The Last Place She'd Look Page 17

  The following day, I bought new batteries, brought them home, and tried my new Royal Servant. As I rubbed it against my pleasure zones, I felt myself tingling in harmony with the vibrator's hum. I looked at the shape and thought again of my college boyfriend. I laughed because I was experiencing greater pleasure than I did years ago in his twin-size dorm bed, fumbling and sneaking around. I was reminded again that orgasms with men could be over-rated. I could feel this any time I wanted—all this pleasure—at my control—and no one had to buy anyone dinner. Could it get any better?

  Chapter 29

  COOL–The Future?

  There must be other women out in the world going through sexual confusion and identity awakenings as I was, but where would I find them? I searched the Internet and found a group called the Community of Older Lesbians (COOL) that met near my house. The website stated that the group was for lesbian women age 50 and older. Well, I'd been 50 for five minutes and a lesbian for four, so I guessed I qualified.

  Jessica, in support of my sexual evolution, agreed to accompany me, so we entered the room at the community center on the grounds of Plummer Park, off Santa Monica Boulevard. We were faced with a dozen lesbians closer to my mother's age than our own. Some looked like they'd entered a Gertrude Stein look-alike contest. Others had feisty, ageless personalities. One white-haired woman attended with her home health aide. I wondered, “Was her aide a lesbian, too?”

  Mary, the meeting leader, 64 and overweight, had a girlish, vibrant spirit and beamed as she told the story of her 10-year anniversary with her partner, Aida. Aida was the 72-year-old braless, grey-haired woman sitting next to me. She gushed about the secluded cabin in Napa Valley where they hot-tubbed, sipped Cabernet, and celebrated their life together.

  Hearing Mary talk about her contentment and happiness, I reflected on my mother's last 15 years of life. She was alone, reading books, seldom going out, waiting for something or someone while remaining removed and closed off. How much fuller her life could have been if she'd embraced a Mary or an Aida.

  Looking around the room at my possible future, most of the women seemed engaging and happy. The meeting evolved into a discussion about the aging process.

  “I don't take long walks the way I used to,” said Doris from the back of the room.

  Another woman, Gloria, chimed in, “I've had grab bars installed in the showers of my home.”

  Carmen, an older Latina lesbian, said, “I remember a lecture on aging last month. Someone stood, held their hand up, pointed their index finger in the air, and slowly showed it curling downward, saying, 'This is aging.'” Everyone laughed. My first thought was that Carmen's finger simulated an old man's dwindling, impotent penis.

  She said, “Everything just curls up, shrinks, and gets slower.”

  Everyone nodded sadly. I continued thinking about an old man's penis.

  “If you lose something, try to focus and retrace your steps. If you still can't find it, look in the fridge. That's where I find my keys or eyeglasses,” said Aida.

  “I'm on medication now for anxiety because I worry about little things more and more each year. But I drive better than I can walk,” added another.

  My favorite part of the discussion was when Mary mentioned that she and Aida went to the same doctors.

  “We've told our doctors our sexual orientation,” Mary smiled. “We were leaving his office last week, talking about our visit. Two women in the elevator asked, 'Are you sisters?' We shook our heads 'no.' 'Mother and daughter?' 'No. We're lovers!'”

  Her comments reframed my thinking that older women were forgettable and uninteresting. If given a choice between Gertrude Stein and Winston Churchill, I'd pick Gertie. She was a lively conversationalist—and she did have those brownies.

  So much for a support group, I thought to myself. I had hoped to see someone here my age, a contemporary, for support and encouragement. But then again, Jessica was by my side. So maybe everything I was looking for by coming here, I'd had before I walked in the door.

  After my years in the heterosexual world, was this moment even about Jessica? Or was it that I finally felt comfortable being attracted to a woman? The meeting soothed my angst about intimacy with women. There just may be hope for me yet!

  Next, Jessica and I went to the supermarket to get ingredients for tomorrow's dinner. Shopping for dildos or dinner was a joyous, experience with her.

  In the grocery store, I smiled all the way through the frozen foods, delighted to feel comfortable being attracted—and attractive— to a woman. Later that day, when I was putting my groceries away, Beth called, eager to meet for coffee. We sat at an outdoor table on the top floor of Barnes & Noble at the Grove.

  “Remember how guilty I felt that I had a perfect husband who let me do whatever I wanted? Well, Jeff's not perfect—far from it.”

  “Is he seeing someone?” I enquired.

  “That would be too obvious, simple, and average-guy easy. Jeff's quietly complex.” Sipping her latte, Beth's eyes searched for the farthest spot in the sky.

  “What's he up to?”

  Beth chewed her finger nail before speaking, “He has an addictive personality that's gotten us $300,000 in debt.”

  “What?” I shot back. “That's an avalanche of debt. How is that possible?”

  “Twenty five pairs of Italian shoes!”

  “Good taste.”

  “He bought them in Italy, when I was at my Lavender Visions weekend,” Beth said, incredulous.

  “What did he say about it all?”

  “When I stopped screaming at him? He said, 'You have the other side of your life; I have mine. I don't judge you.”

  “So he felt entitled?” I asked, watching Beth's shoulders tensing.

  Beth shook her head “Yes.” Her eyes welled with tears. I held her as her shoulders quivered, and her tears turned to sobs. In this moment, her life spinning out of control, the luster and allure of being a married lesbian drained away, like her son's college funds had. She wiped her eyes and regained her strength.

  “There's more—he spent most of the money on cocaine.”

  “Is he still using?”

  “No. But I'm going to Al Anon meetings and Debtors Anonymous.” Beth chewed her nails again. “I wake up in the middle of the night seething with anger. He has a sickness. We'll work to heal him and make him well.”

  “Other women would get a divorce,” I offered.

  “Divorce is not an option. We agreed on that years ago. Murder looks attractive,” Beth said smiling, on the verge of a laugh or a tear.

  “This puts a damper on your dating?”

  “Who has time, going to 12-step meetings?” Beth said, now giggling.

  “So now you're married to his debts too?”

  “That's another thing. I filed for legal separation.”

  I was confused. “I thought you're not getting a divorce.”

  “It's to protect our assets and not damage my credit. Just legal paperwork.”

  “I can't believe you're not fighting mad.”

  “I asked him to move out. But he gave me a sad, puppy dog look and said he had nowhere to go, and no money. He slept in the basement a few nights.”

  “And now?” I was trying to be supportive. But I was fascinated by Jeff's crazy behavior, hanging on Beth's every word. I always thought Jeff was so down-to-earth. And Beth was the one careening one way, then another.

  “We're taking everything a day at a time,” she responded more calmly. “One day at a time. I cut up his credit cards. We cook dinner together most evenings. We're working hard to be normal.”

  “Normal?”

  “Balanced,” Beth said softly, exhaling, as if telling me her challenges lightened her burden.

  I remembered that balanced was one of Jessica's favorite words. Older women are COOL and have a supportive community. Older men are complicated. Still reeling from Beth's hellish experiences, I wondered if anyone really ever knew anyone else.

  Chapter 30

/>   Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry

  Rick, my Facebook friend from an advertising agency job I had a decade ago, posted on his news feed that he'd made very spicy chili for dinner last night...so spicy, he was afraid to rub his eyes.

  I dubbed those sharings of minute information pervasive on Facebook to be Narci-posure.

  I checked Derrick's page. He posted new photos just yesterday. Since we'd last seen each other about two weeks ago, he'd grown a mustache, gone to his daughter's swim meets (they were darling) and started cross training and preparing for running in a marathon. I was delighted he was keeping busy and not thinking about me.

  As I was clicking away from his Facebook page, he instant messaged me for a Facebook chat.

  Missing you. Was thinking of visiting. Busy this weekend?

  Things were going so well with Jessica. I really wanted to focus on her. But Derrick was still in the picture. What to do? I stepped away from my computer and strode to the kitchen for a Weight Watcher's ice cream sandwich. One of my favorite oxymorons, surely by the time I'd unwrapped and devoured the quasi-tasty, pseudo-satisfying, low-cal treat I'd know what to say to him. I took three bites, then opened a diet cherry Coke to wash it down. Finished every bite. Licked a dribble of vanilla from the wrapper, then crumpled it and tossed it into the garbage. Still no answer for Derrick. Went back to the fridge, pulled out another. They're half the calories of a regular ice cream sandwich, so I wasn't in dangerous territory—yet. Repeated exact steps of previous ice cream sandwich.

  Derrick: Don't race over, but if work brings you to town it would be nice to see you.

  Nice? I hate that word. It's so blah and adequate. Was I thinking it would be blah and adequate to see Derrick? I should see him one more time, to be certain that we were just a Facebook fling. Just a Facebook fling? Was that an article I could pitch? Sometimes I think I'm such a self-help article whore. I couldn't write the article till I knew/lived the whole story—meaning—when I saw him I'd need to end the relationship.

  Meanwhile, I was running late for a mani-pedi appointment. I'd check my email later and see how Derrick responded and proceed from there.

  Two hours later, my fingers and toes were glistening with Cherries in the Snow polish, followed by a visit to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Third Street and La Cienega for a lite latte. After going to my mailbox to pick up Vogue, Netflix, and junk mail/discount coupons from the hearing aid store down the street (the average age of people in my neighborhood was Jurassic and deaf), I tossed my keys on the counter and reluctantly checked my email.

  Derrick wrote: I have multiple meetings in L.A. I'll be renting a car, so I can drive and meet you rather than having you be my chauffeur.

  I appreciated Derrick's company. But I was falling in love with Jessica. This “thing” with Derrick was not a relationship…it was a working-through of past hurts and unfulfilled fantasies, sort of a therapy fuck-athon with room service and frequent flier miles. In my past, I was so used to men acting attentive and interested while looking over my shoulder at someone else, younger, prettier, chestier—the woman they would talk to after they were bored or done with me. But here was someone who was willing to drop everything and get on a plane to be with me. Wait, a man who desired me. I hadn't really experienced that for most of my adult life. I'd finally gotten a taste of the heady combo of passion and yearning, coupled with caring and tenderness, while being held tightly, lovingly, in a man's strong arms. I savored the thought of our time together. In spite of all that, it really had to end…this trip? The next?

  Since Derrick rented a car for this trip, I thought it a good idea for him to pick me up. We'd go to a restaurant in my neighborhood, and there in a public place I'd end it and then walk home. The writer in me wrote it like a scene from a movie, thinking through every detail.

  Then I saw his face and the bouquet of flowers he gave to me. Friday night, Derrick was beaming. I hugged him, and he smelled like warm cinnamon rolls.

  We went for sushi, five blocks from my place. I ordered a bottle of shoju, a lot like sake only more potent. Shoju warms the palate and goes down easy. Plus, it's an aphrodisiac. That was my first stupid move.

  During dinner, I waited for a moment in the conversation that would be THE moment when I would jump in and cut the cord. But like the scared, ungainly girl who could never find her way to jump in, even while playing jump rope, I watched and listened, ate and drank, and never jumped in.

  Relaxed and inebriated, I invited him back to my apartment. If this was our last time together, let's make it memorable. Second stupid move. Sitting on the couch, we kissed gently. His graceful, delicate fingers caressed my face. The shoju kicked in. I took on the libido of a frenzied lap dancer, climbing on top of him for a passionate kiss, my knees pushing into the couch pillows, my crotch flirting with his pelvis. My man-hunger had overtaken me. Derrick was stunned, elated, and gently caressed my behind to guide my rhythmic thrusting. Next, he pulled my hair, bit my neck, and grabbed my ass fiercely. Kissing, humping, moaning and breathless, as we both slid to the floor and clumsily removed our shirts. He lay me down on my back, putting a pillow behind my head. Then he covered my breasts with sweet kisses, not rushed tugs like I remembered from TC's urgency. Derrick made tender love to me. I switched positions with him and kissed his chest.

  Pants were being unzipped. I suggested we move to the bedroom. We hopped to the bed. His boxers and my string bikini quickly disappeared as though we'd performed some magical sleight of hand. An hour passed as we kissed, groped, caressed, and aroused each other. It was time for the big moment—penetration. I was so turned on to be naked with a strong man, and be caressing his large cock, I gasped with anticipation. My skin was tingling with eagerness to feel him inside me.

  Derrick was hard! My wetness rubbed up against him. Then he lost his erection. “What? No, not now!” said the voice in my head. I roused the fallen soldier with my mouth, and he was ready again. I positioned myself for entry. We moved together to become one—and we were—for almost 10 seconds. In the dark, I saw he was mortified.

  “I'm very excited to be with you. I need some time. Let's sleep on it and try later,” he said kissing my cheek. I turned on my side to be cradled in his arms—wide awake, energized, and frustrated.

  This had never happened with Derrick before. I'd forgotten that the care and maintenance of a male ego and their erection sometimes takes lots of work and energy—like babysitting someone else's grandchildren.

  In the morning I rolled over, opened my eyes, and saw Derrick admiring me like I was the Mona Lisa. Smiling at him, I stroked his face. I kissed his cheek and eased my body up to him, arms wrapped around his neck.

  As we continued kissing, his morning erection greeted me. I hoped it would have energy and staying power. Still smooching, I positioned myself to welcome him inside me. Our eyes locked as we both marveled at the moment of easy penetration and glorious sensations. No sooner than we realized our bodies were one, the synchronizing faded, moment gone. Derrick's disappointment set in.

  He offered to take me out for a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs. Not much eye contact as we ate in near silence. Now was not the moment to jump in and end it. All these weeks, I appreciated his attention and flirtation. That part did light me up—the way Diana had described it. I also experienced her feelings about the scintillation of youth. As much as I'd heard men talk about it, and thought so much less of them for it, I was now fully aware of how when youthful sensibilities and abilities were lacking, they tugged at my senses, killing and burying lust. I knew for myself that this was not a love connection, more of a fulfillment of lifelong longings finally consummated.

  By the end of our breakfast, when he planted a thin-lipped kiss on my mouth, I was relieved he didn't want more. A swift hug and peck ended the morning as we walked in separate directions, each mumbling a promise to call.

  I thought Derrick and I were done, our relationship had run its course, and I didn't have to give my “let's e
nd this” monologue. Relieved, I went home, certain that my future was with Jessica. In this moment I realized that I chose her. I was ready to love her and be a good partner.

  I went home, ripped the sheets off of my bed, and threw them into the laundry, eager to wash away my guilt and stupidity for thinking I'd even consider a last tumble with Derrick.

  Back at my computer I sent off the following pitch to an editor I'd been working quite closely with lately:

  Susan was attending a meeting of her weekly women's support group. That night, the theme was secrets. Each woman was asked to tell a secret they had never told before. Eight of the 10 women announced the fact that they had had an affair with a woman at one time in their lives.

  WOMEN LOVING WOMEN...STRAIGHT WOMEN SHARE THEIR SECRETS would be a round-up of anecdotes told by married, divorced, and single women who have at one time or another had an affair with another woman. Was the other woman gay or straight? Was it a one-night stand? Did they do it to please a man? Did they do it because a man had hurt them? These and other questions would be explored as well as female affairs in history and quotes from noted psychologists and therapists.

  This article would be relevant for COSMO because in the November issue the article "Being a Gay Woman" appeared in your magazine. Since the majority of your readers are heterosexual women, I think my article might be closer to home for them.

  I called Jessica and left a message: Missing you, would love to see you. But I knew that weekends were her busiest time of the week for open houses and new clients.

  On Monday, Derrick called me, desperation in his voice. “I need to see you; can you meet me in the valley? Right over the hill near Laurel Canyon?”