The Last Place She'd Look Read online

  “This weekend would be perfect if I could sleep and dream with you in my arms before flying back to my life.”

  How could I say no, gotta go, to a request like that? We toweled off and got into bed. We were both very tired, and fell asleep.

  Around 4:30 a.m. I heard Derrick rustling around, packing. I grabbed my stuff and went into the bathroom. After washing my face, I put my underwear back on.

  As I dressed, I realized my phone, sitting on the bathroom sink, was vibrating. Jessica had left me a message, “Where are you? I have a breakfast surprise for you. Call me, so I can tell you where to meet me at 10 a.m. tomorrow.”

  I texted back, “Researching a story, call you at nine a.m. tomorrow.” The second I turned off my phone, a surge of guilt raced through me. Derrick was more life experience and article fodder than someone I could be serious about, right? Was I going to spend the day with Jessica after a night with Derrick and four hours sleep?

  I'll sleep on Monday.

  I dropped Derrick off for his plane promptly at six a.m. He gave me a peck on the cheek and whispered, “I have so much to thank you for.”

  “Me too. Safe trip.” I drove away feeling exhilarated and tired with every breath. I thought it was my heightened self-esteem that made being with Jessica so effortless. As I drove through Los Angeles Sunday morning, before the sun was up, while the city was still asleep, I was one of few cars on La Cienega Boulevard. Watching as the sun crept through the clouds to commence the morning, bliss surged through me. I experienced a new sensation, a sense of not feeling alone.

  Back home by 6:45 I debated about sleeping till eight a.m. I set two alarms and jumped into bed. After what seemed like 10 minutes later, the alarms roused me from deep sleep. I dressed, ready to meet Jessica, dialing her number at exactly nine a.m.

  “Good morning, my pretty,” she answered the phone. “Can you meet me at 10 this morning? I have an open house today and need to set up ahead of time. It would be great if you could meet me there, help out, and I'd show you around…sort of a rehearsal for prospective buyers.”

  “Sure,” I said, still feeling shell-shocked and monosyllabic. I wrote down the address and met Jessica at a cozy cottage in Laurel Canyon. When I arrived, the front door was open. Jessica was in the kitchen, dressed in a suit, putting mounds of cookie dough on a baking tray.

  “Glad you're here,” she said smiling. After kissing my cheek, she grabbed a finger full of raw cookie dough and held it to my lips, “Want some?” she offered.

  “Always,” I answered, opening my mouth, so I could taste the sweetness.

  “We bake cookies, so the fresh-baked smell wafts through the house, creating a scent of hominess.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel, then gently grabbed my arm. “Let me show you around,” she said, modulated, rehearsing her professional spiel. “On our right we have the dining room with a picture window and view of the garden…cherry blossoms, a shady tree, great for outdoor entertaining. Up these stairs which have the original 1940s carved banisters, you'll find three bedrooms which are also suitable to be home offices or media rooms.”

  “Lovely patter, I'd buy what you're selling,” I offered, as she took my hand and walked me from one room to another, pointing out the Anderson windows, skylights, and other amenities.

  Just as we were leaving the master bedroom, which had a fireplace and floral patterns on the bedspread and drapes, she turned to me and said, “I'd love to sell ya something.” Jessica reached for me, circled my waist with her arm, and kissed my mouth, passionately. The next thing I knew, I was on the bed and she was taking my pants off.

  “Aren't you supposed to be working?” I asked, titillated by the moment.

  “I'm working on you…it takes the edge off of open house jitters.”

  I reached for her and removed her jacket, then unzipped her pants, slipping my hand into her panties. She was warm and wet. I was thrilled to be in the moment, and with her. We groped and kissed and bit each other's bare behinds. I tasted her sweetness. Just as soon as I heard her moan, I heard a man's voice.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” said a male voice emanating from the kitchen.

  “Up here,” Jessica yelled down as she bolted up, collected her suit, and frantically searched for her panties. “Just some last-minute details. I'll be right down. I'll meet you in the kitchen.”

  “Panties? Here you go,” I said softly, offering them to her.

  “You need to go. I'm sorry, I thought we had more time. House buyers can be eager beavers.”

  “Real estate brokers have sexy beavers,” I said, licking my lips.

  “Get dressed and slip out the back door,” she requested, business-mannered, while putting on her left shoe and straightening her collar. Jessica kissed my lips then popped some Tic Tacs into her mouth and raced downstairs.

  I finished dressing, moved to the mirror, and smiled at myself with an air of fearless self-satisfaction. “Nobody could call me a mouseburger now,” I said while brushing my hair. “I like being 50.” Then my mature self looked me in the eye. Was being with Jessica still a sane experience—practically getting caught in someone's bed? In my own defense, I thought—we were actually in a bed and not a moving car —spontaneous with time constraints. Future events would reveal the sanity quotient.

  On my way home I stopped off for some groceries. At the checkout line I impulsively tossed a bag of Ruffles cheddar potato chips into my basket. I chomped on chips the entire ride home, replaying the weekend's highlights in my head and smiling.

  Back in my apartment, I took off my clothes and threw on sweat pants and a tank top. Checking my email, I saw Derrick thanked me for the weekend. Jessica wrote too, stating, “You're my lucky charm. Within one hour we had two offers on the house. I'm bringing you to “help” me with all open houses.”

  On Facebook I now had 268 friends. I'd never felt this popular or in demand in my entire life. In spite of reconnecting with Derrick, I was still skeptical about Facebook. What constituted a “friend”? Was it someone you met at an event and could now contact freely for future meetings and networking opportunities? Sure, someone will “friend” you on the Internet, but will they meet you face-to-face? Or pick you up from the airport? In L.A. airport-driving friends are highly regarded. You always return their phone calls and send holiday cards every year. Thanks to Facebook, I had a whole new world of people to keep up with, and who'd keep up with me. Most would never even meet me for a cup of coffee.

  Chapter 27

  Real Love? Real Estate

  Fueled by my rockin' intimate life, I embraced my role as Yoda of love and sexpert diva with new vigor. Worlds away from thinking I had all of the answers, I knew I was on to something exciting and esteem-building. I just had to digest it all—and rest up from my weekend.

  Writing flowed through me. I dashed off a snappy sidebar: What Your Taste in Men Reveals About You. My types were:

  The Eternal Child

  The Silent Type

  The Rebel

  “Ugly” Men

  Macho Man

  Men Who Won't Commit

  Men Who Commit Too Soon

  Just Like Your Father

  The Winer Diner Chaser

  Man Under Construction

  Mr. Mirror

  Mr. Stable

  After finishing that article, I rewarded myself by watching a movie, with a snack. My choice was Sleepless in Seattle with a pint of Haagen Dazs, honey vanilla. You'd think I'd back off from ice cream, comfort food of rejection, especially since it packed on belly fat at a time when my nakedness was front and center. But old habits die hard, and still live in my freezer. I followed the film with a bubble bath. As much as I liked being in high demand over the weekend, I still liked being in my fortress of solitude, in the bottle city of Kandor.

  Around sunset, I checked my email. I now had 266 friends on Facebook. That was two less than before. Dos amigos had unfriended me. Who were they? I searched through the thumbnail smiles of my “friends.” I
wasn't exactly sure who left my page. But I was glad it wasn't Derrick or Jessica. I ended the day watching the last half of Casablanca, identifying with Ingrid Bergman's Ilsa, having feelings for Rick and Victor. She had a choice between romance and excitement, or sanity and consistency. She chose the latter but pined for the former. Is it wrong to be seeing two people at once? I've never really been in that situation before. It's not like Derrick lives here. He'll get tired of me soon, and the scenario will fizzle out. I fell asleep as the end credits rolled.

  Morning: rolled out of bed, made coffee, checked email. Derrick will be spending this next weekend with his daughters attending their swim meets. I was relieved. But he thinks his feelings for me are growing warmer than the bubble bath we shared. That's not good. I hope spending more time with his daughters will help him see that they are his true priority. An editor at Marie Claire said she loved reading my clips/previous articles. So I sent her the following:

  Recently I submitted some clips that were well-received, so I'm submitting the following story ideas for your consideration:

  12 MEN TELL WHY THEY NEVER CALLED BACK. The date was great, he said he'd call again, and the phone never rang. Millions of women wonder and worry as to the reasons why. These men explain all the different reasons that keep them from picking up the phone. Some will surprise you. Many reasons don't even have anything to do with the date itself.

  IS HE CHEATING ON YOU? — Ten Telltale Signs. Ways to figure out if your man is seeing other women would be followed by what you can do to remedy the situation.

  Your body and mind are in the best shape they've ever been in. But between your busy schedule, and just not meeting anyone new, sleeping alone has become your state of affairs. STAYING SANE WHILE CELIBATE would be anecdotes and advice from women and men who have been celibate for months and years, as well as doctors, psychologists, and psychotherapists.

  THE BEST BREAK-UP I EVER HAD would be a roundup of healthy experiences and ways to achieve relationship closure that help you heal and move on. This would include real-life anecdotes and advice from psychologists and therapists.

  Anyone could see what was on my mind by the story ideas I was pitching. I pressed send and took a shower. After drying my hair and putting on a new pair of yoga pants, I went back to my computer. Email from Jessica:

  Today's a new caravan for open houses. Love for you to join me.

  Hmm, what do you learn on caravans for open houses? The downturn in the economy created an abundance of short sales. How could my readers of women's magazines benefit from that? If I learned more about real estate, staging homes for sale, décor, mortgages, short sales, and foreclosures, I could expand the subject matter I was also growing tired of writing about, as well as pitch to a new group of well-paying publications. I called Jessica, and agreed to join her.

  Changing my clothes to look more like a broker going on a caravan, I took my larger purse and grabbed a notebook so I could learn more and increase my knowledge of home-selling, buying, and everything in between.

  Jessica and I spent the afternoon driving from house to house. I learned about flooring, inset lighting, bonus rooms, and school districts. And, I got to see Jessica in action—confident, detail-oriented, and poised to immediately find the key selling points of every home we explored. Loving her smarts, we ended the day at El Coyote. Over margaritas and burritos, we recapped the day's events and how this fit in with the week's activities of being a successful real estate broker, especially in this difficult market. I was feeling giddy with knowledge, and not ready for the day to end.

  “Jess, do you have anywhere to be?” I asked, not sure what I was up for. “I was thinking about taking a walk through the Beverly Center, maybe some retail therapy. I've learned so much today. The best way for me to process information is to digest it at a makeup counter. Maybe Bloomingdale's or Sephora?” I inquired.

  “Sure, why not?” she responded eagerly.

  Next, we giggled through Sephora, trying on lipsticks, eye shadows, rubbing skin lotions on each other's hands with the zeal of high school girls. The ease and comfort I felt being near her, able to touch and laugh unselfconsciously filled me with joy.

  “I never did anything like this with my last girlfriend,” Jessica remarked, while inspecting under-eye concealers.

  “What did you two enjoy together?” I asked, hoping to learn more about her.

  “We spent a lot of time visiting each other's parents. Dinner on Friday nights with hers, Sunday brunches with mine. I guess she really wanted a domesticated life. I didn't realize how straight she wanted to be.”

  “What do you mean?” I inquired.

  “She left me for a man. Saw him behind my back while we lived together.”Yow, that smarted. I wiped lipstick number five from my mouth and tried to change the subject. “Seen anything here you want?” I said, pointing to the lipsticks.

  “Just you, babe.” She nuzzled me, made her selection, and walked to the register.

  After we each bought a lipstick (mine was mad mauve, hers was peaches n' cream) we went back to the car. As soon as we'd each closed our door, we looked at one another. Before we could buckle into our seatbelts, we started making out.

  Twenty minutes later, when the lip-lock cooled down, Jessica said, “Want to go somewhere else?”

  “Sure!” I said, bubbling with anticipation, not even caring where it was, as long as it was with her, feeling deliriously happy and joyfully sane. Then Jessica drove to our next destination…

  Chapter 28

  Self-Pleasure Shopping

  Feeling revitalized, I relished being with Jessica; she was quite intriguing, sexually and otherwise, because she kept so much inside, revealing her secrets slowly and discreetly like a Renaissance courtesan or geisha. I assumed she was a wise, knowledgeable lover who after ending her last relationship was looking to have her love life jump-started, like a car with a bad battery. I longed to tease out and provoke her inner vixen.

  I was surprised and pleased when she drove to The Pleasure Chest, a store that sold erotic paraphernalia. Located on Santa Monica Boulevard, between Boys Town in West Hollywood and the newly immigrated Ukrainian community, the parking lot was almost full. There was one spot near the door. Jessica's car slid into the spot.

  The store was as packed as a mall two days before Christmas. None of the patrons paid attention to us, two old broads strolling through the aisles of the sexual supermarket. We passed dildos, cock rings, spikes, and leather gear. We each discreetly pointed at items we found ridiculous or horrifying, like electronic-powered penis pumps or dildos longer than umbilical cords.

  “With stuff like this, guys need us like they need a third testicle,” said Jessica. “Pierced, tattooed, or otherwise.”

  We turned a corner and faced a floor-to-ceiling wall of vibrators. We stopped and carefully touched and explored each cylindrical pleasure toy, reading the promises on the packages: ribbed, waterproof, soft, pliable, powerful.

  “Are you buying anything?” I asked, eager to learn her dildo preferences, thinking this would give me a clue about her sexual preferences.

  “Oh, of course,” she said.

  “Which call out to you?” I asked.

  “Simple and uncomplicated is always best,” she said, suddenly cool and certain.

  Most of the vibrators had a scary, space-age, intimidating mystique. About eight models of waterproof, exotic novelties, all endorsed by a television sexpert from the show Talk Sex with Sue Johnson, were at eye level on the wall. We'd both seen Sue's show on the Oxygen network. She was a retired nurse— and about 70 years old. On her call-in show, she spoke about sex with the same delight and matter-of-factness as Martha Stewart preparing a pie crust. So, counting on her expertise, we narrowed our sights to Sue-approved toys.

  I took one off the wall, showed it to Jessica, and asked, “What do you think?”

  “Good width, not pliable enough. It'll be too hard,” she replied authoritatively.

  I felt like Goldilo
cks in the dildo store: too big, too little, or just right? I put it back and reached for another. “What about this one?”

  Jessica shook her head. “No, I had one like that. It set off the metal detector in the airport. I was detained and searched,” she stated matter-of-factly as she reached for a package containing a sea green item with a purposefully rounded head. It was a cross between the inside of a tube of toothpaste and the sea creature, Cecil, from the cartoon of my childhood, Beany and Cecil. It was called Royal Servant and the shape resembled the penis of my college boyfriend.

  I took the package from Jessica, inspected further, and read the box. It was a keeper. She took another Royal Servant from the wall.

  “We're buying identical vibrators?” I asked her, intrigued by her dildo confidence and familiarity.

  Jessica shrugged. “Years ago, I worked in a store like this in Miami. The police busted the store. I got arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior,” Jessica said, laughing, as we each held our purchases and walked to the cash register.

  I paused, looked her up and down, and said, “How come I never knew this?”

  “I was a different woman in another life. Once your free bird tastes fear, you never fly the way you used to.” When Jessica was profound and off-handed, I knew it meant, 'Don't ask any more questions.'

  The checkout girl opened each package and inserted batteries to make sure that “he” worked. Then she asked if we wanted to buy the batteries. We each said “No,” confident that we had a stash in our respective junk drawers at home. Then the girl asked us, “Please test that the texture and movement is agreeable to you.” She was like a sommelier in a restaurant uncorking a bottle of wine.

  “He” passed the test and we grabbed our respective black plastic bags containing our Royal Servant and drove to my house. Because we each had challenging work days the following day, we shared a friendly hug goodnight before Jessica drove home.

  I went upstairs, unlocked my door, and rushed straight to my battery stash. There were batteries there: C batteries, D batteries, and AAA batteries—but no AAs for my new vibrator. Oh, no. I bolted into the bedroom and pirated my television remote. More AAAs. Even now, when I thought my orgasm was within my battery-operated control, self-pleasure was fraught with frustration. The moment was laughably disappointing, like most of my sex life.