"Supposedly Fun Things (Twilight x Gilda)"
By JeffMango (https://pastebin.com/u/JeffMango)

URL: https://pastebin.com/M3Udp91W
Created on: Monday 12th of June 2017 03:20:35 PM CDT
Retrieved on: Saturday 31 of October 2020 10:46:21 PM UTC


>There’s a certain quality to a Midwestern summer that really doesn’t exist anywhere else on the globe
>The air is thick and hot, smelling vaguely of sweat and corn-dust, and the sky above you seems to stretch forever in all directions like some sort of inverted neon-blue globe
>There’s absolutely nothing between you and the sun, and within minutes the sweat starts to break out along your scalp, dripping in hotly and fiendishly onto your normally-pristine glasses
>You raise a hand to wipe them away, and when your vision is cleared, you see that the line for the Sound Tech tent is moving again
>You shuffle forward with the rest of them, feeling immensely out of place in your plaid skirt and vest
>Most of the kids waiting in line are barely sixteen, dressed in faded jeans and t-shirts with acid holes eaten through them
>Nearly all of them have oversized headphones, with chords dangling across their shoulders and disappearing into the recesses of pockets stretched by trendy MP3 players
>Even though most of them are lost in their music, or examining what little of the Ponyville City Fair grounds can be seen, you can still feel the little angst-goblins taking occasional glances over at you
>You can’t tell if they’re watching you because you stick out, or out of lecherous teenage-boy desire, or both
>Either way, it makes you sick, and you’re starting to wonder why you thought this was a good idea

>Back when you were a kid, your parents would take you to the Ponyville City Fair every summer; it was a sort of a ritual, a supposed escape from the hustle and bustle of the city
>But even as a five-year-old girl, you always found like it felt very little like an escape from hustle and/or bustle, and more like just throwing yourself into crowds that were much more rugged, jostly, and offensive-smelling than those in Canterlot
>Because there’s a very special type of crowd that only exists in the Midwest, this sort of ambling summation of overweight bodies that lopes between food stands and benches, all while someone somewhere, just out of view, is dropping F-bombs at their kids
>So yeah, you’re not really a fan of the whole fair scene
>But they put out an ad saying they needed Sound Techs for the Sick Puppies concert (yes, apparently that’s a band that still exists) that’s happening later tonight, and you’re a starving University of Canterlot student, and that little combination of misfortunes lead you to this line, standing in muddy, churned up grass that smells vaguely of armpit, as you wait to be admitted
>Finally, you reach the head of the line, and receive your “Twilight Sparkle: Sound Technician” badge, along with a small instruction pamphlet that details what you personally will be doing today
>The man handing them out is quiet, resembling the glassy, stretched figure you’d expect from a Midwestern farmer
>You take your things and head further into the fairgrounds, checking over the itinerary
>Judging by the schedule, it looks like you won’t have any real responsibilities until around 8 PM, which leaves you with…
>…Christ, that’s almost eight hours you need to kill
>What are you going to do in this dump for eight hours?
>There’s no way in hell you’re ever getting on any of these centrifugal-force nightmares they call rides; each one of them looks like they haven’t been maintained in any way shape or form in twenty years, resembling spiders machines of rusting pipe and chainbelts that squeak and churn under the effort of their ridiculous momentum
>Fortunately, at the very least, your Sound Tech badge does entitle you to twenty dollars of free food, so you have that to look forward to

>Then again, when you check out the food stands, suddenly it’s starting to sound like it entitles you more to twenty dollars worth of diabetes; it seems that the only stuff on the menu is various forms of fried dough or crushed ice slathered in syrup
>Not particularly appetizing
>So you just sort of wander around, for a bit, your stomach rumbling
>The fairgrounds are laid out without any sort of discernible pattern; just a massive maze of pink and yellow tents, heaped in zig-zag lines in an effort to avoid the churned-up sections of mud
>This early in the day, there still aren’t a lot of patrons in the place yet; mostly either couples in their twenties carrying disinterested infants, or the elderly
>So you’re able to enjoy at least a little bit of peace before the throngs arrive
>Still, you have this odd sense that someone’s following you
>Which probably isn’t totally off-mark; after all, it’s a fair, there’s probably some other morning straggler making their way along a similar path
>But that doesn’t do much to calm your nerves, and you can swear you can hear sloshing footsteps tracing you just out of sight, somewhere amongst the grungy tents

>Gradually, you make your way over to the rear section of the fairgrounds, stepping carefully along the path to avoid getting your shoes dirty
>Again, you really have to wonder, what made you think you had to dress up for this?
>Not only are you the nicest-dressed person by far, these shoes are already hurting your feet after only walking half a kilometer, and you can tell you’ll be aching by the end of tonight
>Near the edge of the fairgrounds, though, you come across a surprisingly pleasant-looking ride
>Nothing terrible interesting, of course, which is probably why they buried it back here; it’s a single metal cage, about five feet by five feet, and is supported on a metal arm that seems to function vaguely like a cherrypicker
>Basically, it lifts you a hundred or so feet in the air, and lets you get a view of the entire fairgrounds, and of the clippings of Ponyville that can be seen over the hilly horizon
>You wouldn’t mind a look at the town; it’s a sunny morning, cloudless, so you can imagine you’ll get a pretty decent view
>A faded plastic sign hangs over the ride’s entrance, announcing it as the Sky-Hi View (sic)
>As you step inside, two pimple-faced kids — one of which is impossible short and fat, the other impossible tall and skinny, like they stepped out of a some old black-and-white comedy routine — pester you for tickets
>You flash them your Sound Tech badge, trying your best to look professional, and they just sort of shrug
>When you step inside the cage, it wobbles a little more than you’re comfortable with
>The floor, walls, and ceiling are all wire mesh, giving you a fairly unobstructed view of the entirety of your surroundings
>The two boys whisper something to each other, and the fat one eases a control lever downwards
>Pistons hiss and groan as the metal arm extends upwards in some phallic display of power, lifting you up, up into the air
>The machine doesn’t extend to its full height, though, for whatever reason
>The two boys only take you about forty feet in the air, giving you enough vantage to see the surrounding tents, the empty parking lot, and not much more
>A little disappointing, but you suppose it’s peaceful
>You stand at the far edge of the cage, with your fingers threaded through the holes in the mesh
>Leaning your head back, you take a long, pensive breath, letting the cool morning air fill your lungs
>That’s when you hear snickering coming from below you
>It’s not particularly loud, but some trick of the breeze carries the insect-chatter of the two boys laughing up to your ears
>You glance downward, and they immediately look away
>For a moment, you wonder what the hell they’re laughing at
>Then it occurs to you that the floor, being mesh, is completely see-through
>And you’re wearing a skirt
>Beneath which, of course, are nothing but your shoes, socks, and a pair of frayed white panties you’ve owned since you were about twelve years old
“H-hey!  Stop!”
>You should down at them, but your voice sounds shrill and weak, easily diffusing into the empty sky
“I said p-put me down!  Stop looking at me!”
>You cross your legs, obstructing their view, but the boys continue to laugh
>The fat one jostles the lever, making the cart rattle
>You stumble, falling onto your ass and giving the dipshits below you a full view of your underwear
“Cut it out!  I’ll tell…”
>You honestly can’t think of who you’ll tell
>But before you can finish the statement, someone strides out from the nearby Coin Toss Extreme tent
>It’s hard to make any details about them out from this high up, but you can tell they’re wearing a leather jacket, and have at least ten pounds on either of the boys
>Only, judging by the rippling size of their arms, that extra weight isn’t fat
>”Hey, screwheads!  Put ‘er down.”
>The voice is unmistakably female, though it’s a lot, well… rougher, than you’d expect a girl’s voice to be
>Sounds like the kind of woman who’d try to fight you at a trash-metal nightclub
>The boys say something indistinguishable, but their tone is high-pitched and whiney
>Sounds something like “Blah blah blah …you gonna do to stop us?”
>”I’ll grab you by the hair and him by the balls, and just keep smashing you two together ‘till you’re suckin’ his dick.  How’s that sound?”
>The boy says something back, sounding much less confident this time
>The woman kicks the fence with so much force a bar bends, and the resounding clang hurts your ears even from forty feet above
>Immediately, the boys cower, and bring you down so quickly that your stomach drops
>You stumble out of the cage, so furious you can barely speak, and stride right up the boys
>They shrink back, pale and terrified
“Y-you!  I’ll have you know that—“
>The mystery-woman’s hand closes around your arm
>”Alright, Susan B. Anthony, ya don’t need to read ‘em the riot act.  Let’s just get outta here.”
>Up close, her appearance fits exactly what you’d expect from her voice
>Rigid muscles, cropped white hair, and a squarish jaw give her a vaguely masculine appearance, but the size of her chest and the width of her hips would dissuade anyone from mistaking her for being male
“But I…”
>”Let ‘em jerk their dicks on their own.  C’mon.”
>Before you can think of anything clever to say, the woman drags you away

>After the two of you get about twenty feet away from the ride, you pull away from her
“S-stop pulling me around!  I need to tell security about this!”
>”Why?”
>The white-haired girl raises her arms behind her head, stretching
“Because they l-looked up my skirt!  That’s disgusting!”
>”They’re disgustin’ kids.  Why’re you getting so worked up about some horny boys?”
“Because… because that’s abuse!  They c-can’t do that!”
>The woman shrugs
>“Not like that can actually hurt you.”
“They c-could!”
>”Not if you don’t let ‘em.  Good smack would have ‘em crying.”
“But… ah, whatever.  You don’t understand.”
>A moment of silence passes, in which you and her continue walking aimlessly through the fair
“Thanks, though.  For intervening.  What’s your name?”
>”Gilda.”
“Thank you, Gilda.  Now can you find me somewhere to report a sexual abuse situation?”
>At that, she actually laughs
>Her laugh comes out more like a bark, something hardy, chest-heavy, and kinda impressively genuine
>”At the fair?  Good luck.”
“What do you m-mean, ‘good luck?’  Those boys were abusing me!  The fair is supposed to be a safe space!”
>”Safe?”
>She looks like she’s trying hard not to laugh at you again
>”Half of this shit ain’t been tested in ten years.  At least one person’s gonna go to the hospital by the time it’s over.  Since when’s a fair safe?”
“Since… I don’t know!  It should be safe!”
>Gilda shakes her head
>”Look, dude.  You can talk to the police if you want, but they’re mostly here to kick out the methheads.  I don’t think they’re gonna bust anyone for peaking at your undies.”
>You can only gape
“But that’s… that’s so… that’s so unfair!  That creates a completely unfair social dynamic!  You’re telling me that I’m just a walking piece of meat that any boy can just ogle at his will, and—“
>”That’s pretty much what I’m tellin’ you.  If you’ve got a problem with it, hit ‘em.”
“I’m not going to hit anybody!”
>”Then good luck gettin’ ‘em not to look up your skirt.”
“That’s not how this is supposed to work!”
>Gilda grins at you
>”That’s how everything works, dude.  Either you scare ‘em or you get someone else to scare ‘em.  And I don’t think the police give a shit, so…”
“So this entire place is basically just a giant creep-fest.  Great.”
>”I mean, yeah, dude.  It’s a fuckin’ carnival.  At least half these assholes worship rapping clowns.”
“That’s not an excuse!”
>”Maybe not.  But you’re here, dude.  Might as well relax and enjoy it.”
“I can’t enjoy it when weirdos are s-staring at me!  That’s awful!”
>”So you’re gonna let a few perverts win?  The horny highschool kids get to control when you have fun?”
“No!  I’m just… I’m mad!”
>”Then kick someone’s ass!”
>A toothy grin spreads across Gilda’s face
>”We could totally fuck those two up.  I know where we can get a couple of rebar bars.  One hit from one of those, and—“
“I’m n-not going to beat anyone’s ass.  I’m gonna file a complaint.  Where’s the security?”
>Gilda rolls her eyes, and points you in the direction of a booth with a cardboard “Security” sign hanging from its door
>You head over, and file your complaint

>It’s easier than you think; just a few forms to fill out, then a slightly-chubby police officer heads over to deal with the two
>Who are named Snip and Snails, apparently; you can’t help but chuckle a little at the non-irony in that
>When you walk out of the tent, though, your righteous indignation starts to fade, leaving just feeling a little…
“Bleh.”
>”What’s up?  Not feeling as great as you thought you would?”
“Not really…”
>”Told ya, dude.  Shoulda just whooped their asses.”
“I told you, I’m not whooping anyone’s ass.”
>”Then you can just ignore them.”
“I can’t ignore what they did!”
>”Why not?”
“Because it’s gross!”
>”So?  Just forget about it, dude.  Fuckin’ officer Krupke or whatever will deal with their asses.”
“How am I supposed to ignore something like that?  It makes me feel digusting?”
>”Fuck if I know, dude.  You’re at a fair, right?  There’s gotta be something that’ll take your mind off it.  Just, you know… enjoy yourself.  Don’t let some idiots ruin your day.”
“Easier said than done.”
>Gilda shrugs, concealing a tiny smile
>”Hey, I’ve got an idea.”
>She throws her arm around your shoulders then starts to march, steering you away from the security tent and back towards the central hub of the fair
>”How about you buy me some wings?”
“W-what?  No, I’m not gonna buy you wings…”
>”Aw, c’mon.  I saved you back there.”
>You frown
“Right, you did.  Okay, I’ll get some wings.”
>”Bitchin’.  There’s a fucking killer wing place over on that end.  Just hope you’re okay with spicy stuff.”

>You’re not
>You buy yourself and Gilda a boat of wings (you think it’s a Midwest thing, serving food in white-paper boats, such that the sauce inevitably eats through the material and ends up making an ungodly mess) and the two of you meander your way towards the picnic tables
>Though you try one of the wings, the resulting pain is so great that you decide you’d rather skip lunch than try to force any more down
>Gilda, however, mows the bonéd chunks of meat down like there’s no tomorrow, pausing to wipe her cheeks free of sauce only when absolutely necessary
>”God DAMN that is good!”
>She slams her fist on the table, then cracks open a can of Bud Light, downing the whole thing in three gulps
>You have no idea where the can came from, but you have the sneaking suspicion it was hidden somewhere in her leather jacket
>She looks at you, her eyes slightly glazed with content
>”Not hungry?”
“Not particularly.”
>”Damn, dude.  You still messed up about that whole thing?”
“Kinda.”
>She grins
>”Well, I know what’ll cheer ya up.  Let’s go ride something legit!  I hear the Wheel o’ Fire is finally up.”
“God no.  I’d rather not throw up my breakfast.”
>”Aw c’mon.  It’s awesome!”
>You shake your head
>”Fine.  What’ll be more your speed, the Ferris Wheel?”
“I don’t want to ride anything.”
>”Jeez.  You sure?  Ferris Wheel’s pretty cool.  We’d be all alone.”
>You'd swear you detect a hint of a purr in her voice, but you choose to ignore it
“I’m not feeling it.  I think I’ll just wait here until my shift starts.”
>”Hah!  Hell no you won’t.  C’mon, uh…”
>You realize she still hasn’t figured out your name, despite it being printed on your Sound Tech badge in tiny font
>”…Smudge.  C’mon Smudge.”
>She grabs your arm again, hauling you to your feet
“Huh?”
>”You got a little smudge on your glasses.”
>Now that she mentions it, you do; a line of stray sweat has left a long, gray mark across the left lens
>You pull away from Gilda, again, and wipe the lenses of your glasses on your shirt
>She leans against a tree, watching, as she rolls her tongue between her teeth
“I should probably go check in with the Sound Techs.  They might have something they need me to do.”
>Gilda’s eyes you so strangely it’s as if you just grew a second head
>”Wait, what?  They didn’t give you any work to do yet, right?”
“Not yet.”
>”And you’re gonna go ask for *more work*?”
>You shrug
“It’s better than waiting around here watching you eat hot wings.”
>”Ouch.  Still not settled down, huh?”
“No!”
>Something snaps inside of you, and the tiny damn that’s been holding back all that indignant University Girl rage breaks and sends the whole messy, squawky tirade flooding out right at Gilda
“I’m s-still not over what they did to me, and I’m not going to be!  They ruined my entire day!  I’m a human being, I have rights!  They’re treating me like I’m meat!  It makes me feel gross, and violated, and unsafe, and… and… and worthless, and…”
>You stumble backwards, and sit down heavily on the grass, realizing that you’re shaking
>Gilda blinks, for a moment, her teeth clamped around the tip of her tongue
>Then slowly walks towards you, and sits by your side
>”Okay, yeah, that… that sucks.”
>The jeering edge is gone from her voice now
>She stares out over the hills, taking a strange interest in the flight paths of the bees that swarm around an overflowing trash can
>”Listen, Smudge… I don’t know, man.  People here are just kinda like that.”
“Assholes?”
>”That’s putting it nicely.  No matter where ya go, you’re gonna run into weirdos.  Don’t let that ruin your fun, you know what I mean?”
“That’s easy for you to say…”
>”Is it?”
>She takes her eyes off the bee-swarm and locks them on yours
>”I’ve gotten my fair share of run-ins with pricks around here.  Checkitout.”
>Gilda hooks her fingers under the hem of her shirt and lifts it up to about mid-chest, revealing an expanse of rough, muscled stomach and the faintest hint of where your breasts start
>You find yourself staring at her, for more than one reason
>Tiny, pocked scars dot her abdomen, looking like angry little splotches of ink set amongst her otherwise-pale skin
>”Came here when I was like twelve.  Couple carnies kept grabbing my ass.  I freaked out and hit one of them with a rock, broke his jaw.  His friend freaked out, and shot me with a BB gun about twenty times.”
“Oh my god.  I’m so sorry.”
>”Ha!  Don’t be, Smudge.  It was worth it.”
>She lets her shirt fall, slowly, but it doesn’t fully come to rest against the waistband of her pants
>It gets bunched up just above her navel, allowing you view of a tantalizing little strip of her stomach
>Gilda looks over at you, though, and you immediately avert your gaze, hoping your face doesn’t look red
>”You should seen the look on that guy’s face while he was tryin’ to pick up his teeth.  Priceless.”
“Well.  I don’t think I’ll be breaking anyone’s jaw.”
>”That’s not what I’m sayin’.  Just, like… these people creep on you.  Sure.  But letting ‘em ruin your day isn’t gonna fix anything.  Just fuck ‘em up in whatever way you can.”
>She bumps her shoulder against yours, and the resulting momentum transfer nearly knocks you over
>”You fucked those two over good.  So just… find a way to ‘njoy the rest of the day, okay?  That way, they’re like, I dunno, doubly fucked.”
>You sigh
“I guess you’re right.  But this place still isn’t really… it’s not my thing.”
>”Ah, you just ain’t seen all of it.  C’mon.”
>Gilda jumps to her feet, arching her back until it cracks
>When she turns back to you, instead of grabbing your arm, she holds out a hand
>For the first time, you realize she’s wearing those fingerless weightlifter gloves
>Something about that makes you feel… well, you’re not really sure how to describe it
>Giddy, in the way you used to when hanging posters of Sapphire Shores up in your room as a young girl
>You take her hand, and Gilda’s muscle-coiled fingers curl gently around your hand, lifting you into a standing position
>”I got some shit I think you’ll like.”
“Alright.  But I need to be at my shift by 7:45.”
>”Yeah, yeah.  Just c’mon.”
>She starts ahead, pulling you along behind her

>Now that your mind has calmed down a bit, you’re able to get a slightly better look at Gilda
>She’s huge, especially for a girl
>It didn’t really strike you before, but now that you’re just sort of casually walking beside her, damn
>The leather jacket is clearly cut for a woman’s figure much different than hers, and her biceps seem to place the material in a state of constant strain
>In fact, if you peer a little closer at her sleeves, you can even spot a few popped stitches
>The same thick layer of muscle continues up her shoulders and down her back, where the jacket seems stretched to bursting by the prominence of her deltoids
>Following down further, the small of her back seems to blend in one long wave of muscle into her hips, which look to be about one and a half times as wide as your shoulders
>Her thighs and buttocks threaten her cargo pants in a similar way as her arms to her sleeves, bulging and compounding her pants as they flex
>”Smudge.  Yo, Smudge?”
“G-gah!  Yeah, what’s up?”
>You immediately focus your eyes back on a neutral 90-degree angle
>Gilda smirks at you
>”You payin’ attention?  We’re here.”
>She steps aside, waving a surprisingly posh “welcome” gesture towards the fair’s only (but mercifully) air-conditioned building
“The Ponyville Art Gallery?”
>”Yeah.  Figured a fancy chick like you would like it, I dunno.”
“Heh, well… it’s probably better than anything we’ll find out here, at least…”

>She holds the door for you as you step inside
>The art gallery is held in a somewhat cramped, but wonderfully chilly multi-purpose building in the center of the fairgrounds
>Everything inside is all brick walls and drop ceilings, giving the building itself a somewhat drab appearance
>Fortunately, though, there’s more than enough color splashed across the hundreds of canvases, glass orbs, floral arrangements, and weird, abstract pieces
“Whoa.”
>”Ha.  Knew you’d like it.”
>She stomps in, her boots clacking against the linoleum as she prowls catlike from table to table
>”Not gonna lie, I really don’t get this stuff.”
“It’s not that hard to figure out.”
>”Yeah, smart-ass?  Then what’s that one mean?”
>She points towards a painting of hands made out of the twisted-together stems of flowers, each of which has petals colored vaguely to look like differently-ethnic skintones
“Probably something about how people are molded and formed by the nature around them, but they also have to cultivate and care for it.”
>Gilda opens her mouth to make a snappy retort, but falters
>”That… makes a lot of sense.  Shit, kid.  You’re smart.  Guess all that college is paying off.”
“Did I tell you I was going to college?”
>”Nope.  But it’s not hard to figure out.  I mean jeeze, dude, look at you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean!?”
>Gilda just smirks, and you scowl at her in return
“Hmph…”

>The two of you wind your way through the art house for almost two hours, examining every single piece of art
>And every time you find a new one, Gilda asks the same question
>”What’s that one mean?”
>At first, you’re absolutely sure she’s subtly teasing you
>And she probably is, at least at first
>But she never hits you with any snappy retorts, more toothy smirks, or anything like that
>She just listens to your explanations, staring intently at the painting as you prattle about the human condition, man’s relationship with God, or whatever
>And when you get to the last few paintings, she even offers her own few words
>”That on’e totally about love.”
>Not a difficult thing to grasp; the painting shows a red, raw heart, skewered to a wall by arrows
>Each arrow is draped with a coil of paper, bearing unreadable words and marked with a lipsticky kiss-mark
>”Yeah, yeah.  Definitely about love.  It’s like, how you can love someone so hard that the things they say just fuck you up.”
>She smiles at you, immensely proud of herself, and you get the vague sense she’s waiting for you to congratulate her
“Seems like it.  Or maybe how the things we say can hurt someone without us being aware of it.  Or how someone’s words can lock you into a feeling a certain way, nailing your heart to a certain emotion.”
>”Whoa, yeah.”
>She turns to the bored-looking lady, a mousy thing with her hair tied up in a stern bun
>”How much for this one?”
>The lady looks up, surprised
>”Huh?”
>”I like the one with the arrows an’ heart, it’s awesome.  Can I buy it?”
>”Oh, sure.  It’s two-hundred—“
>”WHOO.  Okay, heh, sorry, never mind.”
>Gilda grabs you by the arm and makes a beeline for the exit, dragging a very confused You behind her

>”Jeez.  Two hundred dollars for a painting.  I feel like an asshole now.”
“That’s pretty normal.”
>”For real?  Fuck me…”
>She runs a hand through her hair
“It’s not that big a deal.”
>Gilda shrugs
>”Guess not.  Still, two hundred dollars, fuck…”
>She kicks a rock off the path, sending it sailing in a clean arc right into a trash-can, where it lands with a sonorous CLANG

>The two of you wind your way back through the fair again
>Throngs of people are filling the narrow paths now, forcing you and Gilda to bunch of against each other to avoid being separated
>”Here.”
>She slings an arm around your shoulders
“H-hey!”
>”What?”
“Nothing, just… is this necessary.”
>”Probably not.”
>She flashes you a toothy grin
>”But are you gonna complain?”
“Well…”
>”Ha!  Holy shit.  You’re so into me.”
“I am not!”
>”C’mon, don’t play that game.  I’ve been around the dyke block.  You’re so far in the closet you’re chillin’ with Tom Cruise.”
“I’m not in the closet!  I’m totally okay with my identity as a bisexual woman!”
>”Sick.  So you’re admitting you’re into me?”
>Needless to say, this conversation is attracting a fair bit of attention
>Multiple lumbering fairgoers are eyeing you so viciously as if to inject the wrath of god into you through some sort of Superman eyebeam
“No!  I’m into girls in general, sure, but I barely know you.”
>”As if that makes any difference.  You’ve been eyein’ me all day!”
“No I haven’t…”
>”Hah, whatever dude.”
>Gilda spies a vendor stand in the distance, licking her lips
>”Oh hell yes!  Dude, they’ve got funnel cakes!”
“So?”
>”They’re like the best thing ever invented!  Go buy me one!”
“No!”
>”Why not?”
“I bought you wings already!”
>”Yeah, so clearly you’ve got money to throw around.  C’mon.”
“I’m not buying you a stupid funnel cake.”
>”Awww.”
>Her eyes light up
>”How ‘bout we trade?”
“Trade?”
>”Yeah, dude.  You buy me some more food, and I’ll give you, uh…”
>A hungry grin starts to spread across her face
>You’re trying really hard to look like you’re dreading her answer
“You’ll what?”
>”A kiss.”
>She smacks her lips at you
“I’m not buying you funnel cake for a kiss!”
>You shouldn’t have shouted that; people are *really* staring now
>Gilda just throws her head back, hollering in laughter as a wave of righteous Christian disapproval seems to form up around the two of you

>You buy her the funnel cake
>In the back of your mind, you keep telling yourself you just did it so the two of you could get out of there
>Together, you and Gilda find the most remote park bench you can, and she chews happily on the fried dough and powdered sugar while you stew in the seat across from her
“You’re the worst, you know that?”
>”Yep.”
“The entire fair was staring at us.”
>”Looked like it.”
“I didn’t do this for a kiss.”
>”Tryin’ to up the ante, huh?  I like your style.  Since you’re cute…”
>She winks at you
>”I’ll give you two kisses.  But that’s the final offer.”
“That’s not what I—“
>Holy shit your heart is beating hard
“Whatever.  You’re impossible.”
>Her foot taps yours under the table
>You don’t stop her
>Behind the two of you, the sun is red, distended, and descending in the sky now
>Both your shadow and Gilda’s appear weirdly distorted on the grass, stretched out by the light’s arc until they meet at a point beneath the nearest park bench
>It’s almost time for your shift to start
>Across from you, Gilda is watching the sunset while licking the grease and sugar off her fingers
“Well.  I should get going.”
>”Hmm?”
“Shift’s starting.”
>”You’re working the concert, right?”
“Yeah.”
>”Nice.  I’ll tag along.”
“What?  No, I’m working sound.  I’ll be in the tech booth.  You can’t.”
>”Who the fuck’s gonna stop me?  The dweeb-central security?  It’ll be nice and cozy~.”
>She wiggles her eyebrows at you
“That’s… that’s not allowed!”
>”How’re they gonna know?”
“Because…”
>You shake your head, your brain too frazzled by totally not romantic thoughts to say anything back to her 

>So yeah, she follows you to the sound booth
>The lead tech lets you in, and Gilda just sort of muscles her way in as well
>You’re not sure how she does it; the guy looks like he wants to tell her she can’t come in, but she just has that sort of presence that nobody wants to say “no” to
>So the two of you end up in the cramped, sweltering tent together
>There’s barely room for the both of you; she ends up sitting on the floor with her feet propped up on a control console while you fiddle with switches
>Whoever the last tech was, he completely screwed everything up
>The bass is maxed high enough to fry the speakers, and the treble is weirdly washed out
>Then again, the less Sick Puppies people have to hear, that’s probably for the better
>”Whoa.  This is boring.”
“Tell me about it.  But don’t actually.  Because I need to concentrate.”
>”Yeah, yeah.  When’s the band starting?”
“Ten minutes.”
>You adjust the sound levels while a few stage hands perform a sound check
>To expert hands like yours, the whole process eats up only about ten minutes
>Gilda taps her foot in boredom

>Everything is hot, muggy, and vaguely agoraphobic in only the way a summer evening can be
>”You got everything set up?”
“Yeah.”
>”Cool.  Let’s get out of here.”
>She grabs your arm and tries to haul you away, but this time you don’t let her
“What?  No.  The band will be out any minute!”
>”Who cares?  You already pressed your knobs and stuff.  Let’s go find some beer, or—“
“No.  I promised I’d do this.”
>Gilda sighs, sprawling backwards with her arms crossed behind her head
>”I don’t get you, Smudge.”
“I’m hardly the one who’s acting weird.”
>She shrugs
>”Seems pretty weird to me.  Why’re you so caught up in all this… I dunno, stuff?”
“What stuff?”
>”Like…”
>She frowns, clearly having trouble getting the right words
>”Gimme a minute.”
“Okay.”
>Your voice comes out colder than intended
>”You’re all messed up about those dweebs from earlier, an’ the people here, an’ getting this all to sound right… even though you always take care of it.  Shit, kid.  You’re like a borderline genius.”
“A genius?  Well, I mean…”
>You can tell you’re blushing, and hope Gilda will pass it off as just an effect of the summer heat
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
>”Eh?  I mean, you’re smarter than anyone I’ve ever run into.  And, like, everything we’ve done today has worked out, right?  You’ve made it work out.”
“Have I?”
>”When didn’t you?”
“I mean, I was pretty upset about… what happened earlier.  I wouldn’t say everything’s worked out.”
>”Yeah, but you still got those two kicked out.  That’s pretty fuckin’ legit.”
“I guess.  But you’re right, it didn’t make me feel any better…”
>”That’s what I don’t get.”
“I guess I don’t get it either.”
>A burst of guitar static hits your ears as Sick Puppies (or maybe it’s their roadies, you honestly can’t tell; all of them are scrawny, bald guys in Pantera t-shirts) steps up on the stage, and begins shouldering instruments
“You’re right though.  Today really hasn’t been so bad…”
>”Of course it hasn’t.  Today’s been, like, the second-best day I’ve ever had here.”
>She taps the toe of her boot against your shoulder
>”You’re a cool chick, Smudge.”
“A cool chick?  That’s… heh…”
>”Hey!  They hell are you laughin’ at me for?”
“Nothing!  It’s just, that’s… that’s definitely not something I’ve been called before.”
>”No shit?  How?”
“What do you mean how?”
>”Like… fuck it, dude, I dunno.”
>Gilda gets weirdly defensive, for some reason
>”You just seem cool.”
“Well… thanks.”
>You get up from your chair, and sit on the ground next to Gilda
“I think you’re pretty cool too.”
>”Well yeah, of course.  I’m a fuckin’ badass.”
>She sits up enough to bump her shoulder against yours
>You smile at her, letting your shoulder rest against hers
>She returns it, doing that toothy-grin thing again
>You’re somewhat surprised to realize that your face is drifting towards hers, but don’t do anything to stop it…

https://youtu.be/qnrukC5El2Q?t=7

>Out of absolutely nowhere, Sick Puppies slams into their first song
>Gilda flinches, raising her hands as if expecting a fight, while you jump about a foot in the air
“Ah!  I g-got distracted!  Does everything sound okay?”
>”I mean, it sounds as good as Sick Puppies is going to…”
“Is the treble okay?  Too much bass?  Vocals washed out!?”
>You scramble over to the control console, chewing on your nails
>Gilda steps up behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder
>In order to be heard over the music, she has to lean in close, talk-shouting right into your ear
>”Sounds fine, Smudge.”
>This close, you can smell the cake on her breath
>It smells really, really good; sugary and sweet, and tinglingly warm where it brushes against your cheek
“Does it?  I’m pretty sure I could raise the rhythm guitar a bit—“
>You reach for the control knob, but Gilda closes her hand over the back of yours
>When she does, you notice immediately that she’s taken the gloves off, and her palms are really, really sweaty
>Is she as nervous as you are?
>Something about that realization — combined with the strength of her fingers as they close over your palm — sends a fresh surge of electric-hot sensation down your arm, to your chest, where it slowly settles down into a warm, slightly fluttery dizziness in your belly
>”Chill, dude.  It sounds fine.”
>Her other arm wraps around your waist, pulling your body back against hers
>You wind up with her breasts pressed against the back of your neck, and her abs on your lower back
>The feeling in your stomach drops even lower, rooting itself firmly and wetly between your legs
>You clamp your thighs together in response, hoping she won’t notice
“You sure?”
>”Hell yeah I’m sure.  Fuckin’ hell, Smudge.  You can even make a trash band like this sound okay.”
>She squeezes you, surprisingly gently given the size difference between the two of you
>For a little while, the two of you just stay like that, in a sort of awkward standing-spooning position, rocking slowly to music that’s hardly fitting to the moment
>Still, there’s something about just how not-fitting the crashing guitar chords are that makes the moment seem that more real
>There’s nothing cheesy or pretentious about it; you’re really here, Gilda’s really here, and every thump of her heart seems to reverberate through your neck and down your spine
>You lean back into her, breathing a long sigh
>”Wanna dance?”
“Huh?”
>”The music sounds great.  Your job’s done, fam.  Let’s dance.”
“I…”
>”Don’t say no.”
>Gilda squeezes you a little extra tightly for emphasis
>”Please.”
“I… I wasn’t going to.”
>You pull away from her, then take her hand in yours
>This time, you’re the one leading her

>An entire field of dancing bodies swirls around you as the two of you as you wander out into the center of the field
>Well, “dancing” probably isn’t the right word
>The field is full of stumbling-drunk college kids, townies in oversized flame-shirts, and uncomfortable chubby midwestern moms all jumping in place and screaming their praises to the band
>But they’re easy to ignore
>Gilda keeps tight hold of your hand, following closely behind you
>There’s sort of this air of awkward disapproval, but it’s so much easier to ignore when she’s here
>All it takes is a single glare from those intense golden eyes to get anyone to shrink away
>When you reach the center of the field (which is, of course, absolutely painted with crumpled beer cans and discarded food wrappers), you and Gilda face each other, both sort of awkwardly bobbing to the music
“I, um… kinda don’t know how to dance…”
>”Ha!  Fuck it, dude, neither do I.  Neither do any of these dweebs.  Just do what feels right, ‘kay?”
>She takes ahold of your other hand, and the two of you start ambling around in this sort of 50’s-esque Twist
>It starts slow at first, as the two of you adjust to the rhythm of each other’s bodies
>Gilda steps on your feet a couple times, nearly breaking your toes, and you accidentally elbow her in the stomach once or twice
>But it doesn’t take long before you’re both jumping in place like the rest of these idiot, hands clasped together, your faces red and sweat-streaked and radiantly beaming

>The concert’s over before you realize it, and the two of you scramble back to the booth
“That… was… s-so… cool…”
>You’re so out of breath that it feels like you’re about to pass out, and your entire body is shaky and languid from exertion
>”Fuck yeah!  You’re a… natural!”
>Gilda sucks in a deep breath, stumbling into the sound-tech tent after you
>You silence everything so the band can unpack their stuff, then collapse onto the ground, laying on your back with your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath
>Gilda falls next to you, landing just close enough that she can tuck her arm under your head
>You’re grateful for that, and nuzzle up against her side
>That makes her look down at you, a little perplexed
>”Damn, dude.  You sure warmed up to me fast, huh?”
“Heh, well…”
>You’re pretty sure she can’t see how hard you’re blushing, seeing as your face is already bright-red from dancing
“It’s been a pretty good day.”
>”Hell yeah it has.”
>Gilda lays her head back, staring up at the tent’s ceiling
>”I, uh… oof.  I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
>”Thank fuck.”
>You lay your head on her chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath your cheek as she breathes
“You know, we haven’t gone on any rides today.”
>Gilda’s eyes go wide
>”Dude, we haven’t!”
“I’m not really up for anything, um, intense.  But if you want to go on the Ferris Wheel, I’d be—“
>”Hell yeah, I’m down!”
>Immediately, the cuddle session ends as Gilda jumps to her feet, pulling you up with her
>And together, the two of you sprint off into the night

>You stumble a fair bit, and your chest is absolutely burning, but there’s a certain joy in mad-dash running
>The entire fair — now light up by thousands of yellow and purple bulbs — rushes by in a blur, and the night seems to couch a lot of the grossness of the place in darkness, giving everything a spectral, otherworldly vibrancy
>On the fair’s PA, a vaguely-familiar Beatles track is playing, sounding like something off Sergeant Pepper
>Gilda pulls you up the Ferrish Wheel, which is still circling in slow, graceful arcs through the sky, lit up by long bars of purple neon light
>She gazes up at it, grinning, the light catching in her eyes
“Whoa.”
>”Yeah, fam.  Whoa…”
>She wraps an arm around your shoulders, and doesn’t remove it throughout your entire time in line
>When you get to the wheel, a sallow-faced operator unlocks a booth for the both of you
>It’s crammed, clearly intended to fit kids instead of fully-grown adults
>So you have to wedge yourself in, ending up pressed tightly against Gilda’s right side
>Not something you’re particularly upset about
>A great creaking groan reverberates up the machine’s supports as the wheel starts to turn, slowly lifting you upwards along a rusted metal arc
>Gilda leans back, crossing her arms behind her head, and you let your head rest against her forearm
>Below you, the fair recedes into a mish-mash of brightly colored lights, illuminated booths, and streams of excited kids racing from one to the other, carrying slowly-melting desserts and tucking stuffed animals under their arms
“You know…”
>”Hm?”
“I wish I’d gotten a chance to see the fair like this when I was younger.”
>”What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.  It just kind of hit me how… exilerating all of this is.”
>”Hah.  Yeah.  I got some good memories tied to this trash heap.”
“Am I going to be one of them?”
>Gilda looks at you, her face blank
>”What, you think I’m not gonna talk to you again?”
“I… I dunno… it wouldn’t be the first time…”
>”Jesus.  Hell no, Smudge.  You have any idea how hard it is to find another dyke around here?”
“I’m not a—!”
>”Yeah, yeah, I know.  You’re a super special kind of dyke, or whatever.”
>Gilda uncrosses her arms and throws one of them around your shoulders, pulling you against her
>Immediately, whatever socially justified retort that was forming on your tongue disintegrates as the heat of her proximity floods into you
>”But still.  You promised me a kiss earlier, remember?”
>You’re acutely aware that her nose is only centimeters away from yours
“I d-did not…”
>”You totally did.”
“Nuh-uh.”
>”Let’s pretend ya did, alright?”
“Well, alright…”

>Now, you’re pretty certain that the vast majority of young girls look forward to their first kiss more than just about anything
>Years of Disney-movie conditioning and romance-novel endings build up so much hype around that magical moment that every innocent, doe-eyed preteen is absolute sure it’ll be this cascading, miraculous moment of intimacy 
>And, as a corollary, you’re pretty sure that the vast majority of little girls are also horribly disappointed by how awkward and fumbling the first kiss usually is
>Yours, no exception, was a quick peck with Moondancer under the bleachers, where the two of you snuck off to during a horribly disappointing middle-school mixer
>But your first kiss with Gilda…
>Well, your expectations have finally been met, albeit eight years later than you would have hoped
>She doesn’t take a long time “setting up” the kiss, like you see in movies, there’s no long, slow-mo speed moment where your mouths slowly inch together
>On the contrary, she grabs you and practically slams her mouth against yours, kiss you so hard that your breath is, almost literally, sucked away
>You grab the back of your head, angling your mouth to meet hers, and return the kiss with (an attempt at) the same amount of passion, sucking greedily on her lower lip
>She responds, gasping slightly when her tongue slips between your teeth
>When the two of you break apart, you feel vaguely like you’re floating, soaring high over the blinking lots and greasy food-smoke, and into some ethereal, “holy shit I just scored” dimension
>”Holy shit, kid.”
>Gilda smacks her lips
>”You really know how to kiss.”
“Yeah, I read a lot of— I mean, I, uh, get a lot of practice… heh…”

>When you leave, Gilda’s arm remains around your shoulders the entire way out, the darkness serving to mask the disapproving stares that you know are still lurking around
>”That was pretty good.  Just gonna go ahead and say it, that was pretty fuckin’ good.”
“Yeah… I don’t t-think I’ve ever kissed for that long…”
>Gilda grins
>”I thought you said you had a lot of practice?”
“I d-do!  Just, um… in short intervals, heheh…”
>You bump your hip against hers, trying to knock her over
>She barely teeters, then does the same to you, accidentally knocking you into a row of trash cans
>You jump to your feet, trying your best to look angry, and demand that she carry you the rest of the way out as “punishment”
>Eventually, though, you reach the parking lot, where your car and her motorcycle (you didn’t think it was possible for her to make you any wetter, but here it is; these panties are definitely getting thrown out when you get home) wait for you
>”I, uh…”
“Yeah…”
>Gilda runs a hand through her hair
>”That’s really not how I expected the day to go, heh.”
“Yeah, same…”
>You nuzzle up against her, one last time
“I’m really glad it did, though.”
>”Same, Smudge.  Same.”
>She hugs you, giving you a much gentler kiss than before
>When she pulls away, your feel her hand in yours, with a tiny piece of paper pressed against your palm
>”Call me, alright?”
“Of course.”
>”No, for real.  Call me.  I… I’ve been ditched after a first date too, ya know.”
“First thing tomorrow morning.”
>”Sweet.  And hey, lemme know when we can meet up again, alright?”
“Right, of course.”
>Breaking the embrace takes far more effort than you thought it would
>But eventually you pull away from Gilda, and wave her a small goodbye as you walk back to your car
>She stays put, her golden eyes fixed intently on you the entire way to the vehicle, and then for your entire drive out of the lot, until she disappears from sight