The Last Place She'd Look Page 8

  I knew I had no right to compare myself to cancer victors. They faced life-threatening battles, surgery, and other tangible, painful horrors and losses. In this moment I was grateful Lila brought me here, to relinquish my self-pity. It had kept me from being present in affectionate moments and left me laughing at myself because my wants seemed unreachable and unquenchable. Would I ever get close, really close, to anyone ever again, or discover the emotional intimacy I craved whole-heartedly?

  If I wanted to melt an untouched woman, I'd treat her the way I'd want to be treated, with a warm smile and lots of eye contact. But how would I approach another woman? Not every woman would be open to the idea—just ask Diana. She recoiled at the thought of two women together.

  Sweeping statements about vague scenarios, talking about Virginia Woolf, or examples of other women, was a clumsy beginning. What about a lingering hug for hello or goodbye? These seemed to be feeble attempts to chip away at a female iceberg. Scary undertakings, filled with the risk of rejection. Would the rewards be like having a New Year's celebration with someone wonderful shuddering in your arms?

  I observed women in the crowd standing alone, appearing radiant and glowing on the outside, masking inner, untouched yearnings on the inside. I believed they were eager to be thawed and warmed, resigned to the fact that no one would notice them. There were women linked arm-in-arm with men, receptive husbands, and companions. I saw other women wearing wigs, no doubt experiencing the trials of chemotherapy.

  Captivated by an eight-piece photo study of women who'd had mastectomies, I stood transfixed in front of the portraits of women cannibalized by cancer, one breast missing, a long slither of a scar where a tear-drop shaped breast and nipple once resided. Another photo, a woman had tattooed a field of flowers over her scar tissue. All of them looked beautiful and strong. I wondered who was hugging them now.

  “These are amazing, aren't they?” said a woman next to me. I glanced over and saw a small brunette with almond-shaped eyes and a very glossy mouth. Her breasts were poured into a burgundy leotard, offset by lots of silver jewelry and form-fitting grey slacks.

  “Yes, there's so much courage in these portraits,” I responded.

  “Cancer makes women courageous,” she added.

  I moved to look directly at her. She was stunning, with the hourglass figure of a young Elizabeth Taylor, no evidence of anything cancer-related, like I'd seen in these portraits. “These women are beautiful.”

  “Hello, I'm April,” she said, extending her hand to me, her bracelets clattering. As our hands touched, her eyes took me in, slowly and deeply, the way a smoker inhales the first puff of a cigarette.

  “I'm Sara. What brings you to this event?”

  “I'm a healer and a victor,” said April. We walked to the champagne table together. The din of other people's conversations faded away.

  Chapter 13

  Party Faces

  The gallery crowd was growing, but all I noticed was April--animated and expressive, talking with her hands. When her jewelry clinked, it sounded like wind chimes.

  “I know a lot of people here. Many are cancer survivors,” April said, beaming. “I had a bout with ovarian cancer, but I won! Now I help others to keep on winning.”

  “How do you do that?” I asked.

  “I'm a holistic practitioner. I work with clients keeping their lymphatic system healthy.” April raised her glass to me, took a sip, and then tilted her head back to swallow, revealing a long, ballerina-like neck. As we toured the gallery together, people nodded and smiled at her. I felt like I was on a dance floor with the prom queen.

  Back to reality. I felt someone squeeze my arm. It was Lila.

  “I've met a lovely woman and we're continuing our conversation over coffee,” she said, beaming. “Want to join us?”

  “I'll stay here,” I said, thinking out loud. “I can't go now. I've just met an intriguing woman, too.”

  “Good. I hoped you'd meet new people.” She giggled, touching my arm, then walked away.

  Back to adoring April.

  “Was she your date?” April asked, needing to know.

  “She's just a friend.”

  “Good.” April took my arm in hers as we strolled around the gallery. She was heady with charisma, like French perfume, and I was wafting in her essence. Everyone we saw admired her and stopped to chat; doctors, clients, gallery patrons. One woman wearing an elaborate hat kissed April on both cheeks. The two women embraced.

  “Sara, Maggie. We saw her photo earlier tonight. She's the woman with the flowers tattooed on her chest,” April explained.

  To Maggie, I said, “You're so beautiful.” I reminded myself that she'd had a double mastectomy. Maggie walked off to join another group of people.

  “We've seen everyone and every picture here. What would you like to do now?” April asked.

  “I have no car. Whatever you'd like to do would be fine,” I said.

  The next thing I knew, we were driving to the beach in April's Jeep. It was midnight. The windows were open; our hair was blowing wildly as we listened to Maria Callas arias from Madame Butterfly. The ocean air was revitalizing and April's zeal was contagious. She parked a block from the beach in Venice. As soon as our feet hit the sand, she whipped off her shoes and ran, feet purposefully pounding into the sand. She grabbed my hand to run with her. When we got to the wet sand, she stopped, raised her hands in the air, and shouted with delight as the waves rushed over her feet. I copied her because the moment felt so right.

  A few minutes later, April took a step back and exhaled. “Whew! See, that's energizing your senses,” she said. “One of the best parts of being alive.”

  In that moment, I thought one of the best parts of being alive was being with April.

  “Let's go,” April said breathlessly. I wasn't sure where we were going, but I eagerly jumped in the car. “Where do you live? I'll drop you off.”

  I was disappointed that our evening—our adventure—was coming to an end.

  After a short drive, we arrived in front of my house. I touched April's shoulder. Her hand warmly stroked the length of my arm. This comforted me. It wasn't an old woman's hand. She was a sensual, energizing healer eager to touch me.

  “If I didn't have to see clients on Saturdays, I'd love to see you tomorrow,” she said. “Day after? Sunday brunch?”

  I nodded. “Yes.” We moved towards each other for a friendly hug and polite kiss on the cheek, which became a lip graze, followed by little nibbles. I turned slightly, prompting a full-on passionate kiss. It felt strange to kiss someone and taste their lip gloss. But her lips were so soft and inviting, caressing and enveloping mine. Gentle lips, delicate tongue, breath increasing, I felt stirred with excitement and anticipation. Encouraged, she leaned in closer, her ample breasts pressing against mine, as if our clothed nipples wanted to kiss, too. They were warm and stimulating, something I could get used to. I wanted to touch her breast, wanted to know if my touch would excite her, but I held back. Too soon, I thought. Swept up in the thrill of our first kiss, in this moment, I was a giddy 15-year-old. I felt as if I was racing up a 100-story elevator and I'd rocket into the sky once I reached the top.

  “I didn't expect that to happen,” she said.

  “Me, either,” I mumbled.

  “Did we like it?”

  “Did we?” I was uncertain what to say.

  “I did,” she said.

  “Me, too,” I responded.

  “I hope it happens again,” she said as we paused, looking at one another, smiling. “See you Sunday.”

  Rather than being with some old man or some man-child who wanted me to watch Star Trek movies with him, April boldly took me where no man had gone before.

  The following morning, I woke up and called Beth. “I kissed a girl last night — and I didn't puke afterwards.”

  “Excellent progress,” Beth said, laughing. “What happens next?”

  “Brunch Sunday,” I excitedly replied.

&nb
sp; “I'm happy for you. Remember what Rodney Dangerfield said: Bisexuality immediately doubles your chances for a date on Saturday night.”

  Chapter 14

  Brunchin’ Babes

  April arrived promptly at 11:30 Sunday morning, as sexy in daylight as she had been on Friday evening. She selected a healthy macrobiotic restaurant, Real Food Daily. I found the name of the restaurant to be humorous because the food was familiar favorites re-created from reconstituted soy products and tofu. The bacon and eggs I ordered were soy, somehow colored and shaped to look like bacon, and scrambled tofu, decked out and seasoned to resemble eggs.

  In the restaurant, everywhere I looked I saw two women together, delighting in each other's company. Some were young, some old; some had similar haircuts. Suddenly I was in a women's world. Everyone was happy, chatting with her companion, not like some of the married couples I saw in restaurants for their Sunday night dinners, chewing in stony silence because they'd said everything they could possibly think of during the course of their decades of marriage.

  I felt at ease, relaxed, not sure if it had to do with what was unique about April, or if it was just the magnetization of our estrogen. Either way, I chewed on fake bacon and enjoyed the day.

  “How was work yesterday?” I asked, biting into seven-grain toast.

  “One of my clients was an animator for Disney. She said my treatments spark her creativity. She sees colors racing through her mind during our sessions.”

  “Wow, your work sounds magical,” I marveled.

  “I help people work through traumas, and I do transformational healing.”

  I sipped my coffee and gave April a long look, wondering what transformational healing she would perform on me.

  After brunch, we strolled through shops in Larchmont Village, considering British soaps and trying on shoes. We both spotted sale signs at an athletic clothing store. We entered, tried on a few things, and bought matching yoga outfits. We walked arm in arm, carrying our shopping bags to the car.

  “You know, there's a yoga studio right down the street,” April said. “We could wear our new outfits together for a class. I always have extra mats in my car. Let's go right now.”

  Her spontaneity was infectious. The next thing I knew, I was in a downward dog pose on one of April's mats, wearing my brand new outfit. I agreed to everything April said from the moment we met, like a teen at a new school, trying to fit in. But in the moment, everything she said sounded right and felt so good.

  After class, we both glistened with sweat. April's short hair was matted to her forehead and neck. “Let's go to my place for showers and cocktails,” she said. “All this clean living should be balanced with some alcohol.”

  I agreed. We hopped back in the Jeep and cruised to her place, a modest two-bedroom apartment, feng shui'd throughout. Her second bedroom was a treatment room for clients and contained a massage table covered in a beige flannel sheet. The room was sparse and beige, too. She gave me a plush super-king-sized towel and ushered me off to her bathroom.

  In her shower the water pressure was a hard pounding that eased my shoulders and neck. The walls steamed up from the warm water. I found a bottle of Aveda moisturizing shampoo and squeezed some out. As I was massaging it into my hair, I felt another set of hands on my head. I was surprised and delighted. Then I felt the warm heat of April's breasts pressing into my back as she kissed my neck. I turned to face April and greet her soft lips as they eagerly engulfed my own, kissing passionately under the hot water.

  The shower dripped hypnotically as April embraced me, first holding close, then standing back and reaching down, between my legs, searching, probing, then finding and frantically teasing the warmest parts of me until I ignited and screamed with pleasure. She bit my neck and as the pleasure intensified, I screamed louder. We locked eyes and then kissed. It was a heart-pounding exhilaration, like I had too much of a double Starbucks cappuccino and the caffeine wanted to pry my chest open. Woozy from the hot water, intoxicated by April's passion, I felt fearless in my nakedness.

  With April orchestrating the romantic overtures, all I had to do was follow along—like waltzing backwards with a really graceful dance partner. As participant and voyeur, my hands stroked the sides of April's centerfold-perfect form. Any man would desire her. But she was eager to be here with me. I felt brave kissing her shoulder and caressing her breasts, first with my hand, then my mouth. She arched back, delighted. I moved my hand between her legs, nervous, anxious, and apprehensive, and then I glided my fingers up deep inside her, marveling that she felt so much like me.

  Hesitant that I wouldn't know how to please her, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and touched her as if I were touching myself. Hot water rained down on us. As she climaxed, strangling my fingers, I felt my earlier orgasm re-tingling through me. We clung to one another, a wilted heap against the shower wall.

  April took both of my hands in hers, squeezed them tight, and then held them to her mouth for a kiss. Looking in my eyes, she playfully announced, “Cocktail time.”

  Wrapped in towels, we uncorked a bottle of chilled chardonnay. She poured two glasses, handing me one. Grabbing the bottle and my free hand, we scampered into the bedroom. The décor was jungle safari. The night tables and dresser were an ornate black and gold, with tusk-like handles on the drawers. I was surprised to see animal prints everywhere—tiger-striped curtains and leopard-print sheets on the giant bed.

  April set the glasses and bottle down on the table. She ushered me to the bed, removing my towel, then hers. We fell back on a dozen pillows of all different sizes and animal prints. I wanted to laugh, thinking I was in Cher's lair. April handed me my wine. We clinked glasses and sipped. She dipped her index finger into her goblet and stirred the wine. She traced a droplet of wine down my breast bone to my waist with her finger, then followed the line with her tongue. I did the same to her. When I got to her waist, I saw a scar.

  “Scars are a body's history. They make us interesting,” I said.

  “That's my Caesarian, from the birth of my son.”

  “Where is he?” I bolted up, thinking he could walk in at any moment.

  “Don't worry, he's 30,” she said, laughing.

  “And?”

  “And what?” She stroked my wet hair, adoringly.

  “Husband? Other kids?”

  “My husband left me for a younger woman. At first, I was devastated. Then I met a woman younger than his. She made the pain go away.” April turned on her side, away from me, finishing her sentence and glass of wine. She poured more.

  I knew she had just revealed something exceedingly intimate and important, but I wasn't sure what to make of it. As I studied her spine and fading tan lines, I felt fascinated by her outlook, her candor, and life experiences—volumes worth. Most men weren't this deep and open—or as cool and intriguing. Why did I think about men whenever I found myself getting close to a woman? Was it the writer in me observing, comparing, and contrasting—or the heterosexual trying to justify being here?

  Operation “just enjoy yourself” was moving along smoothly. I leaned back into the safari of pillows, feeling that my afternoon's delight was like being hit by a tidal wave. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I realized we'd both fallen asleep, pretzeled together for an hour or two. I stirred, waking April. She ravenously kissed me, climbed on top of me, and devoured every inch of me like the cobra woman befitting the jungle land surroundings.

  I'd never felt so relaxed or free before, safe to share all of my nakedness without judgment. I didn't have to think about contraception, or lubrication, or ejaculation. We both liked to go shopping and we wore the same size. So far, in my first day of sex with a woman, I was seeing lots of advantages—and I was liking it! Did I ever think I could be with a woman? I could be with this woman

  I sat at my desk on Monday morning, drinking a double espresso iced coffee, wondering how I could parlay my new discoveries and experiences into articles for the women's magazines I wrot
e for. Truth was, the entire women's magazine market was hetero-centric. Every ad, from mascara to Mustangs, sells things to help women entice men. All the articles, too. No one wants to read Sex Tips With Other Girls—at least, no one wants to admit it.

  I called Beth to tell her about my explorations, knowing she would delight in my discoveries. Beth was away for the weekend with her husband Jeff on a “Tantra for Couples” weekend. When they returned, she and I met for coffee.

  “I'm confused,” I mused. “I need a flow chart for your sexuality. I thought you were mad for the muff.”

  “I am,” she said giggling. “Muff is still my mission, my passion. But I am trying to make my marriage work. I have kids.”

  “I think I have a girlfriend,” I smiled.

  “Dish!” Beth listened eagerly.

  “She's older, wiser, and undergoing hormone replacement therapy, which gives her the libido of a teenage boy.”

  “I'm jealous. I want that, too.” Beth replied. “Lucky you.”

  “Exhausted me.” I said, raising the cup to my lips, hoping for a caffeine jolt.

  “Are you happy?” Beth asked.

  “The thrill of the new is exciting. I'm not quite sure what to make of it. I feel more lust and adventure than anything else. I can't tell the others. You're my guide in the lesbian labyrinth.”

  “You'll be fine,” Beth assured me. “Will there be a repeat performance?”

  “I hope so,” I said, smiling.

  Chapter 15

  Lavender Visions

  I had four more dates with April. They were all pretty similar: dinner, wine, and bed. Each time, I felt more comfortable kissing and touching her—and responding to her exploration of my body. Without fail, though, whenever we were intimate, her stroking some part of me, stirring my pleasure, I thought about what this moment would be like if a man were touching me, feeling his hairy chest rubbing up against my nipples or his hard cock inside me instead of April's skillful fingers.