The Last Place She'd Look Read online

  “After last night's group hug about your love life, I thought you wanted to take things easier. New birthday, new beginnings. The very things we were afraid of and running from all these years might offer great comfort and joy when we least expect it.”

  “I'd like to lose some of my cynicism—or at least believe it's not too late to be happy. I have one last bit of hope left,” I added, walking back to dunk in another pool.

  “That's a good wish. That's my wish for myself. May I share it with you?” Lila asked, while adjusting the straps of her suit. We each found a spot in the mineral pool.

  “Sure. I want to believe that at our age, if we fall in love, we won't break a hip,” I joked. Was my wish realistic or a dream? Last night I agreed to just let life surprise me—could I do it?

  “Today is about celebration—birthday, joy, and beauty. So lighten up!” she said.

  “At 16, I could enter a room and everyone looked at me,” I remembered aloud.

  Lila splashed me with warm water and said, “Honey, if you want to go into the way-back machine, I was at Woodstock, shirtless, boobs bouncing in the breeze, listening to Janis Joplin. I was from the peace and love crowd, the free love generation! Now I can't give it away.”

  “I stopped dating bald men,” I said triumphantly. “I liked going to the movies with them because if I needed to pee in the middle of the film, I'd always find my way back. I just used their head as a row marker.”

  “Age has a cruel sense of humor,” Lila said. “My boobs are racing so fast to my knees, my bra needs a speedometer.”

  Chapter 6

  Out-Night Girls

  With less than a half century left, I wanted to cram a lot of living and loving in before I was in desperate need of a walker and/or my only companion was a home health aide.

  Still recuperating from the Ack debacle and the close encounter with Molly the relationship counselor, I was having a restless, lazy Saturday, so I called Beth. She always had boundless energy—enough to lead a double life as a married bisexual, making it look effortless and highly desirable. I'd have to get one fully baked life before I could even consider a second.

  Beth was free for dinner, so I threw on sneakers and a jacket and ran out the door to meet her at the Burbank mall. As soon as I parked near our designated spot by the muffler repair shop, I saw her dirty forest green minivan, fingerprinted windows and all. She honked and I ran for the passenger door.

  Before I could buckle my seat belt, I blurted, “I have so much to tell you.”

  Beth kissed my cheek and giggled, “Careful, we're not alone.”

  I looked in the back of the van—and there sat Adam, Beth's teenaged son; his girlfriend Jane; Ricky, the drummer of their band; Fred, the guitarist; and all of their instruments. My eyes widened with surprise as everyone laughed.

  “You forget I'm a mom,” Beth said, laughing, driving, drinking soda, and brushing the bangs out of her eyes. “I'm taking the band to their sound check for tonight's show. I thought we'd hang for a while, listen to a few songs, and then go off on our own.” She winked slyly.

  “You're the mom. The mom with the most-est,” I said.

  “She's a cool rock 'n' roll mom,” Jane exclaimed. The band nodded in agreement.

  Beth and I helped the kids unload their instruments. We all marched into the dimly lit bar; the kids made a beeline for the stage. I watched the boys unwrap cords and connect guitars to amplifiers. As we watched the band set up, I reminisced, “Beth, I remember reading stories to Adam and we sang songs while he beat a pot with a wooden spoon.”

  “Now he has a girlfriend who sleeps over,” Beth replied as she got us each a beer. “I'm a mom to teenagers. Sometimes I can't believe my life.”

  “I know. Sometimes I can't believe your life either.”

  We listened to the band rehearse two songs, finished our beers, said our goodbyes, and were back in the minivan.

  “Now I'll take you to the kind of bar I like,” said Beth, switching on the ignition. As the sun set, we arrived at a small, boxy building that could have been anything. The parking lot was half full. Beth smiled as she locked the car and put her arm around me. We walked to the club, and Beth held the door open for me. “Welcome to my world!”

  It looked like any bar I'd been to— loud music, people talking, laughing, and drinking. Only here, everywhere I looked, I saw women—just women, every age, shape, and size. Sure, a few had short hair and looked kind of unfeminine, but many were breathtakingly beautiful with long hair and centerfold-worthy bodies.

  “Here, I got you a beer. Let me show you around.” Beth winked, taking my arm. I was a tourist in her side-life, and she was guiding me through her favorite sights. I could tell she relished the surprise on my face—and I must have looked like a visitor to a foreign country, marveling at the attractions. As much as I heard Beth talk about this part of her life, I'd never been to the places she hung out or met the women she knew, until now. “Here's the dance floor. There are the pool tables,” she pointed, sipping, smiling. “I love it here, my home away … from the boys.”

  I'd never seen Beth so happy. Her eyes darted to every woman within her view. “Beth, this is definitely … something,” I said. We clinked bottles.

  “You can't find the words, but you will,” she laughed. “I see someone I know. Come with me and say hello.”

  I took a hard swallow of my beer and followed Beth. She hugged a woman named Theresa, an accountant at a construction company. I shook her hand. Theresa had a strong handshake—and a winning smile. The two began an animated conversation. I felt like a third wheel in a private moment, so I excused myself to the ladies room. In there, two women were kissing while another woman reapplied her lipstick and combed her hair. “There's every kind of woman here,” I thought to myself. “Maybe I'll see someone for me.”

  The club was more crowded now, so it was difficult to get the bartender's attention. I leaned in between two women sitting at the bar, but I was still ignored.

  “What are you drinking?” asked the woman on the stool to my right. She was dressed all in black, had waist-length blonde hair, and resembled Joni Mitchell in her Ladies of the Canyon days.

  “Amstel Light.”

  “Debra, two Amstel Lights,” she said, getting the bartender's attention immediately. Before I could say anything, Debra swiftly delivered the two beers. I reached for my pocket. “No, honey. This one's on me,” she told me, with a mere nod of her head to Debra indicating to put it on her tab.

  “Wow, thank you,” I said, studying the woman's pretty face. “I'm Sara.” “I'm Corinne.” She clinked my bottle with hers. “I live three blocks away,” Corinne said, now studying my face. “And you?”

  “I'm here with my friend Beth.” I broke her gaze to look around the room. I saw Beth dancing with Theresa. “Beth's over there,” I said, pointing to the dance floor.

  “Wanna dance?” Corinne asked, standing and taking my hand. I tried to act as if this was something I always did. I took two hard swallows of beer and followed Corinne to the dance floor. Beth caught my eye and nodded approvingly. The music was easy dancing disco tunes, Michael Jackson from Off the Wall, then Donna Summer's Last Dance. I moved to the music, holding my beer—and Corinne's gaze. I gulped more beer between each song — not because I was thirsty; I needed to ease the heat in the room. I was a nervous stranger in a strange land. I stared at the bartender, wondering if she could tell I was a “newbie”, some woman otherwise out of her element. Would I be found out and asked to leave?

  Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing—a slow song—began to play. Corinne took the bottle from my hand and placed it on a counter. With her other hand, she encircled my waist, gently placing her hand on my back. After about a minute of dancing, she slowly drew me closer. I fidgeted a bit, trying to keep rhythm with the music, anxious that a beautiful woman wanted to hold me tight and flirt with me. Corinne nuzzled my neck. I felt her heated breath near my ear and smelled her freshly shampooed hair. My heart pounded
with excitement and uncertainty. My head and neck broke out in a sweat. The music now sounded like garbled voices underwater. Was I afraid or aroused? Or both? I didn't remember this song having such a drum beat —oh wait—that was my heart pounding. Could she feel it? Attraction or fear? Or fear of attraction?

  When the song ended, I asked to go back to the bar for some ice water. Corinne got it for me in seconds, and two more beers as well. We talked and drank, sitting on side-by-side bar stools. This all seemed surreal, worlds away from any moment in my real life. It was a play, a theater piece in a dark bar, and I was a character, a nervous virgin far from home.

  Corinne stroked my hair. My arms twitched like a marionette whose strings were pulled too quickly. Stroking her hair, I took a long breath and then complimented her long golden mane. The moment felt terrifyingly tense, weirdly unfamiliar, yet happy. It was warmer and more caring than recent dating experiences; I was eager and open to see where this would lead. I decided, if I copied everything she did, like a mirroring exercise in acting class, I'd be fine. She wouldn't know I'd never done this before.

  I saw Beth at the other side of the bar with Theresa and another woman. Our eyes met. She toasted me with her bottle. Corinne ordered two more beers, still refusing to let me pay. By now, I'd had more beers than usual and had lost count. The room was getting hotter and more crowded as it filled to capacity, brimming with women. I wiped the sweat from my brow, embarrassed to be visibly heating up. I held the chilled beer bottle to my temple for some relief.

  “I don't want you passing out. Let's go to the back garden,” said Corinne. She tilted her head, using the same gesture she used to get the bartender's attention. Fresh air in the breezy black night cooled me down immediately. There were women whispering, smoking, and getting cozy together. I cooled myself off more with the beer, first holding the bottle to my neck, then drinking it down like water.

  She took her bottle and held it to the back of my neck, leaned in, and grazed my cheek with her lips. As electricity raced down my spine, the rest of me felt numb. In this moment, realizing I was drunk, she kissed my mouth. I kissed her in return. Corinne's passionate lips were now exploring my mouth and tongue as her breasts pressed up against mine. It was a first kiss that seemed intuitive and more thoughtful than a man's lips would feel.

  Suddenly, something was in my throat, as if I was being choked from the inside. I pulled away and gasped for air. Thinking it was fear, I swallowed hard, then tried to cough away the tightness. Instead, I threw up all the beers Corinne had bought me. I was mortified; she was horrified.

  “I'll get someone to clean this up.” Corinne flew back into the club. I stood still as a statue until someone arrived with a mop and bucket. Then I slowly walked back inside. Corinne was gone. Beth was looking for me.

  I drank ice water, and then Beth drove us back to our real lives. In the car I was silent, simmering in my humiliation.

  “Did you have a good time?” quizzed Beth in a motherly tone. I remained silent, replaying the night's events through my mind, wincing. Beth added, “You were drinking and dancing and kissing…that's a good time.”

  “And after that stare-fest of an intervention my good friends ambushed me with, that's what I'm supposed to be doing, right? I guess that group grilling paid off. So maybe I did have a good time, until I behaved like a buffoon. They'll hang my photo in the restroom, captioned “Heterosexual puker, stay away!”

  “It's just beginner's bad luck,” Beth offered.

  “I kissed a girl and I threw up!” I replied despairingly.

  “It happens to the best of us,” Beth replied kindly.

  “No, it doesn't. Hetero puker, a new disaster film with girl-on-girl action where an ingénue blows chunks. What an Oscar-worthy crowd pleaser. My dating pool is getting so small; soon it will be a shot glass!”

  Chapter 7

  Back in the Game

  The morning after “Dyke Bar Disaster” I checked my email. I received six Facebook notifications, including one from Derrick. I signed onto Facebook to see what he had to say. He'd sent me photos of his two pre-teen daughters and the tree house he built for them. I wrote to him: 'Pretty daughters, nice tree house. Sweet, idyllic life. Wife?'

  Checked my regular email. Found one from Diana that read:

  Hey, Sara, guess what happened over the weekend? I was fed up with life and so was my friend Karla, so we went to Brophy's on the pier in Santa Barbara. I met an Israeli man. He was bald, heavy, short, interesting, and very, very rich. He asked me out that night. He's called me twice since then. Maybe I'm back in the game...

  I called Diana. “Male attention again? You, with a short Israeli?”

  She laughed. “When he stands on his money, we're both the same height.”

  “Do you like him?” I asked. “Was he a good date?”

  “He's a bull in a china shop--gruff, uncultured, demanding. He took me to dinner and God knows what's next.”

  “What do you want next?” I asked. “You've had more men lusting after you than any woman I know. Attention from men is the greatest high for you.”

  “He didn't push me to sleep with him,” replied Diana, confident of her red-hot sexual energy. “He got a peck on the cheek and that was it—not that he didn't want to come home with me. I don't know what this is all about, but I'm getting fat.”

  “I guess you won't want to do lunch with me tomorrow then?” I asked.

  Diana said, “I'll meet you. Let's go to that Mexican place in Agoura Hills.”

  Next day Diana arrived stylishly late. Dressed to flaunt her figure, she wore white cotton pants that hung on her tushless, boyish behind and billowed around her ice skater's legs. On top, she wore a slinky, black V-neck sweater, revealing her ample cleavage with proud assurance. Flaxen hair framed her welcoming face, giant eyes, and animated smile. The thing I liked most about her Diana-ism: we spent so much time talking about her life and problems that my own concerns seemed miniscule.

  Before we ordered, Diana said, “The Israeli called last night. It was a long night of sex, wine, and worship. I didn't think he had it in him, but he sure had it in me!”

  “You enjoy men, all men, don't you?” I asked purposefully.

  “They light me up and make me feel alive…vibrant. The younger they are, the more alive I feel,” she said.

  “I'm so tired of hearing men say that about women,” I replied.

  “There's something about the electricity of a passionate man, Sara…”

  “I feel so caught up in your dates. I get a vicarious thrill—you're going through it all, so I don't have to.”

  Don't you miss the pleasure, lust, and the laughter?” Diana asked. “A man's skin and his heat on you? What about the adventure of a new man and all of his surprises?”

  Chips and margaritas arrived at the table. I crunched hard at the thought of male heat and its surprises. I tried hard to picture myself in a happy, intimate moment with a man. No image came to mind. Instead, my body tensed, my blood raced, and I squirmed in my chair. I painfully remembered my night with Ack and felt nauseous.

  “Recently, I find men's surprises to be disappointments,” I said, wiping salsa from the corner of my mouth.

  “You used to date up a storm, always someone new.”

  “Beau du jour,” I responded, smiling weakly.

  “That's the Sara I know. Who have you been up to lately?”

  “I went out to a bar with Beth,” I said.

  “A dyke bar? I don't know how she does it. Or why you'd want to do it. I've known you since you were 25. You're not a lesbian,” said Diana, sipping her drink. “You're just going through a dry spell with men. Don't stress. It'll change. I know there's a husband in your future—and mine, too. No friend of mine could be a lesbian. Just stick with dick and you'll be fine.”

  Driving home, I thought about men's bodies, the physical presence of men in my life—and in my bed. I thought about men caressing my body. That kind of sexual experience seemed worlds away.
The mere thought of it was as if I were watching a foreign film of my sex life, but on the screen, I saw me sitting on a couch, looking pretty, waiting…just waiting. I heard sounds of people talking and laughing in the next room, as if a party was taking place. No one walked past me or even entered my room. I wasn't sure where I should look.

  Cut to another film—Corinne kissing me. I don't feel drunk or nervous, just good. Then the film breaks, the projector has overheated. The film is melting—screen goes to black. Even my imagination doesn't give me a break—or a thrill.

  Back in the real world, I had an article due. I was too busy helping women 18 to 35 solve their problems to think about my own dilemmas. I went home to begin the piece: Are You Ready for a New Relationship? I couldn't find my notes anywhere. Instead, I located bank statements from 1986, photos from a friend's wedding (we lost touch after their first child was born, no surprise) and some letters I'd received from my dad's friends shortly after he died. I sat and read them and cried. One thing I knew for sure: If I wasn't ready to write an article about having a new relationship, I surely wasn't ready to have one. So instead I outlined the other piece I was on deadline for: 19 Mistakes Women Make When They're Dating A New Man. This was as easy as chewing gum.

  What Women Do Wrong That Causes Promising Relationships to Die Out

  They jump into relationships too fast.

  They want commitment too fast.

  They overdress.

  They wear too much make-up.

  They talk too much.

  They talk too little.

  When writing went badly, I felt restless. When it went well I felt anxious. Either way, the results were the same. I developed a burning desire to focus on anything but writing. I did a load of laundry. I went to my mailbox and found two bills and some takeout menus. There was another envelope. On one side it had a color photo of a beautiful woman reclining at a beach. The line of copy asked, “How comfortable should 50 be?” I was mortified. Did the entire world know my age and insist on taunting me, assaulting my vanity? I opened the envelope and read: