The Swashbuckler Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  By the Author

  Author Bio

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Frenchy Tonneau leaves her closeted home in the Bronx for the bars of New York City, the freedom of Provincetown, and the liberation of Greenwich Village in the 1960s and 1970s. Her hangouts, her women, her small yet universal world tell the stories of the times – and the stories of lesbians today. A timeless journey and a riveting read, The Swashbuckler is heart-wrenching, heartwarming, and unforgettable.

  The Swashbuckler

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  The Swashbuckler

  by

  Lee Lynch

  The Swashbuckler

  © 1985 by Lee Lynch. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-205-4

  This electronic book is published by:

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

  New York, USA

  First Bold Strokes Books eBook Edition May 2010

  This is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and Incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Cover Design By Bold Strokes Books Graphics

  By the Author

  From BOLD STROKES BOOKS

  Sweet Creek

  Beggar of Love

  From NAIAD PRESS

  Toothpick House

  Old Dyke Tales

  The Swashbuckler

  Home In Your Hands

  Dusty’s Queen of Hearts Diner

  The Amazon Trail

  Sue Slate, Private Eye

  That Old Studebaker

  Morton River Valley

  Cactus Love

  From NEW VICTORIA PUBLISHERS

  Rafferty Street

  Off the Rag, Edited with Akia Woods

  From TRP COOKBOOKS

  Butch Cook Book, Edited with Sue Hardesty and Nel Ward

  Author Bio

  Lee Lynch has been writing about lesbian life and lesbians from the time she came out 50 years ago. She was first published in “The Ladder” in the 1960s. In 1983 Naiad Press published her first books, including Toothpick House and Old Dyke Tales. Her novel The Swashbuckler was presented in NYC as a play scripted by Sarah Schulman. Lynch’s play “Getting Into Life” caused consternation when performed in Tucson, AZ, due to its realistic portrayal of lesbians. Her newest novel, Beggar of Love, is available from Bold Strokes Books. Her recent short stories can be found in Romantic Interludes and in Read These Lips, at www.readtheselips.com. She has twice been nominated for Lambda Literary Awards and her novel Sweet Creek was a GCLS award finalist. Her reviews and feature articles appeared in “The Lambda Book Report” and many other publications. Lynch’s syndicated column, “The Amazon Trail,” runs in numerous venues. She is a recipient of The James Duggins Mid-Career Author Award, the Alice B. Reader Award for Lesbian Fiction, the Golden Crown Literary Society Trailblazer Award and has been inducted into the Saints and Sinners Literary Hall of Fame. Her earlier books are also available through Bold Strokes Books at www.boldstrokesbooks.com. She lives in rural Florida with her sweetheart and their furry ruffians.

  Dedication

  For every dyke who’s stared down a straight;

  for every dyke who’s dared dress in drag;

  for every dyke who’s been proudly femme or proudly butch;

  for every one of us who’s survived the insults, the daily fears and humiliations, the beatings; for every dyke who’s dared to live her life

  — and for every dyke who didn’t survive —

  I offer this book as tribute.

  Acknowledgements

  This book was inspired by the writing of Joan Nestle. Chapter One was written in response to her “Esther’s Story” which appeared in Common Lives/Lesbian Lives, Number One, Fall, 1981. Chapter Two grew out of a weekend Deb Pascale and I spent talking lesbian literature in Provincetown with Carol Seajay, writer and editor of the Feminist Bookstore Newsletter. Chapter Ten was written for Tee Corinne, whose pioneering and courageous erotic art and writing have been as crucial to my development as they have been to all lesbian culture (Yantras of Womanlove, Naiad Press, 1982, et.al.).

  The Swashbuckler could not have been written at all without Deb Pascale by my side these last thirteen years. I also thank for their encouragement and technical help: Katherine Forrest, Caroline Overman, Carol Feiden, Judy Sloan. And, for braving those very early years with me: Susan Kenler.

  Chapter One originally appeared in Sinister Wisdom, No. 24, Fall, 1983 as “The Swashbuckler.”

  Chapter 1

  The Swashbuckler

  1960

  Frenchy, jaw thrust forward, legs pumping to the beat of the rock and roll song in her head, shoulders dipping left and right with every step, emerged from the subway at 14th Street and disappeared into a cigar store. Moments later, flicking a speck of nothing from the shoulder of her black denim jacket, then rolling its collar up behind her neck, she set out through the blueness and bustle of a New York Saturday night.

  She stripped the cellophane from her pack of Marlboros, hit the base of the pack against her fist and drew a cigarette out with her lips. Though the summer breeze was light, she stopped in a doorway, tapped the cigarette against her fist and used her Zippo. She lengthened the stride of her short, exaggeratedly bowed legs and found her rhythm again, diddy-bopping downtown.

  Silently singing Brenda Lee’s I’m Sorry, she eyed the people around her on the street as she settled more into her walk. She knew she angered straight people, provoking merciless taunts and threats, but it was her own natural walk. She would walk as she wanted on Saturday nights.

  The hell with them all, she thought, straightening proudly, dragging deep on her cigarette. Yeah, she walked like a man, or better still, she walked like a butch, lighter and more graceful than a man. All 4'11'' of her was in the tough, bouncing walk. It said who she was. When guys on the street menaced her, she just got cooler, throwing herself into it more, dipping and weaving and dancing down the street. Yeah, she was a bulldyke, and every Saturday night she loved being a bulldyke in a bulldyke’s world.

  A breeze ruffled her pompadour and she smoothed it back, walking down a line of stores lit from within as if by magic lamps, their goods gleaming. At one window she stopped to pull a long black comb from her rear pocket. When she was satisfied her jet black hair had slid neatly back into a d.a. she began walking further into Greenwich Village, surveying her turf, easing her way into the gay world. She sang a few lines from Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow, feeling good. She was twenty-one, good-looking, and wearing her best clothes: black denim jeans with the jacket, light blue button-down shirt, sharply pointed, black ankle-high boots. She felt the edge of her garrison belt buckle. Those knife-carrying butches were dumb, she thought. Even if it really was a femme weapon, her belt was nearly as sharp, a
nd she couldn’t be arrested in a raid for concealment. So far she had not had to use it, but she was ready if any of those old deisel dykes crossed her, tried to take a woman from her.

  Frenchy entered the last block before Campy Corner, the drugstore where everyone hung out until nightfall came and darkness, or the cops, pushed them into the bars. Would she stay at the Corner tonight or visit a few places before she went to the Sea Colony Bar several blocks away? The grand excitement of Saturday night swept over her, tinged with the fear which accompanies a secret life. She slowed to savor it. Here in her own world she was handsome and funny. Women liked her, wanted to dance with her, wanted to make out with her. The other butches, those not too busy protecting their femmes, joked with her, talked baseball with her. It made six days of standing behind a checkout counter melt away. Her straight clothes, her meekness before the boss and shyness with the other girls — all were bearable because down here she was a prince, a sharp dancer, a big tipper.

  She saw the Women’s House of Detention on the corner of 5th and Greenwich. This was her landmark, and she felt as if she was at home. Inmates called from windows to their lovers on the street. The flower shop across 6th blazed with color which spilled onto the sidewalk. She filled her small chest with air smelling sweet from the perfumes of a thousand passing femmes. An orchestra of rock and roll musicians played in her head.

  A few early fags stood against the drugstore window. They weren’t hustlers; she’d seen them before in the bars. They just wanted to find boyfriends for the night to take them drinking and dancing, then home. Wallflowers, she thought. The only place I’ve ever seen guys be the wallflowers.

  A butch and her femme came out of the drugstore and Frenchy nodded to the butch, avoiding the femme’s eyes. They had seen each other a few times, Frenchy and the femme, and the femme wouldn’t want to let on to her new girlfriend. Frenchy tried to remember her name. “Hey, Frenchy,” she heard a bass voice call from the curb.

  “Hey, Jessie, how you doing?”

  “Okay. I’m doing okay.”

  “Where’s Pat?”

  Jessie shook her head. The big soft face seemed to sag with sadness. “We broke up, Frenchy. She found somebody else.”

  “Hell, Jess. And you were together a long time.”

  “We were going to go for Chinese dinner on our six month anniversary,” Jessie said, her hands in her chino pockets. A light summer jacket was open over an unironed plaid men’s sport shirt; her roughly cut brown hair was combed wetly back from her forehead in a wave. “I swear I thought this was it. I thought we had it made, me and Pat would last forever. But,” she sighed, “I guess it’s like that song, It’s All in the Game.”

  “Yeah, love is some game,” Frenchy agreed. “I’m sorry it had to happen, Jess, but lookit, you and me can have a good time tonight, how about it? Want to go to the bars with me?”

  “Sure. I was hoping I’d see you around. You’re not meeting no one?”

  “Maybe. It’s hard to tell. I said I’d be down here, but I don’t know if Donna’s going to cooperate, you know what I mean? We haven’t been getting along any too good.”

  “You ready to split up with this one too, Romeo?”

  “I really love her a lot, Jess. I don’t know. She wants to get a place together. Or stay at a hotel Saturday nights. You know I don’t go for that.”

  “Still don’t want to settle down? Boy, if I could just find a girl who would.” Jessie sighed again, watching a group of women round the corner.

  “I’d get itchy feet. No, I don’t want that. And you know I’d like to spend the night with her, but I can’t get away with it. If I gave in once she’d be expecting it every week.”

  “I know. You’re not made like that. Better to keep it light.”

  Frenchy smiled, a large winning smile, and leaned back against the plate glass window, hooking her thumbs into her belt. She mused, “That’s how I like it, Jess, light. A new girl every few weeks would suit me fine.”

  Jessie poked at her with her elbow, chuckling and nodding. “That’s you, Frenchy.”

  “Where do you want to go tonight?” Frenchy asked.

  “It’s kind of early. How about PamPam’s?”

  “Yeah, I could use some coffee. I worked all day.” They started walking across 6th Avenue.

  “You still up at the A&P in the Bronx?”

  “Sure thing,” Frenchy said as she stopped outside the Women’s House of Detention to run the comb through her hair again. “How about you? Still typing for that insurance company?”

  “Yeah.” Jessie made a face as she borrowed Frenchy’s comb to prop up her wave and flatten the hair cut straight across her thick neck. “Still sitting all day typing forms. Wish I could get a job loading trucks or something. Alls I do is listen to the girls gossip. Talk about getting itchy, I can’t take it much longer.”

  “I know what you mean. The other cashiers never shut up. There’s a cute new girl, though, Marian. A little blonde. Wears these tight black sweaters. Winks at me,” Frenchy confessed to Jessie. “Wish I could make her.” She grinned lasciviously.

  Jessie stretched her arm across Frenchy’s shoulders. “Listen, if I didn’t know you’re called Frenchy from that long French name of yours, I’d say it fits you anyways. You never think of nothing else, you know that?”

  Frenchy’s smile was smug as they entered PamPam’s and looked for a booth. She stopped and narrowed her eyes as she looked around, half-posing, half-looking at the women scattered among the gay men. They found seats at the counter. “Sometimes I want to break my own rule.”

  “About mixing work and fun?”

  “Yeah. She’s really something else. Something special. I dream about her all day.” She broke into a smile again.

  “And you count money like that? With your head in the clouds?” The door opened and they looked stealthily in the mirror at the women who entered. “Nobody,” whispered Jessie.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to make the right change so’s I can teach the little blonde. The boss gives her to me to teach because I’m the best he’s got,” Frenchy boasted. “And believe me, she needs all the help she can get.” She laughed, pointing to her head. “She may be cute, but she’s got confetti for brains.”

  “If she’s that dumb, maybe she thinks you’re a guy.”

  “Not the way I dress at work.”

  “So ask her out already. Since when are you shy?”

  “I don’t want to lose my job. And I don’t want to fool with girls in my own neighborhood. You know that. But I sure am in love,” Frenchy sighed, glancing at herself in the tarnished mirror behind the counter and pressing her pompadour higher. Suddenly she stopped, hand in the air. Her expression changed to an almost sultry look that narrowed one dark eye and lifted one side of her upper lip off her teeth. She made a clicking sound in the corner of her cheek and nudged Jessie. “Donna’s here. And look at what she brought you.”

  Jessie looked into the mirror as Frenchy’s current girlfriend walked in with another woman. They could have been twins — both with teased hair piled high on their heads, tight black pants, tiny white pointed sneakers. Donna wore a chartreuse angora sweater with a high neck, her friend a lavender cardigan buttoned low. “What a body,” Jessie said admiringly to Frenchy as they swung their stools in unison and stepped off.

  Donna quickly kissed Frenchy on the cheek, one eye on the man behind the counter who was ever vigilant of affection between queers in his place. Frenchy asked, “How you doing, chickie? Who’s your friend?”

  “What do you want to know for?” teased Donna, unsmiling, snapping her gum at Frenchy. “This here’s Marie, my cousin. The one I was telling you about?”

  “Yeah, from the Island, right, Marie?” Frenchy bowed slightly to her and winked.

  Marie was at least 5'7'' and looked down at Frenchy and Donna. “You didn’t tell me how cute she was, Donny.”

  Donna laughed, finally. “I didn’t want you to know. This one’s mine,” she said, slid
ing her arm possessively under Frenchy’s.

  “Okay, girls, that’s enough,” the counterman said. “Order or have your meeting outside, understand?”

  “Sure, Charley,” Frenchy sneered. “Anything you say.” She shrugged to her friends. “Let’s get out of here and go someplace nicer, huh, Marie?”

  Marie dropped her eyelids half-shut and began to snap her fingers and sway. “Where’s the dancing? I just turned twenty-one, you know.”

  “That’s why I never brought her down here before, Frenchy. She was too young. And too scared to fake it.”

  “Well, I’m glad you finally got to twenty-one,” Jessie interjected, butting with her blunt body into the closed group the three had made, an embarrassed smile on her face. “I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”

  “Oh, hey, Jess. Marie, this is my best friend, Jessie.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Marie said, then giggled.

  “I’m really glad to meet you too, Marie,” Jessie said with a glance at the open cardigan. She stepped back and took out her Marlboros. She offered them to Marie, then to Donna and Frenchy. Each took one, and they went outside.

  On 6th Avenue Frenchy turned to light Marie’s cigarette, but Jessie already had, so she lit Donna’s and her own. Their eyes met and Donna cupped her hand around Frenchy’s to shield the flame. She was just slightly taller than Frenchy and leaned very close to her. “Going to take me dancing, lover?”

  A thrill went up Frenchy’s arm from the touch and she inhaled the scent of Jean Naté. She stood there smiling a moment before she answered, savoring the girl and the people thronging around them, gay couples and tourists mixed. “Sure thing, babydoll,” Frenchy answered, still touching Donna’s hand and holding the unlit Zippo.