The Last Place She'd Look Read online

  “I'm not looking for a life mate; I'm looking for a weekend, or a month of hook-ups and connection. Enjoyment. That's the birthday mantra, right?” I asked, hoping my plan was not absurd, while trying to win Julia over.

  “Take a breath, take two breaths, and at least a week off! Get still and stop searching. Don't you see how obsessive you are? Sit with your emotions and feel your feelings.”

  “I don't like my feelings. I don't want to be alone with them!” I said, churning in my own sadness.

  I heard Julia sigh; I knew it was difficult for her to hear me speak my pain. “Listen, you have so much in your life,” she began. “I wish you could focus on everything else other than d-a-t-i-n-g. Put it out of your mind, for a while. You know, it's overrated and only brings more angst than pleasure. Besides, you'd give up men and retire your penis tree-climbing gear? You've been on the hunt for men, their approval, and male sexuality your whole life. Would you know how to stop?”

  “Yup, if it doesn't work out this month,” I said, half-certain.

  “I don't approve. But if you must, remember, this month has 31 days in it, not 30. Are you giving yourself the extra day?” she said, giggling.

  “Yeah, I think I'll need it,” I responded. “I want to stop. I don't necessarily know how to. I've been programmed since birth to seek daddy's approval and society's. Not that either have noticed me or mattered for years.”

  “Don't trash your man-hunting gear so soon. I know you…just stash it in the back of your closet.”

  “You mean the one I'll have to come out of eventually?”

  “Touché. The one I'm in—denial.”

  “At least we'll be together. I like that.” I answered.

  “You don't really have to pick a team. I'm not, and I'm not worried about it,” Julia said. “Just take it slow…you'll find your happiness.”

  I knew she was right, but I was still uncertain. “What does happiness look like and how will I know when I've found it?”

  “Haven't you written self-help articles about this? Just experience someone's company and stop asking yourself questions. Try that. See yourself in the ocean being calmed by the water instead of you trying to be a wave. How's that for a start?”

  “Good beginning, I'll try it.” I said. So I thought I'd heed her words and start with a relaxing bubble bath. I cleaned the tub and found my best bath salts, turned on the water, and took off my clothes. Just as I was getting into the tub, the phone rang.

  “Sara, it's Jessica! I'm back in town. Want to go to the museum on Saturday?”

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  “Botticelli would be more beautiful viewing it with you,” Jessica whispered.

  I walked past a mirror on the way back into the bathroom, catching a quick glance at my unclothed form. Not bad, I thought to myself, Botticelli would approve.

  We met on Saturday, at the top of the steps of the L.A. County Museum. Wind swirled around her, fanning her wavy copper hair, so she, too, resembled a Renaissance beauty, a Rembrandt muse. We hugged hello. Jessica's freshly washed hair surrounded my face, smelling like maple syrup and mint tea. The embrace lingered, neither of us wanting to be the first to let go.

  We walked through the museum, exploring centuries of beauty, discussing brush strokes, lighting, and composition. I was looking at a painting and gazing out of the corner of my eye at Jessica. A few seconds later, I saw her turn to study me. We hugged again. After almost two hours of art exploration and surreptitious admiration, we stopped for coffee at the museum cafeteria.

  “With you, these paintings look all the more beautiful to me,” Jessica said.

  “Your eye for color and composition is amazing.”

  “Years of graphic design, drafting, and architecture kick in all the time,” she added. “When design jobs slowed down, I got my real estate license. The designer's eye helps me with staging houses so they sell faster. I see things most people overlook. You should see me dress up a short sale.”

  “I believe that,” I said, admiring her diversity.

  “When I look at you, I see a bright, intriguing woman searching for a companion and a soft place to land,” she said taking my hand.

  I marveled at her perceptiveness. We stood, tossed our coffee cups in the trash, left the cafeteria arm-in-arm, walked down the stairs to the side of the museum, the sculpture garden, where all the Rodins lived. Gazing up at them, we glanced back at one another for a loving embrace.

  The hug melted into a heated, caring kiss that was passionate, yet safe and sane. I felt cherished. Things between us were fresh, new, and exciting, yet not about larger-than-life adventures, desire on fire, or taking bigger risks than before. With each caress, I felt my heart opening. This moment wasn't filled with opera or insanity. It felt like rebirth—life itself. I felt happy, peaceful, and for the first time in a long time, safe to be myself. I'd learned from my past not to hold too tightly to the future. But I felt happy and hopeful because neither of us wanted this moment to end. Safe and sane—that was my new mantra. I repeated it to myself over and over, all the way back to my place.

  I went home to an emergency call from my editor. Could I write up 5 Ways to Get Close… Fast and turn it in by midday tomorrow? After my day today, it was easy.

  5 Ways to Get Close… Fast

  Like yourself. Approach each date with confidence. You are worthy of being treated well and entitled to have a good time. If you can convey those feelings to your new man, he'll have a good time too.

  Relax. He's nervous too. Sometimes sharing your feelings, or even saying, “Ya know, I'm kind of nervous tonight,” may put both of you at ease.

  Find points of common interest. Hobbies, friends, movies, a love of animals…Have one or more of those in common and you've got the basis for a strong conversation that could lead to a strong relationship.

  Regard him as a person and not a marriage prospect. Men sense when a woman has marriage on her mind. It makes them excuse themselves mid-dinner and never want to return.

  Treat him the way you would want to be treated. Compliment his new tie. Thank him for showing you a good time. Let him know you'd like to see him again. If the chemistry is right, you will.

  I could write just the right answers effortlessly. Living them, that was my challenge. I reread my piece again, hoping my advice would sink in…into me!

  I now had 250 Facebook friends, plus daily emails from Jessica and Derrick. Her I was thrilled with…Derrick not so much. What did his new status, It's Complicated mean? We didn't even kiss deeply. I hope he's not thinking of leaving his wife for me. Whenever I thought of him I was filled with discomfort and excitement, reminding me of the dominatrixes I saw, and the men in diapers, the spank followed by the gentle caress—schizophrenic and scary.

  Chapter 25

  School Daze?

  Derrick's latest email: I have another business trip on Friday. I'm making it a weekend. So I can see you—dinner Friday night?

  His boyish eagerness made me feel desirable—instead of my usual— invisible, so I said yes. Dinner was at a romantic restaurant with candlelight and wine. Derrick spoke slowly, softly, and sweetly about our last dinner together.

  “And then you changed your Facebook status. Why?” I quizzed him intently.

  “Being out of Chicago reminded me of the world I've been hiding from. The routines of family life don't give me time for reflection or for myself,” he explained.

  “What's changed?”

  “Me!” he said, smiling gleefully. He raised his wine glass to his lips, sipped, and then gazed deep into my eyes as if downloading his thoughts with one blink. “I'm more than a dad with teenage daughters. I didn't feel it in the core of my being—the way I do now. Besides, my wife has her interests and friends—that don't include me. So I should have my own life, too. We don't share a bedroom anymore. I'm living in my home office. That way the girls keep their continuity.”

  “It sounds disruptive,” I murmured.

  “I've never
been happier,” Derrick insisted.

  Neither of us wanted dessert or coffee. After we walked out of the restaurant, he leaned in for a hug. I complied. Back at his hotel as my car turned into the main entrance, Derrick touched my hand, commanding, “Park. Come up with me.”

  I did as I was told. We walked into the hotel together, into the elevator, each not saying a word. When we got to his floor, Derrick took my hand and held it until he put a key in the door. He turned on the light, took my things, then lunged into me for a passionate kiss and body-to-body caress.

  His ardor was contagious. Both hungry for affection, here was our buffet for feasting. Clothes unzipped, unbuttoned, and dropped to the floor with lightning speed as we stepped closer to the bed. Derrick, his taut but not Ack-like buff torso had a few fine clumps of light brown hair. He pulled the top bedspread back and politely ushered me to lie down on the crisp white sheets. This was not a soccer dad tucking his girls in for the night.

  Derrick and I seemed magnetized together, with a Velcro-like compulsion, needing as much skin as possible to touch the other's nakedness, while kissing and devouring one another, as if the sex-starved hunger would never end. Why was I so hungry? After so much time thinking about Jessica, how could I be here, now? I told myself it had to do with fulfilling college fantasies and resolving my urges for men.

  After what seemed like hours of kissing and caressing, Derrick took charge and penetrated me, his athletic torso and muscular arms proud, graceful, and confident. His eyes open, studying me, pleased and delighted to be where he was—not closed and hiding in fantasy like others who wished they were with someone else while inside me.

  I could tell that Derrick was ready to come—sooner than he wanted to. So he now closed his eyes and did some energetic breathing to hold on a little longer. But ultimately he collapsed exhausted, still wanting to hold me.

  Me on the other hand, I saw this as a one-time thing. Something I'd thought about that I finally got to do—like meet a Beatle or visit Morocco. I lay still, waiting for Derrick to move or say something.

  After about two minutes he kissed my neck and whispered, “You're sweeter than I imagined.” Then for the first time since we'd entered the room, he rolled away from me to the other side of the bed, flat on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. “I've thought about this moment for 30 years,” he said, reflective and satisfied.

  That statement made me uncomfortable. I sat up on the side of the bed, ready to dress and go home. Derrick's hand traced my back, then soothingly stroked my spine.

  “Stay with me. Neither of us has anywhere to be in the next few hours. I want to hold you.” Derrick rolled towards me and put both hands on my shoulders.

  Overwhelmed by his want and desire, I stayed, telling myself, “Leave at sunrise and be done. That way no one can get hurt.”

  Morning broke, and I awoke wrapped in Derrick's arms. “Is this what it feels like to combine sex and love together?” I said to myself, delighting in the wondrously cozy feeling. I knew I had to leave, if for no other reason than to avoid morning awkwardness. I slithered out of his caress and into my clothes. I exited the room silently, certain that getting back to my apartment would help me reassemble clarity.

  Back home, I stripped off my clothes and jumped in the shower, eager to wash away last night. Was this feeling the male energy April liked about me? Or was I taught well about cowards' behavior from the men who slithered away from me?

  As I toweled off, I heard the phone ringing. Oh no, it's Derrick, I thought. I clicked the caller ID: Jessica. “Hello!” I chirped, gleefully yet guiltily.

  “Sara, it's Jessica. I'll be in your neighborhood in a little while. I was wondering if I could stop by for tea? I'll bring fresh croissants!”

  Freshly showered and tingling with popularity, I cooed, “Sure, what time?”

  “Will 11 work for you? I hope you don't have lunch plans.”

  “11 is fine. I'm still full from dinner,” I said, smiling to myself, knowing full well I was talking about the course after the main meal. The minute we both hung up I hurricaned through my apartment, cleaning, hiding clutter, the fire drill of rearranging so it looked like a home and not a cage.

  Jessica arrived on time, all smiles, smelling as delicious as the pastries she brought. After breakfast I showed her around the apartment. When we got to the bedroom, she took my hand and pulled me to the bed, proceeding to make out with me. Long, passionate kisses, reminiscent of just hours ago—I felt like the prom queen of my own passion-a-thon weekend. Confident and buoyed by all the attention, I undressed her. She raced to unhook my bra. As she nibbled my nipples, the scent of her hair and skin was intoxicating. We raced to be naked and explore each other's bodies. I felt graceful and young, new and hopeful—only positive feelings. I've never known myself to be this optimistic. I was exhilarated by passion, fueled by affection, nurtured by the attention. Was this still safe and sane behavior? Was it the weekend or was it Jessica? I dove into her with every life-affirming breath of my vibrantly beating heart.

  Kissing Jessica tasted like sanity. Each embrace and loving stroke felt as though it was coming from a caring place. Her skin was a whipped cream dream, unflawed by scars or bruises. She was sweet and kind, and affectionate on a bed, unlike TC who said beds are places for folding laundry and hiding bills underneath.

  “Slow down your brain,” I told myself, realizing I'd only spent mere hours with her, but feeling heady with hope like after my first school dance. As soon as we were spent, I got up and brought back chilled glasses of water to revive our parched selves.

  “You're a delight,” she said. “I've thought about you all these weeks away. Now my imagination gets to be in the real world…on real skin,” she said, while tracing my arm with her finger, then following the line with her lips.

  The phone rang. I dreaded who it might be. So, I didn't answer it. I just wrapped my arms around Jessica and closed my eyes.

  Chapter 26

  Mouseburger No More!

  When I began selling stories in the self-help world, the moment I felt I was really good at it was when I sold my first piece to Cosmopolitan Magazine, or Cosmo. The doyen of women helping women in the self-help world was then editor-in-chief Helen Gurley Brown. I admired her career. She coined the phrase “Mouseburger”, defining her readers as women who are ''not prepossessing, not pretty, don't have a particularly high IQ, a decent education, good family background, or other noticeable assets.'' If they apply themselves seriously according to her rules, Miss Brown said, such women could have ''deep love, true friends, money, fame, satisfying days and nights.'' All you need to compensate for your modest endowments is ''street smarts,'' good intuition, a degree of selfishness and drive. She did it with these qualities, she argues, and her ''mouseburger'' readers could too.

  Some days in my past, I resembled the mouseburger persona. But not today, no way! Overnight I went from lonely and alone to adored and devoured, by more than one person, more than one team. I'm saying this mainly for myself, because I'm so stunned and amazed by my newfound appeal. I don't think I've changed significantly to warrant such attention. Maybe the lottery of loneliness just picked my ticket to have a new kind of life. Whatever the reason, I'm ready for more.

  At a time in life where I thought I'd be overlooked or unloved right through to my years in an assisted living facility, my newfound popularity, desirability, and ambisexuality has rocketed my self-esteem to the moon and beyond.

  As soon as Jessica kissed me goodbye, I raced to my computer, eager to fire off story pitches about finding love and desirability:

  15 ways to be more desirable

  8 tips to keep him coming back

  Facebook flirtations: love at your fingertips

  Date till you drop: the do's and don'ts of seeing more than one person

  12 lies that lovers tell, and how not to get caught in them

  I guess any of my editors could see what was going on in my mind and in my life. Meanwhile, Derrick called
later that day, Saturday afternoon. I told him I was working. He asked if we could have an early dinner as he had a 7 a.m. flight tomorrow. This felt safe and sane to me. Or as I said to myself, “Sometimes dinner is just dinner. A girl has to eat.”

  When I got to his hotel room, it turned out he'd planned dinner with room service. The silver trays had already arrived with a chilled bottle of champagne. A warm bubble bath was running. Two robes were being heated on the towel warmer in the luxurious bathroom.

  I'd originally envisioned the evening as something public and speedy. Charmed by his efforts, I found this all terribly romantic. But I knew dinner with bubbly and bubbles with a man who was catching a plane in 12 hours was fleeting. I believed this whole adventure was his orchestrated fantasy, and I was the living, breathing prop of his castle in the sky. It felt yummy and hedonistic for me to play along. I felt important, respected, and appreciated. After a warm hello that included an engulfing hug, passionate smooching, and bra unhooking, I undressed to slide into the tub, while Derrick popped the champagne cork. Creating a Romantic Night: This would be a good story to write about, I thought to myself, as he handed me a chilled champagne flute.

  Then Derrick slipped into the relaxing warm water. His assertiveness turned to shyness as the water soothed our anxieties and the realization of who, what, and where sank in. He spoke softly and gently, “My time with you has changed my life.”

  “Me too,” I added, feeling champagne bubbles teasing my tongue while trying to fashion the soap bubbles to camouflage the fleshier parts of my arms and thighs.

  Derrick was now amorous and passionate, nibbling on my ears and neck. “You make me feel alive and manly,” he whispered. While pouring more champagne he said, “This weekend has filled me with amazing memories.”

  “Me too,” I whispered in return. But I was starting to feel anxious about spending so much time together, concerned he might be overreacting or clingy. “You need a good night's sleep to catch an early flight.”