The Last Place She'd Look Page 10

  I believe a mid-life woman is like a classic car, a fine wine, or an imported cigar. The engine purrs, with a complex taste and a smooth, relaxing smoke. What did men want? Naïve girls they could control? Oh, how I wished a sharp, insightful man, who could appreciate the passion, depth, and beauty of a seasoned, sensual woman, would smile at me on the street and offer a friendly “Hello.”

  As I got out of the tub and toweled off, I thought, “If only I could turn away from the need for male approval and acceptance, I'd love life more and feel better about myself. I dated men and they were hurtful and disappointing. Yet I date a woman now — and all I think about is dick. Would a chick with a dick make me happy?”

  That night, as if reading my mind, April brought a treasure chest of sex toys into bed. First, she tickled my naked torso with a feather. I didn't care for it. Then we rubbed each other with chocolate-scented massage oils. Not only did they taste like chocolate, there was a heat-like sensation on my skin that turned me on. This was more like it – my two favorite pleasures, food and sex, combined! Finally, she rummaged through the box and pulled out a strap-on dildo.

  In this moment, I heard Julia's voice say, “Open yourself to the world and the answers will come to you.”

  Fully aroused and engaged, tingling with anticipation, thinking this escapade would answer some of my questions and concerns, I kissed April passionately, fondling her breasts. She stroked my skin: arms, legs, and back. I felt cared for and at ease, ready for anything. We both fumbled with the fasteners on the dildo harness. April fit it to herself and positioned the life-like penis so it seemed to belong to her body. I swiftly slid down the pillows on my back, trying not to seem too eager for penetration. She paused and turned away. I took a deep breath, my insecurity getting the better of me. To my relief, April reached into her night table for a half-empty tube of lubricant. She'd obviously done this quite a few times before.

  With ballerina-like grace, April straddled me. First she probed deep inside me with her fingers, making sure I was wet and ready. With the other hand, she lubricated our new friend. When everyone was hot, wet, and ready, the dildo dance began.

  At first, penetration was uncomfortable, then familiar. As April thrusted inside me, I admired her firm torso, jiggling breasts, and delighted smile. She was enjoying this as much as I was. A gorgeous, adoring woman was making love to me—and I felt filled up inside. I had no wants or thoughts of men!

  I wet my fingers with my tongue and touched them to April's nipples, which hardened in seconds. I grabbed her entire breast, squeezing in rhythm with her thrusting inside me. Seconds later, we both came, hard. She collapsed on top of me and I held her close. Her heart pounded against mine. Now that she had fucked me like a man, something inside me felt safe to open my heart to her. I held her tight, as if it would help me hold onto the warmth of loving feelings that were welling up inside me. This was the first moment I thought I was falling in love with April.

  Next, April brought out another toy and explained that the strap-on blow job was the ultimate in gender-bending sex theater, because our biggest sex organ was our brain. It's all about desire. The idea, the visual thrill, the feeling of power, and the unique physical sensations all combined to make our motors rev. The person on either side of the dildo was in a position for which no romantic comedy or high school sex-ed had prepared you. At first I was uneasy, but April encouraged me to do some deep yoga breathing—and like a master of meditation, my mind let the weirdness go.

  “I like watching my lover's head bob up and down the shaft,” April said eagerly, getting into the perverse thrill. While I sucked away, she revisited my wetness with her hand, frantically stroking my clit. I fondled her breasts. We both came hard, again.

  As I held April in my arms, spent, satiated, and happy, my mind replayed Julia's question: “Who do you have better sex with: men or women?” I shouted my answer out loud. “April! April!” I hugged her tightly, my ever-opening, happy heart pressing against her body, and we both drifted off into blissful slumber.

  Chapter 17

  Color My World

  I was now keenly aware that April's affection was healing a lifetime of rejection. Her hormone-replacement-derived, over-active libido and sizzling sex-fests in her jungle-printed boudoir were saving me. So I dove into April like she was the Pacific Ocean and I was a long-distance swimmer training for the Olympics. Our weekly romantic evenings became long weekends of unending sensuality.

  Sure April seemed manipulative, controlling, and odd at times. There were things I wished I could change—but at the same time, I didn't want to rock the boat. I finally had a sex life and someone who adored me. That's why I had mixed feelings when April invited me to a healing session in her office. From everything I'd heard about her work, I anticipated a full-blown sensory experience, envisioning little paddle boats floating through my veins, floating toxins out of my body. As I pulled into the parking garage under the building, I realized April must be more successful than I'd thought. With a high-rent office walking distance from Rodeo Drive, Saks, and the most expensive stores in town, surely her clientele were paying a pretty penny for the esoteric experience of her healing specialties: lymphatic drainage and chromo therapy.

  Entering the office, a receptionist greeted me. All shades of sand and Santa Fe design, there were plush sofas and current magazines in the waiting room. After reading 20 pages of In-Style, I was ushered into April's treatment room. There she was, wearing a white cotton lab coat over her low-cut silk blouse and tailored mocha pants. No kiss hello—she was all business, an aloof grown-up in the working world.

  “Please remove your clothes, and then get under the blanket on the table, face up,” she said seriously, with rehearsed composure. Then she left the room. Usually she likes to watch me undress, I thought. Surprised, I meekly obeyed her directive, sliding under the blanket on the table, face up.

  April knocked and re-entered, still serious. Even her voice was impersonal. “How are you today? Any pain or perceived blockages?” she asked.

  I knew this must be her standard opening. Somehow I thought my session would be peppered with endearments. But this wasn't a date, I reminded myself.

  “My lower back is a little tight.”

  “Close your eyes and breathe deeply,” April replied, touching my forehead as if taking my temperature. Then her hands glided over the blanket along my body as she took an energy assessment. I peeked periodically to see what she was doing. She reached for an instrument on a nearby table. It looked like a wide-toothed comb. “I'm using a guasa. It's an ancient Chinese instrument that stimulates blood flow and circulation and revitalizes the lymph system. Guasa therapy was used to purify, oxygenate, and activate cells. It helps boost your immune system.” Uncovering my left arm she proceeded to “comb” it in gentle strokes similar to a massage. The experience felt a little like a girl playing with one of her Barbie dolls. I wanted to laugh—but wondered: if I had an inner giggle, would April be able to detect it?

  April was in a trance-like state, tuning into and conducting energy, as if she were internalizing every response my body was giving off. I tried to focus on the sensations I was experiencing. She was working on my right leg, combing, focusing, concentrating. I finally relaxed, closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and tuned into the moment.

  My mind raced, as if a series of movies from childhood were being played at high speeds. First, my four-year-old self was on a tricycle, riding, then falling over. Next, I saw myself running bases in a fifth-grade softball game. My mind's eye was bombarded with flashes of color, as if a dozen Jackson Pollack paintings were being shown to me at high speed. I came back to the present and realized April was touching my core chakras, somewhere near my belly. I opened my eyes and saw a Dali-esque image: April was there, but I saw a giant beating heart outside of her body, as if the organ had dived out of her chest and was trying to move into mine. I gasped.

  It was as if the treatment had taken my senses on a psychedelic trip. My e
ntire self was like two beakers of colored liquid in science class; as the teacher poured one into the other, they combined to become a third color, then bubbled over. I was surging with thoughts and feelings moving faster than I could process them. My mind was exploding with imagery, colors, and ideas. Not a dark image or demon in sight! This was truly an Alice in Wonderland experience. After she combed my entire body, April put the guasa back on the table and walked to a cabinet that featured about a dozen square bottles. Each was a different solid color and glowed like gemstones.

  “I'm going to finish with some chromo therapy. It's an ancient Egyptian practice, using color to enhance the glandular functions of your body. Each color has a different meaning. I think you need some green today.” Removing the emerald-colored bottle from the shelf, she cupped it in her hands as if to warm it. Then she touched my core again. Reaching for my foot and uncovering it, she poured green liquid into the palm of her hand, gently massaging it into the bottom of one foot, then the other.

  After rubbing my feet, April recovered them with the blanket. Next she used sweeping motions across me, from head to toe, to clear and release energy. Then she repeated the same motions to cleanse herself.

  “Take a few minutes to feel your relaxation. Then dress and go to the waiting room.” Spent, she left the room.

  I felt as cherished and nurtured as an infant. This was the most tender, loving moment I'd experienced with April. In this time I wasn't her lover, her intimate, or her confidante. She was being a powerful and magnetic healer, giving of herself to her client. I was amazed she had any energy left at the end of a work day.

  When I was back in my clothes, April met me in the hallway. I moved to hug her and kiss her cheek, but she resisted. No doubt the white coat was our chaperone.

  She smiled. “I hope today was helpful for you,” she said. “Call me tonight.”

  As I walked to the elevator, all my senses were heightened, so much so that even the colors of the celadon hallway and the lighting seemed brighter than when I entered. I'd now experienced “business April”—a serious, professional, magical healer who threw her entire self into renewing her clients and facilitating transformational experiences. She was a master, making everyone she touched feel better—especially me.

  Relaxed, renewed, and brimming with creativity, I was raring to go home and write. Yesterday, I turned in stories on Summer Hair Care Tips and How to get Beach-Worthy Thighs. My current deadline was a relationship piece. The more I dated April, though, the tougher it became to crank out dating-dilemma articles about guys.

  Luckily, my memory and imagination were energized by April's body combing. I remembered a summer three years ago when I dated two divorced men. Every other weekend, they both had child custody; to have a consistent social life, I was in two relationships, alternating the weekends they had their kids. This memory certainly filled the bill of “dating dilemmas with guys.” I turned in my Dating Divorced Dads article, and then took a bubble bath. While soaking, I reflected on the duality and secrecy that was now a part of my daily life. No wonder my sexuality was like a surfer being tossed by waves on the ocean. I earned my bread and butter from writing about dating men. Meanwhile, my biscuits and gravy were about dating a woman.

  Chapter 18

  Crashing Waves

  As soon as I toweled off from my bath, I called April.

  Sounding giddy as a teenager, April said, “Big plans for the weekend. Pack a bag. One of my clients is going out of town for a week. She wants me to house-sit for her in Malibu, right on the water. We'll be beaching in luxury. I'm going there tomorrow. Meet me Friday night.”

  I hung up the phone and sat back on my couch, pondering. I gave dating tips to hopeful single women about successful relationships with men. I hadn't had a flourishing association with a man in almost a decade—and here I was trysting with an amazing, magical woman, old enough to be somebody's grandmother. It all felt unfamiliar, but pretty delightful!

  Friday evening, six o'clock traffic was bumper to bumper on Pacific Coast Highway, the only road to Malibu. I was stressed about the traffic, anxious, and excited, frantically chewing bubble gum, anticipating that my over-sexed cobra woman would serve up sexual adventures beyond my imagination. With the adrenaline of a teen-aged boy, I hoped for a smooth and easy, non-stop sex-athon at the beach—more fantasies, but instead of jungle land, a beachy motif. (Sort of Beach Blanket Lesbians, with one of us in the Annette Funicello role.)

  Traffic finally thinned out, and so did all of the buildings, stores, and homes. I drove into the rustic part of the beach, checking the directions. I wasn't lost—I was half a mile from my destination. I turned down a narrow, unpaved road. I was here—at a tiny house right on the beach. It looked like paradise.

  I parked my car next to April's Jeep, got my bag out of the trunk, and knocked on the door. April answered wearing a sheer black teddy, a sheer black peignoir edged with marabou feathers, black stilettos, and fishnet stockings with garters. She held a pitcher of margaritas.

  “Welcome to Malibu,” she said, in her sexiest vixen voice.

  “This is no grandma,” I thought to myself, incredulous that I ever thought of April that way. “Baby, you're hot!” I said to her, wondering how I could transcribe this moment for my straight readers. I entered to April's passionate kisses on my mouth, then neck. Dropping my bag on the floor by the door, still smooching, April waltzed me into the living room and tenderly laid me down on a bear-skin rug.

  She quickly undressed me, whispering, “I want you naked.”

  “You're not naked,” I said.

  “I may dress you up. We'll see.” She poured two glasses. “You must be thirsty from your trip.” As April handed me a glass, margarita spilled on the back of her hand. She wiped it on my stomach, then licked it off. (Didn't I write this scenario for Cosmo last year as part of my piece, A Dozen Ways to Make Him Want You More?)

  My senses were revved! I was drinking a perfectly chilled margarita, facing a view of the ocean at sunset, being undressed in anticipation of mind-blowing sex, with someone who had the libido of an 18-year-old boy. This was nirvana.

  April climbed on me, hungry, almost animal-like. Her kisses turned to bites, first tingling, then rough. I pulled back.

  “Careful, that hurts,” I said, wriggling away.

  “I want you…close, closer,” she said with demanding intensity.

  Alarms rang in my head. “I'm right here, baby. Just take a breath. Slow down,” I said soothingly. “We have all weekend to be together.” I rubbed her back in calming circular motions, trying to ease an over-active child.

  “I need you. I want you,” she insisted hungrily.

  “I'm not going anywhere.” I said, disturbed by her urgency. “I wouldn't even find my way back to the road until daylight. I'm here with you—and for you.” I moved to kiss her.

  April pulled away and moved to sit on the taupe silk couch. “You don't love me the way I need you to love me.”

  What? I took a deep breath, sat up from the floor, and faced her. “I love you.”

  “I work all week long,” April said, “Giving myself to clients, moving their energy, opening their closed hearts. You've seen how exhausting it is.”

  “You're great at it, a goddess in what you do.”

  “I give to everyone. I chose you to give to me,” she explained with great emotion, then looked away.

  I moved to sit close to her and touched her cheek to face me. “I love you,” I said again. I kissed her forehead. Those words surprised me as I heard them. Did I mean it? Was I really past dating and finally in a relationship—one worth working at? Or was I just struggling to have the weekend run smoothly?

  She pulled away and stood. “You'll never love me enough.” Her voice sounded demonic. My mind flashed to the night in the closet. On both occasions she was a different person. Was that a character, or a role she was playing—a woman in a faraway place? Was tonight's scene about a peignoir and a beach house? How could I pla
y my part differently?

  I leaned my head back on the couch and sighed. I remembered my session in her office and her remote, distant behavior. Yet she touched me and reorganized all the energy and intense feelings swirling inside me. The power of conducting other people's chakras and realigning them was like creating a typhoon at will. No wonder I found her so electrifying. Was this moment a part of her decompressing from work? Or was I experiencing what it's like to be on the receiving end of a hormonal rant? I shook my head and sipped my drink, unsure of my response. April stood, still in stilettos, staring at me. No, Dickens, this was the best of times—and worst of times. How do I turn this romantic interlude, suddenly soured, back around?

  I could not let her control me. I had to take charge. I stood to bring her back to the couch, firmly reaching for her wrist. She flinched. I grasped her hand, then encircled her waist. “Come closer, let me love you.” I gently nibbled her neck. She responded favorably for an instant, then pushed me away, hard. I fell back on the couch.

  “What do you want?” I asked, exasperated.

  “I want your devotion!” she blurted, throaty and desperate, as if possessed by Norma Desmond.

  Kneeling at her feet, hoping this would end the outbursts, I said, “You have it.”

  April glared at me, yelling, “Not enough!” Grabbing the pitcher, she twirled to find her glass, then sashayed to one of the bedrooms, her peignoir floating behind her.

  I moved to follow, but she slammed the door behind her. I heard it lock.

  Shocked, I thought, who was this menopausal monster, prettied up like a vixen, spewing venom? Did giving her all to clients make her ravenous to receive? Had it been an overly traumatic week? Was it fatigue, new environs, and high expectations? She'd turned into a bottomless pit of love-starved neediness that could only be satiated by isolating me and sucking me dry — worlds away from the magical healer or sexual dynamo I'd known.