Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 MY AMERICAN BRA

   by Holly Rennick

   AUTHOR'S NOTES

   This story is sequential to "Hooking Auntie's Bra"
(/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Hooking_Aunties_Bra.txt),
but as you'll note, this American bra predates Auntie's in chronology.  The
setting remains India, but awakening cares naught about geographic
demarcation.

   AN AMERICAN BRA

   Perhaps you remember me ("still waiting to be married." Ugh!) from my
nephew Naeem's writing, but I doubt you do, since he didn't bother to name
me.  I'm Amina.

   Naeem's a sweet lad, but a bit full of himself.  He's under the
impression, for example, that his trite American cliches are in style of
Ernest Hemmingway.  Naeem's also under the impression that we're so
interested in his sex life.  I've told my brother's wife a thousand times
that only fool would have sex with a nephew, but she says it's none of my
business.  Perhaps not, but as we share a roof, perhaps it is.  Oh, the
number of times I've been preventing their discovery by Mother or my
brother!

   Naeem, as you may recall, promises a further chapter about his "younger
aunt, virgin at the time." By that he wants you to be assuming that he does
with me as he does with my brother's wife.

   Well, let's get something perfectly clear -- maybe I'm virgin by his
silly school-boy definition, but that doesn't mean I haven't had a lover.

   ***

   My story begins at St.  Mary's, our municipality's elite secondary
school for girls.  St.  Mary's has a Christian headmistress and several
Christian faculty, but few of the students are of that faith.  Christians
know preparatory academics better than do mullahs and holy men.  But as
important, education in personal integrity is hardly exclusive to a
particular faith.  St.  Mary's girls don't have to be Christian in any
religious sense, but what Jesus taught makes sense to us.  The Prophet
himself said that Jesus was sent to proclaim Allah's will.

   My story isn't, of course, about religion, but it is about a Christian,
an Indian-American named Ellen.

   Ellen was from the United States and only matriculated to St.  Mary's in
Class XI when her father (her Indian half) returned to manage a
pharmaceutical plant.  He of course spoke Hindi and Ellen's mother actually
remembered some from her days in the Peace Corps, but Ellen knew nothing.
The poor girl couldn't even arrange a sari, not that I suppose she'd ever
have to wear one.  We call them elegant, but they're hardly practical.

   Anyway, back to Ellen.  St.  Mary's is English medium and our standards
are superior to most American secondary schools, so it wasn't as if an
Indian-American shouldn't do well.  But everyone knows that Class XI is a
hard time anyplace to be the new girl.  Everybody else goes back as
classmates to at least Class IX.  Girls (not me, to be sure) on the grounds
talking Hindi or Punjabi would leave an American feeling out of things. 
Students don't wear uniforms in that country, so our dress would be
different.  Little things in your school would remind you of how things
seemed better in America.  St.  Mary's was excellent in many respects, but
not so good in others, even if you worship St.  Mary.

   I, like my classmates, watched Ellen over the first week.  Tall, reddish
hair (irrefutable proof of her Americaness), up to the mark in French and
maths and way ahead of us, of course, in English.  You could tell, though,
she missed her old life, taking lunch by herself and going to the library
when she could have lingered on the grounds.  I'd have done the same if you
sent me to school in America.

   It wasn't as if I were doing a social deed when I sat down beside her in
Assembly.  There was a seat and I did indeed want to welcome her to our
school.  Being friendly isn't tied to country or creed or caste.  It's
being a good person.

   Probably at first Ellen thought I was just doing my responsible duty,
one of our themes at St.  Mary's, but when I asked if she played hockey,
she lit up.

   "You play hockey here?  There's a rink?"

   At first I was confused, but then realized she was thinking of the ice
game, not the field game.  St.  Mary's almost always triumphs in field
hockey because we play the best girls, no matter their social background.
Our goalie was a sweeper's daughter and had top marks in chemistry.  Only
the rudest girls were caring a thing about her family and the rest of us
showered her with affection.  (She went on to Germany on full scholarship.)

   "So it's sort of like soccer, right?" Ellen asked after I explained the
difference.

   "Football, my dear," I professorialized and we both laughed.

   So that's what it took to recruit St.  Mary's top-notch fullback who
compensated for fielding errors with speed and fearsome swings.  Given our
dark little goalie and our tall red-haired fullback, we the attackers could
be concentrating on scoring.

   And that's also what it took for me to get a best friend, an American,
at that.  (And that's maybe why I'm a little better in American English
these days than my testosterone-silly nephew.)

   Ellen loved to explore for what must have to her seemed odd or quaint
sights.  Temples from ancient times.  Women dying fabric.  Goats for sale.
Old men sitting on steps.  As she noted, there's nobody to repair your old
teapot where she used to live.  It was fun to be the translator.  Probably
the locals thought I was American, too.

   Ellen of course noticed that while men might be strolling hand-in-hand,
even a married couple wouldn't demonstrate public fondness.  A good husband
might assist his wife were she unwell or in need of guidance, and any son
will protect his mother, but that's about the sum of public male-female
affection.

   Girls are different, though.  Women alone rarely venture into the market
other than to nearby stalls, but a pair of bold St.  Mary's schoolgirls can
be arm-in-arm marching anywhere and have a jolly time.  We're not naughty,
just a bit more assured.

   We were in the market when I realized that Ellen was maybe a little
different from the rest of Class XI.  It was in the bangle bazaar when she
took my elbow and I first felt her breast.  Clutched me to in passing, its
presence wouldn't have drawn my attention, but here in the alleyways the
contact seemed more lingering.  When she'd turn sharply, my forearm would
slide even all the way over it.  For some reason, it felt both hard as a
rock and soft as a pillow.

   I'd not have thought anything of it, except it happened again by the
River Gate and once as we waited for sweets, her sway enough to be allowing
my arm a full journey.  Though nothing was said, it was if she were being
free with me, a special bond.

   Did she know that I liked it?

   As we strolled out of the market, I snuggled Ellen's arm against me. 
She seemed hardly to notice the reversal, chatting as we were about the
impossibilities of upcoming examinations, but when we stopped for ices, her
arm continued to slip over me in the way mine had on her.  I'd have died of
embarrassment had I thought she could feel my excitement, but my bra was
Indian solid.

   But when we bid adieu at the bus stop, I doubted she'd known where her
arm had wandered.

   Not much thereafter when I went to Ellen's house to prepare for the
geography examination, we went to her room where she without a thought
exchanged her school blouse for a striped pullover of American fit.

   What I noticed was her bra, an American design.  Its lacing was finer,
its straps looked more comfortable and its cups seemed more conformable. 
It wasn't as if either of us required much in the way of support, but
Ellen's seemed to fit her more roundly.  I could discern her nipples, more
outward than I'd have guessed from her appearance in her school attire.

   I guess I'd never seen a stylish American bra before, though I'm sure
they're available even here.

   When we went down the stairs, Ellen took my arm like she'd done in the
market.  Perhaps my knowing her bra's quality made it seem softer against
my arm.  Maybe because I was knowing better how she was shaped, her nipples
felt so apparent.

   That night I pictured Ellen's bra and wondered how it would look on me.
Would my breasts reveal themselves as hers had?  Would she notice?

   ***

   In our match against Charter Academy, always a hockey powerhouse, Ellen
rubbed my shoulders in warmup and I rubbed hers.

   I missed a straight-in slap, but we still won.

   ***

   Birthdays aren't the family festival here that they appear to be in some
Western stories, but Ellen on that day gave me a present.  I know that
Americas open a present immediately so they can compliment the giver, but
Ellen knew that we do it differently.  "Don't open it here.  At home."

   In my room I was almost too excited to remove the wrappings.

   It was a bra, exactly like hers, and with it was a note.  "Dearest
Amina. I brought an extra from back home.  Worn once.  Hope it fits.  Happy
Birthday!  Love, Ellen."

   It fit perfectly!  I won't say that it made me look attractive, but I
guess maybe it helped me feel a little that way.

   My brother's wife would notice the addition to my wardrobe, but I could
claim that a vendor was disposing of export seconds and it was my lucky day
to pass by his stall.  I didn't want to say that a friend had given me a
thing like this from her own wardrobe.

   It was only after dinner that I wondered how Ellen had known that I'd
admired hers.  I liked the fact we were the same size.  I liked the fact
that she'd tested it.

   I wore my American bra the next day and thanked my friend without
actually saying the word.  "Bra" isn't an improper word, of course, but it
made me somewhat shy that she'd guessed I'd noticed hers and I didn't want
to get into a discussion of that.

   "Fit okay?"

   "Perfect."

   "I knew it would."

   When I thought of it, I liked the fact that she'd known my size.

   When we went to lunch, Ellen took my elbow like she'd done in the market
and when nobody was looking, drew my arm across her.  I could tell exactly
that she'd chosen the identical item.  And I, for reasons not exactly clear
to me, waited until the timing was again opportune and took her arm and did
likewise to tell her I got the message.

   We looked at each other and together laughed.  Indian-Indian and Indian-
American, bras in common, nipples masked by St.  Mary's blouses but
knowable to the arm of a friend.

   ***

   I developed a horrid blister on the side of my toe in our match against
VDM Secondary.  I'd have ignored it altogether, but Ellen had me lie with
my foot on her lap where she could properly dress it at halftime.  The day
was muggy and we were sweaty and where my heel rested, her thigh felt
slippery.

   Better than new when we began the second half, I scored on a crossover.
As we won 2-1, I was glad for the recovered foot.

   ***

   It was a fortnight later that we kissed.  We'd gone to a spectacular at
the cinema and, somewhat to my surprise, Ellen seemed to enjoy it.  I
hardly needed to translate, the plot was so obvious.  I'm well aware that
American movies are more adventuresome, but I'll always be favorable to
Bollywood dancing.

   When she took my hand during a suspenseful scene, I squeezed her palm in
return.  I'd worn American-style jeans and her knuckles rested on the
outside edge of my front pocket.

   We were back at Ellen's house, the garden pavilion to be precise, when
she kissed me on the mouth.  You can't blame the movie, as kissing never
happens there.  You can't put it to a cultural gaffe either, as by now
Ellen very well knew that this place wasn't France.

   I was startled, but after a moment I found myself amazingly excited.  It
wasn't as if anybody had seen us.  It wasn't as if it would be wrong in
America.  It wasn't that it didn't feel rather lovely, actually.

   Maybe, though, I did look quizzical.

   "I didn't mean..." tried Ellen, aware of my start.

   "No, no.  It's okay.  I just wasn't..."

   "I was just..." my friend tried again.  "It's just that..."

   "Just that what?" I didn't even know I was curious, or I've not have
dared ask.

   She looked at me and then was straight forward.  "I thought maybe you'd
like it."

   I thought a minute, still tasting her taste.  "I didn't not like it," I
conceded.

   Ellen thought.  "Didn't not, Amina?" Then she got it and smiled.

   I guess maybe I smiled, too.

   We locked our hands around each other's back and kissed, both of us this
time.  It's not as if I really was knowing how, but I guess I did.

   Kissing is so sweet with your friend.

   "We shouldn't," Ellen volunteered after we'd run out of breath, "but I
don't care."

   "Me either."

   "Me neither," she corrected and we kissed more, my friend this time
drawing my hand to where, not to my surprise, was the bra like the one
given me.

   ***

   It was in kissing that we really got to know each other.  We'd find
places free from bother and kiss and even be touching inside of each
other's tops.  American bras are easy to enter.  If I said it wasn't
arousing, I'd be fibbing.  If Ellen said the same, I'd know she was fibbing
as well.  It's rather hard to conceal.

   "Are you a virgin?" she asked me one time.

   This wasn't something even an Indian best friend would out-and-out ask,
but my best friend wasn't Indian.  It was what you gave your groom, even if
you hardly knew him, but everybody knew that some grooms must be deceived.

   "Yeah." I'd have confessed if I weren't.  This was some years before my
brother's wife started bedding Naeem, but even if my nephew had been old
enough, I wasn't that foolish.  And it wasn't as if I felt some sort of
hurry.

   "You?" returning the query.  In America, with dating and dancing, maybe
most girls aren't by Class XI.

   "Yep," Ellen answered with zero hesitation.  Then she grinned.  "But
I've got my little friends," wiggling her fingers and measuring my
reaction.

   I thought I knew what she was saying, but wouldn't think she'd have said
it.  Other girls do it, I wondered, but it's not something we talk about.

   She must have read my thoughts.  "Let's see your hand."

   I hesitated, but after a moment raised mine.

   Ellen's fingertips wiggled in salute and then bounced forward to tap
mine.  "Hi there."

   "Hi yourself," my hand replied.

   We both laughed and laughed.

   "I'm not that interested in boys, actually," Ellen added after we
settled down.

   "You're not?"

   Ellen ruffled my hair.  "You're more my type."

   "Me?" It wasn't as if I weren't aware about girls liking girls, but I
not thought of myself that way.  I'd just never had much time to think
about boys.

   "Don't worry, Amina.  I'm not dangerous, except at hockey tackles."

   We both laughed some more, but I still wondered.

   "Are you a...  -- you know, a lesbian?" finally garnering gumption
enough to ask.  I knew the word, of course, but maybe never had actually
said it.  Everybody knows that older boys bugger the new boys at
residential schools, but that's about boys and it's not something nice. 
Lesbians in India, though?  Girls can become fond of each other, but can
they share it?

   "I love you, whatever that means," Ellen allowed.

   "Really?" It's not that often that somebody says she loves you.

   "Really, Amina"

   I thought a bit.  "Well I love you, too, but that doesn't make us... 
you know..."

   "Who knows?" Ellen deflected my question.  "We're the same boob size,
anyway."

   That night in bed, I still felt her fingertips tapping mine.  Girl with
girl would at least be about caring.

   ***

   The next time we could have remained at the pavilion where the breeze
kept it cooler.

   "Want to go inside?" she asked.

   I knew no one was in the part of the house where she slept.  I knew her
fingertips had said, "Hi."

   "Yes."

   We went hand-in-hand.  Maybe I hadn't thought it all out, but I was
being true to myself, just maybe not the way St.  Mary intended. 
"Adolescent girls are susceptible to quickly act on the physical sexual
drive and get carried away," to quote our headmistress, but Ellen's room
was where I wanted to go.

   The ceiling fan beat its bump-bump-bump as I sat on Ellen's lap, her
arms around my waist, her breasts hard like mangos against my back.

   "I won't do anything you don't want," was her promise, maybe mistaking
my awkwardness for reluctance.  Maybe I was nervous, but I kissed her to
give permission.

   I twitched when her hand touched my thigh, but her other arm stilled me
until my hesitation waned.

   When I parted my knees, Ellen lifted my skirt to reach between.  I'd
never had anybody touch my panty; that's for sure.  It's hard to admit you
want it before it happens.

   Ellen took the longest time to trace me through the cotton before she
reached inside.  When the back of her hand arched the hem, I could see the
blackness of my curls and watch a forward finger slip yet lower and then
disappear.

   Oh my God!

   A fingertip that had once bounced against my own now probed my innermost
secrets.  I was at first shy about Ellen finding me so ready, but maybe she
was knowing that from the start.

   Oh, Ellen, I thought.  I waited for you to come all the way from America
and I didn't even know I was waiting.  I waited for you to do this to me
and I didn't even know I how much I wanted you.

   Oh, Ellen, I thought, wondering what to say.

   "Can I do it to you, too?" I managed.

   "You sure?  You don't have to."

   "In just our bras," I added, suddenly sure.  When you know what you
want, you picture how.

   It only took a moment to shed the rest of our things.  Ellen's American
body was beautiful to me, her hair reddish even between her legs.

   "God, Amina," she told me as we lay together, lace brushing lace, skin
brushing skin.  "I didn't know."

   "Know what?"

   "That you're like me."

   "Just like our bras," I granted.  Who's to say?

   She climbed on top and pressed her thigh between mine, the force of her
whole body directing itself to where I felt it most.

   "Oh yes," I was wanting to tell her, but didn't know what girls say to
each other.  A man is designed to mechanically control a woman, I guess,
but two women together share the same thoughts.  Maybe we didn't need to
say anything.

   By now our extremities must have been a confusion of interlockings. 
Over her shoulder I could see Ellen's butt going up and down.

   I didn't know I was so near climax until Ellen began hers and I found
myself drawn along.  I was totally helpless and at the same time, totally
connected.

   "Wow!" I announced afterwards, fulfilled unlike I'd ever done on my own.
It had been so easy, sharing everything.  We were pretty alike in that
respect, too.

   "Double wow!" my lover agreed, which I took at her word.  St.  Mary's
girls believe in honesty.

   "But you know what?" she added.

   "What?"

   "The main thing is to do it together."

   I told her she was right.

   "Even if I wasn't that good at it," Ellen demurred, maybe to not sound
too experienced.

   "Are you kidding?" pinning her hand by crossing my legs.  "And anyway, I
never said you could," I added for the record in case I wasn't a lesbian.

   We both grinned.  Two Class XI virgins, so to speak, lovers in our
matching American bras.

   I straightened both our straps.

   THE END

   Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My
problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As
literary errors (or just lame word usages) are made known, I'll repair that
which is salvageable on /~Holly_Rennick.  If you take
the time to read me, don't wade through an early version.

   You can contact me via the site's message form.
   Holly