The Last Place She'd Look Read online

  By the end of the evening, we were experts on the Dom Den experience. People were aroused, but never really had sex, as the exchange of fluids was prohibited. They enjoyed the exhibitionism, the voyeurism, and the pain. As I continued to watch, I told myself that I was merely studying up for my job interview (and future articles). Dominatrix for one of the great dungeons of the world. Yeah, that would look good on my résumé.

  Chapter 11

  Theater Games

  “Please don't let me have a hot flash today. I hope I don't have a hot flash today,” I prayed into the mirror, reapplying mascara for my dominatrix interview. I thought I'd check this out—as a lark, of course—but I really needed the money. My writing career was becoming unreliable. I enjoyed eating on a regular basis, but hated living on the financial edge. I also wanted this job for the adventure factor that I could parlay into new magazine articles. I drove to the DV8 building where Julia and I had explored the world of dungeons.

  At five o'clock in the afternoon, there were only three cars in the parking lot. Otherwise, the windowless building looked either closed or abandoned. I found the entrance and rang the doorbell. A very short Mexican man with a gold hoop earring answered the door. He led me down a hallway to a small dark office. As we walked, I said to myself, “Welcome to Fantasy Island.”

  Arriving at the dark office, he ushered me in, then disappeared like a genie going back into a lamp. There was a simple black desk, four rickety office chairs, and a Styrofoam cup with bite marks on it sitting on the side of the desk. I was greeted by two women who looked like the mother and daughter from an Ivory Snow soap commercial gone bad. They resembled one another, both with overgrown bangs and oxidized blonde hair from the exact same bottle.

  “Have a seat,” said the younger one, sitting back in her chair, putting her feet on the desk, fidgeting, and crossing her legs seconds later. “Have you done improvisation or theater games?”

  At first, I thought this was a strange question. Then it all made sense.

  “Yes, I have,” I said confidently, trying to balance myself on the most wobbly chair in the room. “I did acting as part of a comedy troupe a few years ago.”

  “Good,” the two women said simultaneously, looking at each other, then at me. “You need a sense of humor for this job, too,” said the younger.

  “Boy, do you ever,” said the older.

  “Do you provide a uniform?” I asked.

  “Black clothes usually work. Whatever you're comfortable in. We have extra high heels and stockings if someone requests them,” the older one added.

  “Could you tell me a little bit about the job?”

  “It's using your theater experience, being different characters, and role playing,” the older one told me. “They choose you and you negotiate what you will and will not feel comfortable doing. The two of you agree on a “safe” word. You engage in your “play” together. If someone wants to stop the experience for any reason, you say the safe word and playtime stops.”

  I nodded agreeably, taking it all in. “Compensation?”

  “You get paid per session, every time someone chooses you. As a beginner, you'll get $150 per client,” the younger one explained. “Tips are all yours. And you look like an excellent candidate for our big tippers.”

  “How so?” According to the “pros” I had the looks of a Dom Den worker?

  “I think you'll have staying power,” said the older one, while examining her manicure. “Too many girls don't have your sturdiness.”

  “Sturdiness?” I asked.

  “She means a bigger, fleshier behind can take a lot of spanking. Too many girls said this job was a pain in the ass. They get too sore, too many bruises—and they quit,” the younger one explained. “Not you. You're strong. I can tell by looking at you that you can take a beating and keep coming back for more.”

  Was that a compliment? I've never had an interview where the employer had this much confidence in me. Elated that my fleshy ass won them over, I asked, “What else do I need to do?”

  “Come back Thursday night around 7 p.m. Wear something black and sexy. We'll see how it goes,” said the older one.

  Since they thought I was bankable and spank able, I returned Thursday, hopeful, in a black outfit Julia had picked out: push-up bra, stretchy pants, comfortable flat-heeled boots (for all that standing), and a sheer black button-down blouse I wore open, as a jacket.

  There were three other women there; a blonde, a brunette, and a tall coffee-skinned beauty, all dressed in black, reading magazines. I sat with them and read magazines, too. After 45 minutes, a curtain parted. A balding middle-aged man with a sweaty upper lip was escorted into the room by the younger blonde from my interview. He smiled at me first, before noticing anyone else. I smiled back, remembering the mirror game from improv class. I noticed he was wearing a cheap belt and well-worn shoes. The other women smiled at him too. The brunette gushed and jiggled her breasts. He chose the blonde. They exited together. The curtain closed.

  A half hour later, the curtain parted again. A handsome 20-something with chic beard stubble, who looked like a highly successful ad exec, entered. He smelled freshly bathed and was wearing a buttery soft leather jacket. I really wanted him to pick me — then I might have a fantasy too. He winked at me. My heart pounded with the certainty that I'd be spanking him momentarily. He grazed past me, close enough for me to smell his musky cologne. My body warmed with anticipation. Before I could take another breath, he'd taken the hand of the coffee-skinned woman. They left, closing the curtains.

  Within the next two hours, each of the three was chosen. Not me. By midnight, they were all chosen twice; I read through all the magazines and was not picked at all. Apparently my sturdiness was not helpful in the selection process. They said my ass would be an asset, not a deterrent. Or, I wondered, did the clients notice my double chin? Were they just in the mood for a blonde or coffee-skinned beauty? Maybe cinnamon just wasn't the flavor of the evening.

  I felt old, overlooked—and invisible. I wanted to believe it was just beginner's bad luck. So, of course, I went back the next night. It was a replay of the first. Man after man looked me over, looked away, and chose someone else. I thought of offering a “newbie special” to a guy in black leather pants who looked like Anderson Cooper. When another guy who resembled David Duchovny showed up, I aggressively elbowed my way in front of the blonde, spanked my own ass —twice, cocked my head to the side, and winked. But I ended up looking like a deranged wind-up doll. Even the Marquis de Sade would have found me needy. No one picked me. It was fifth-grade baseball all over again. Only now I'd squeezed my tits into a bustier and driven 20 miles to be rejected. I felt self-esteem draining out of my body like sand in an hourglass. For someone who was supposed to do the spanking, I felt too beat up inside to continue.

  So much for fantasy. I went home— knowing I would never go back. Now I could add undesired dominatrix to my list of disappointments/failures.

  That night I took a long bath, hoping to wash away the failed sex worker experience. As I soaked, I obsessively reviewed my sexual history since age 32: over 300 sexless dating encounters, and no spankings either! Whenever I left the house in search of love, lust, or even a cheap imitation of something in between —nothing happened. Zip. Nothing was ever unzipped. No zipper was even fumbled with. Girl got no game. Was I the mistress of misfortune? The victim of vaginal neglect? Did I have the vibes of a born-again virgin? What was wrong with me? Was it me? Was there any way I could blame someone else? Yet in spite of self-doubt, I was determined to hope. I tried not to wear my disappointed desolate heart on my sleeve, but it stuck out like a tattered slip creeping out from the hem of my party dress.

  The men I liked were married, gay, or moving out of town. I told myself it was okay that man after man did not provide a love connection—because I was just researching for articles. Yeah—and Hugh Hefner slept with all of those bunnies for the greater good of Playboy magazine.

  Operation 'just
enjoy yourself' – my new attitude for the next half century – was off to a rocky start. I finally left the house for groceries (Lean Cuisine was on sale). In the produce line, an elderly couple strolled past me, arm in arm, talking, delighting in each other's company. Their laughter was a bit unexpected, but certainly pleasant. At one point, they stopped and he kissed her forehead before the giggling began again.

  “I want that. I want what they have,” I said to myself. “I don't want to be alone when I'm older. I want someone to laugh and stroll with.” My eyes followed them throughout the store, envious. How and where would I find someone who could stir those cheerful feelings? It's not like I could pick it up at the supermarket with my Carb-Master Yogurt and Hungry Girl Yam Noodles. But now I had a clearer picture of what it looked like. I'd heard of people who met their mate in a checkout line. But I thought I'd probably have to make a bigger effort to meet people, like go on a date. That's the advice I offered thousands of women in my helpful articles. You'd think I never read a word I ever wrote. Solving other people's problems was the easy part of my life. Helping myself was too challenging. “Lower your expectations” was the new mantra from my birthday intervention. I tried to heed it.

  Recuperating and recoiling from my “Dominatrix Disaster,” I knew I could count on Diana for brunch and mimosa wisdom. We met for lunch at an outdoor café in Venice, on the beach, overlooking the ocean. We had a corner table, positioned to observe young couples strolling in arm and arm, hair still wet from the shower, no doubt after spending a romantic night and morning.

  “I wake up on Sunday mornings, roll over, and wish someone was there to cuddle and kiss, someone to have breakfast with,” I told Diana, awaiting our food.

  “Me too,” she said, finishing her second mimosa. “Then I remember all the machinations I had to go through to get them there—and what a pain in the ass they were while they were there. Now I control relationships; I come and go from their beds, then go home in the morning and make breakfast for my daughter.”

  “Lila told me, wait until you're older and don't have the drive anymore. You won't want anyone in your bucket seat either.” I laughed at the pun.

  “You won't want anyone in your car, your home, your bed … I'm glad we have each other.” Diana raised her glass for a toast. She caught the waiter's eye as he brought a basket of rolls to our table, and ordered another mimosa.

  “I'd like you to meet my most consistently amorous lover: food,” I said, diving into the rolls. “Beth said, if you had one special girl, you'd have the best of it all.”

  Diana said, annoyed, “The lesbian left is campaigning again. You're just feeling disappointed by men. You wear bitterness like a diamond necklace. You're a beautiful woman who has an inner darkness shining through. Change your outlook; don't change your team.”

  “Beth said I have options and should explore them,” I added. “Me as a sexual explorer,” I said, pondering. “I like the sound of that. Just call me Lewis and Clark of the labia.”

  Back at home that night, I checked my email. Another note from Derrick on Facebook: Happy to hear from you so quickly. Glad you like my daughters. Yes, I have a wife, somewhere here in the house. After 16 years we're more like pals than a passionate couple. I always thought YOU knew what passion was. Sadly I never found out. It's very cold here in Chicago tonight. Stay warm—Derrick.

  A married man in Chicago thinks I'm passionate! What good does that do me? Buoyed by an impossible email flirtation, I remembered I still had an active profile online at Match.com. Dating sites made the mating game seem like shopping for goodies from a catalog, with photos and descriptions designed to entice buyers. So I entered my password and shopped a bit.

  Here were a few:

  Bam-Bam In Search Of Pebbles: If you're a feminine, sexy, intelligent, adventurous woman who loves to have fun and if you appreciate a classy, handsome, sensual, intelligent, successful man with a great sense of humor and all my own hair...then let's chat! I love to travel, especially to Europe. My match is: Classy, feminine, sexy, intelligent, sensual, open to anything, and loves to have fun! Not too tall, not too fat, and not too serious.

  Immature but humorous. I kept scrolling, searching and reading. Nice Guy in So Cal “winks” at me…that's when they want to contact you but are too lazy or insecure or shy to compose an email. His profile was lackluster. His photo, hairless and goofy, resembled a kid's toy where you put magnetic hair on the bald guy.

  Then I saw the magical one. Gaelic Lord was handsome, and looked like a close personal friend of Robin Hood. He wrote:

  I seek intelligence, so if you're pretty or beautiful, that's terrific but not my main focus. If you're smart and can handle yourself in a multitude of situations, that's very sexy. I'm looking for someone who can "Tango," not to tangle with. So please bring your "A" game.

  Hmmm. That Tango/tangle bit won me over. So I emailed. We spoke—a few times the following day, since he worked at home too. He said he wanted to meet but kept putting it off. I didn't know what to make of the postponing business except he surmised I wasn't likely to shag him in the first 20 minutes. Actually, if he was juggling one or two candidates, I was better off having him get through them before he met me. With any luck, THEY will have shagged him in the first 20 minutes, and then he'd be "free" to appreciate me. This online dating thing was quite competitive.

  Just out of curiosity, I redefined my search to women aged 43 to 60. There were half as many, mostly kickass smart, cynical, and pretty. Each profile sounded more enlightened and life-loving than the last. Their descriptions were crackling with wit, imagination, sparkling sarcasm, and adventure.

  Men or women? The question reminded me of the ice cream dilemma of my childhood: vanilla or chocolate? Then, given the choice, I would analyze the differences between the two, because in reality I enjoyed them both. Years later, I discovered the pleasures of a two-scoop cone, where I could indulge in both flavors.

  Now, as an adult, and lover of the two-scoop concept, I created a “saved favorites” file — I revisited all the men and women I found interesting and “saved” them for later. After reviewing my selections, I realized I'd saved an equal amount of men and women. So much for picking a team. I'd write to everyone, and as the Magic 8 Ball said, “All shall be revealed.”

  Lila called the following day to invite me to an art gallery opening.

  “The photography is of and by cancer victors and their friends. There might be an angle for you to write about,” she suggested.

  “Ya think this will cheer me up?” I sniped. “Seeing people's malignancies and near-death experiences will get me over my bitterness? Maybe afterwards we could catch a film. How about the Nuremberg trials? ”

  “Self-pity eats away like a tumor,” Lila gently added. “I'll drive you to a new experience. You'll meet strong, brave people. Cancer is worse than dating disasters. You have a tumor of the spirit. Join me, before it becomes malignant.”

  Friends think I have it bad—dark and bitter, tumor of the spirit. Yuck. Self-help writer—take no pride in being the driver of the bitter bus. If you do, you'll journey alone.

  I needed an attitude makeover. I put on my sweats and jogged for an hour till the endorphins kicked in. Exercise to dispel bad feelings. I wrote about that in last year's article: 12 Ways to Get Over Yourself.

  Chapter 12

  Cancer Victors and their Friends

  Anywhere Lila the wise invites me, I should go. So, the next evening, I dressed to impress, wearing a black silk Chinese pajama outfit, my hair up in a bun with chopsticks through it, and one special piece of jewelry: an ear cuff that hooked along the entire outer rim of my ear, giving the impression that it was pierced in 10 places.

  Lila arrived promptly at 8 p.m. to drive to the gallery opening. Smiling while I opened her car door, as I got in, the chopsticks in my hair got caught in the top of the door, tugging at my head and pulling me back. After I maneuvered out of my near whiplash, I slid into the seat. Composing myself, I muste
red a smile. Not a good omen.

  We arrived at Bergamot Station, a former train station nestled in a nook of Santa Monica that was home to a series of quaint craft and art galleries. Packed with people, mainly older, single women, I felt intrigued and energized by their presence. It's one thing to be unattached and healthy. I can't imagine the mind/body angst of surviving cancer and seeking a partner too. I wanted to take in their life stories one by one.

  Still not convinced I should be here, my eyes scanned people, looking at the edgy, emotion-provoking photos. Their comments and reactions were juicy entertainment. I was caught up in the theater of people experiencing art, sipping champagne; the obligatory actors, celebrities, and hunky guys. But the most interesting and attractive of the partygoers were the women over 50 who'd NOT had cosmetic surgery.

  As I studied them around the room, I could only assume from my own eager-to-be-thawed iceberg existence that melting a mid-life woman could have avalanche-like repercussions. I thought they carried themselves with an air of boundless life experience, style, and grace, coupled with a treasure chest full of passion waiting to be unlocked. I felt magnetized to their hidden, untouched selves; the aloof, smiling facades they wore, like Academy Award nominees who didn't go home with an Oscar.

  I sensed or maybe I projected parts of myself, envisioning that these were women with full lives and empty beds. Maybe they filled their lives because their beds were empty. I mirrored their highs and lows and wanted to reach out and touch them, hug them, and hold them close. Touching—that was the scary part. To me, and like me, most of these women seemed untouched for so long. Would they know where to begin?

  Their past experiences and memories were with men in heterosexual relationships. Mine, too. It was clear why this group of women resonated with my friend Lila. In her tearful confessions to me over the years, separate from her cancer, all of her untapped passion and sexuality was on ice for a decade. Her aloof husband turned arctic after her surgery. It seemed criminally wrong.