Bedding Down, A Collection of Winter Erotica by Rachel Krame Bussel
Authors: Rachel Krame Bussel
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ass as we danced.
When the pilot was picked up, Roger had been hired full-
time. And our little fling had turned real, as Velveteen Rabbit real as cute meets like that can be in the make-believe world of Los Angeles.
But now, thirty days in, the mood was changing, if not the
weather. Roger’s attitude seemed frostbitten as he huddled over his laptop, shades drawn against the sunlight whenever I wasn’t there to fling up the blinds, dark clothes matching his scowl.
The closer we got to Christmas, the bleaker the forecast of his emotions.
I rolled out of the apartment complex toward the pedestrian
path, my skates sliding on the smooth concrete surface glisten-
ing with silver sparkles like crushed diamonds. When I rounded
the bend, I caught my first panoramic shot of the beach. There
was nary a snowdrift in sight. Instead, the gold-sanded beach
glowed with festive parasols and the world’s most attractive
people. Los Angeles attracts beauty like a magnet. That was an
integral part of the sitcom Roger was writing. The weather girl in the story was a beauty who had fallen for an average Joe of a guy. The conceit of the sitcom was that this perky little meteorologist actually could change the weather, as if in a modern-day version of Bewitched .
I wished this was magic I could perform, as well.
My new beau had grown up back East, with Technicolor foli-
age and honest-to-goodness seasons. I’d heard him wax poetic
I t’s N ot the W eather
93
about the way trees actually changed colors, heard him describe the seductive crackle of fallen leaves under his boot heels, the need for different clothes throughout the year. Roger seemed
to feel that one shouldn’t enjoy picture-perfect weather without first paying the price, as if so many uninterrupted days of sunshine in a row was something obscene.
“You can’t wear a bathing suit in December in New York
City,” he’d said solemnly the night before as I’d paraded around in my brand-new two-piece from Powder Puff Pin-Ups, a blue
bikini adorned with rhinestone-studded snowflakes. “You need
scarves and hats, overcoats and earflaps.”
Earflaps . I’d shuddered.
“At home, I have three winter coats in various thicknesses—
mild, snowstorm, and blizzard—along with stripy scarves,
gloves, galoshes . . .” Roger had spoken the words with pride,
like a Boy Scout describing hard-earned badges.
The truth was that although I tried dutifully to understand
Roger’s dismay, I loved my closet—filled with tiny little sun-
dresses, stiletto sandals, and a different bathing suit for every day of the week. My work outfits were admittedly a bit more
subdued—mostly pastel-hued skirt suits—but off camera,
my clothes were my own. While Roger described his jackets
in terms of the type of storm-protection each one offered, my
clothing could mostly be divided by levels of transparency—
sheer, diaphanous, translucent. I owned tiny crocheted sweaters in ice cream colors to wear whenever a chill crept in.
“Chill,” Roger had said with scorn. “Try a windchill factor
of negative forty. Jesus, Michelle, it’s not even positive forty here.
It’s sixty-nine. You can’t be cold.”
94
A lison T yler
“Sixty-nine,” I’d said, grinning, “the perfect temperature for
fucking.”
But Roger had remained in his unhappy place, flicking from
one weather report to the next, and I’d had to warm up my-
self. Retreating to the bedroom, I’d imagined that I was a snow bunny, that Roger was watching me make snow angels, that he
fucked me in that sea of powdery pearlescent whiteness. The
snow was sublime in my daydream, glittering like shaved glass,
soft as eiderdown. And then there was me . . . Naked? No.
All Roger’s talk about weather gear had put a momentary
crimp on my fantasy. Then my mind conjured up a comely lilac
snowsuit, with a zipper that ran from neck to the split between my legs. The teeth of the zipper were a dark fuchsia,
When the pilot was picked up, Roger had been hired full-
time. And our little fling had turned real, as Velveteen Rabbit real as cute meets like that can be in the make-believe world of Los Angeles.
But now, thirty days in, the mood was changing, if not the
weather. Roger’s attitude seemed frostbitten as he huddled over his laptop, shades drawn against the sunlight whenever I wasn’t there to fling up the blinds, dark clothes matching his scowl.
The closer we got to Christmas, the bleaker the forecast of his emotions.
I rolled out of the apartment complex toward the pedestrian
path, my skates sliding on the smooth concrete surface glisten-
ing with silver sparkles like crushed diamonds. When I rounded
the bend, I caught my first panoramic shot of the beach. There
was nary a snowdrift in sight. Instead, the gold-sanded beach
glowed with festive parasols and the world’s most attractive
people. Los Angeles attracts beauty like a magnet. That was an
integral part of the sitcom Roger was writing. The weather girl in the story was a beauty who had fallen for an average Joe of a guy. The conceit of the sitcom was that this perky little meteorologist actually could change the weather, as if in a modern-day version of Bewitched .
I wished this was magic I could perform, as well.
My new beau had grown up back East, with Technicolor foli-
age and honest-to-goodness seasons. I’d heard him wax poetic
I t’s N ot the W eather
93
about the way trees actually changed colors, heard him describe the seductive crackle of fallen leaves under his boot heels, the need for different clothes throughout the year. Roger seemed
to feel that one shouldn’t enjoy picture-perfect weather without first paying the price, as if so many uninterrupted days of sunshine in a row was something obscene.
“You can’t wear a bathing suit in December in New York
City,” he’d said solemnly the night before as I’d paraded around in my brand-new two-piece from Powder Puff Pin-Ups, a blue
bikini adorned with rhinestone-studded snowflakes. “You need
scarves and hats, overcoats and earflaps.”
Earflaps . I’d shuddered.
“At home, I have three winter coats in various thicknesses—
mild, snowstorm, and blizzard—along with stripy scarves,
gloves, galoshes . . .” Roger had spoken the words with pride,
like a Boy Scout describing hard-earned badges.
The truth was that although I tried dutifully to understand
Roger’s dismay, I loved my closet—filled with tiny little sun-
dresses, stiletto sandals, and a different bathing suit for every day of the week. My work outfits were admittedly a bit more
subdued—mostly pastel-hued skirt suits—but off camera,
my clothes were my own. While Roger described his jackets
in terms of the type of storm-protection each one offered, my
clothing could mostly be divided by levels of transparency—
sheer, diaphanous, translucent. I owned tiny crocheted sweaters in ice cream colors to wear whenever a chill crept in.
“Chill,” Roger had said with scorn. “Try a windchill factor
of negative forty. Jesus, Michelle, it’s not even positive forty here.
It’s sixty-nine. You can’t be cold.”
94
A lison T yler
“Sixty-nine,” I’d said, grinning, “the perfect temperature for
fucking.”
But Roger had remained in his unhappy place, flicking from
one weather report to the next, and I’d had to warm up my-
self. Retreating to the bedroom, I’d imagined that I was a snow bunny, that Roger was watching me make snow angels, that he
fucked me in that sea of powdery pearlescent whiteness. The
snow was sublime in my daydream, glittering like shaved glass,
soft as eiderdown. And then there was me . . . Naked? No.
All Roger’s talk about weather gear had put a momentary
crimp on my fantasy. Then my mind conjured up a comely lilac
snowsuit, with a zipper that ran from neck to the split between my legs. The teeth of the zipper were a dark fuchsia,
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