Any woman who liked women at all would have loved them after Azure Bosom’s concert. “Vulva Dreams” was the sucking of a ripe plum or chilled strawberry to any possible woman who likes fresh and natural growing things. And the party at Celine’s, Ixchell’s, and Cypress’ was a delightful buffet. For women, all kinds of women. Not just the super-chic and independent ones like Celine, who were so svelte only the dresses moving in the dark let someone know there was a body, but others rounder than Ixchell and more heavily bangled than Cypress. Women in trousers, gabardine and silk. Women with moustaches and Camels, more subtle types with Shermans and boots. Women with big stomachs and big tits. Women looking like Smokey Robinson and women looking like Miriam Makeba. Somebody being fiery like La Lupe. And some women who didn’t even know this was an Azure Bosom party, and women couldn’t come as women but only as women and: women and jewelry and attitude and talent and ennui and good taste and body. Azure Bosom was one thing, Azure Bosom’s parties were something else; more like a slave market where everybody was selling herself.

Cypress fit right in. Since she had been in New York City she’d been dancing much harder than in San Francisco; she didn’t have such a peasant figure any more, nor the casual attire she’d craved on the West Coast. She was actually looking very expensive and terribly unapproachable, which was the look for this particular crowd. But Cypress didn’t really know why she should put herself up for auction to be run off with by some woman she didn’t know, any more than she understood what cruelty had to do with a good time. And since she wasn’t having one, she left to take a walk. She was waving goodbye to something Brooklyn and Caribbean in a scarlet satin skirt and golden flowers pasted to her fleeting tits, as something Manhattan and subdued-colored snarled, “I don’t know who it’s gonna be tonite, but I’ma fix her so she won’t never want nothin’ but what I got . . .”

Cypress was so upset she walked all the way to 72nd Street before she realized someone was walking with her. A woman in blue-jeans and gold hoops all the way round her ears was mostly what Cypress saw. They didn’t say anything; they just kept walking, and when they looked at each other, the tension of being strangers lessened. Cypress turned to walk east on 96th, so did the woman. Finally Cypress took a deep breath.

“Okay. Mama, what’s up?”

“Well. I saw you leave Ixchell’s before I could talk to ya, an’ I wanted to talk to ya, an’ ya looked like ya needed someone to talk to an’ thought there was no one there. So I followed ya.”