for them. Well hers is exquisite. No, it's fucking divine. She's almost perfectly symmetrical and so delicate. Like some master artisan has carved every little fold and feature with intricate and loving precision. I've seen quite a few, but hers is simply art and it's breathtaking. She has a book in her library -- James's Varieties of Religious Experience. Don't have a fucking clue what it's about and couldn't give a shit either but, I tell you, looking at her pussy; I have a religious experience every time. And I bloody worship it too. I make every offering to that shrine as wonderful for her as I can. Hey, and I figure offering regularly can't hurt either.

We've turned it into a game. Well, to be fucking honest, it's my game and she's agreed to play along. We wind each other up and then whoever caves first and begs for sex loses and a point goes to the other. It's usually me, but I let her win occasionally to keep it fun. To the victor go the spoils.

Shit, my coffee's cold.

"Jus, how do I work this fucking machine!?"

"Babe, just grab a can of something from the fridge, OK? You'll just break it or burn yourself or something."

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JUSTINE

You know, I don't mind that she's rude. It actually doesn't bother me at all. Except it's rubbing off on me too and I have to consciously stop including profanities in every sentence.

For all her aggression, she doesn't really intimidate me either. It's a front and I know she doesn't mean it. She's only ever been really angry with me once. A few months after we met, I thought I'd surprise her by shaving my pussy. She walked in to the bathroom just as I was about to start.

'Don't you fucking dare!!' she screamed.

She was furious. I was stunned. She must have seen my look, because her rage was gone in an instant.

'Don't', she said. 'Please, don't. Not you, Jus. You don't need to change anything for me. You're absolutely beautiful. I love you just as you are.'

And she turned and walked out. That's the only time she's actually said the L-word to me. And only the second time I've seen her cry.

Not really a crying gal, our Lena. The first time was when I asked her to move in. She'd slept over my place a few times, but usually left before I was up. The only sign she'd been would be a cigarette butt on a saucer in the kitchen. Half-eaten toast on a plate. One morning after a pretty rough night she slept late and I woke first. I remember just lying there watching her sleep. She looks so soft when she's asleep, all calm and at peace. Her eyes blinked open and she looked at me.

'Stay,' I'd said.

'Can't babe, got a job to shoot today. Some fucking marketing campaign.'

'No, I mean I'm asking you to stay. Here. Move in with me?'

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she threw her arms around me. She smothered me with kisses. Which soon turned into other things. She never made the shoot. She's still here too.

She's never hurt me either. Don't mistake me, we play rough. Sometimes very rough! But for all that Lena doesn't read, I'm like an open book to her. She knows exactly what I need, what I can take and what I want. How much, where and when. It's uncanny. And God she's wonderful. She must have had me a hundred different ways. Every hole. Mouth, tongue, fingers, fist, toys, and tools -- some pretty creative too.

Oh, there was this one time we'd gone to dinner at Angelica's. She and Paul had just got engaged and it was kind of a celebration for all their friends. She'd arranged this beautiful al fresco setting out in the garden with tablecloths, decorations, candles; the whole show. Paul had done ribs and steak and stuff. It was almost dark by the time we were eating and we were all chatting and having a pretty good time. Lena picked up one of the sauce bottles from the table and scratched at the label with her fingernail.

'What do you make of that Jus?' she said as she passed it me.

'Prime steak sauce?'

'No fuck-wit, the brand.'

'Shit!' I smothered a laugh. With Lena's minor modification, it now read 'Fulkoff'.

'But does it work?' she smirked.

Before I knew it, she'd whisked it under the table, and shoved it between my legs. So here's me clutching the table for dear life with one hand and the other up to my face to hide as much of my expression as I can while Lena's screwing me with a sauce bottle. It's so dirty and so unbelievable. Getting fucked under the table at a dinner party! I'm getting wetter as she slowly rotates it within me, moving it in and out. Letting the contours and ridges scrape over my clit, around me, in me. It's hard; real hard and big. Thank God for the dim lighting! Thank God it also wasn't the chilli! Meanwhile, she's having a casual conversation with Angelica about wedding plans.

Someone yells from the other end of the table.

'Hey, where's that steak sauce?'

'Oh, right here', says Lena.

She rips it out of me and passes it straight to Michael. And damn me if he doesn't notice a thing, uncaps it and pours some on his plate. Lena turns to me with an evil grin and leans over.

'Fuck Paul Newman', she whispers in my ear. 'You should bottle your own. Justine's special sauce.'

I roared with laughter. Good thing too, since I was otherwise in danger of making a very embarrassing mess of one of Angelica's chairs. Lena made it up to me later though. We laughed about it for hours. Everyone else probably thought we were insane, or pissed, or high -- or all three! Now she just has to say 'sauce' and wink for me to start giggling.

So am I a lesbian? I don't really think of myself like that at all. I had a couple of boyfriends before Lena and I'd enjoyed sex with them. I'm shy by nature, but definitely not a prude. I know what I want. I'd never been at all interested in girls. And I'm still not. Except for one. And she's everything to me. I guess that makes me 'Lena-sbian.'

She's pretty protective of me too. Which is funny because she's so promiscuous herself; yet she doesn't even see the irony. She gets huffy if someone even looks at me in what she thinks might be an interested way. Strangely, I do get a few of those looks now. I never used to and I'm still getting used to it. I think it's got something to do with being with Lena. People speculate what I must be like to keep such a siren on a leash. The truth is there's a leash alright, but Lena holds it. I do secretly love it though when we walk in somewhere and her arm's around me. You just watch everyone's reaction as they look at us. The expressions of appreciation, sometimes open lust and desire. OK mostly at Lena, but it makes me giddy just thinking that this amazing girl is here, with me. I get a real kick out of it. I think Lena knows I do, which is why she does it. I reward her after, of course.