The Last Place She'd Look Page 9

  The night I made dinner for April at my place, she arrived bearing flowers, smile brimming with enthusiasm, rimmed with boysenberry lip gloss. When she kissed me at the door I was glad I'd turned everything off on the stove and oven. As the lip lock leaned into one another, we were pelvis-to-pelvis too, as she pressed me against the wall, her mouth devouring my neck and ears, a passionate hungering that made me want to postpone the planned meal while I relished being her main course. April's passion and devotion brightened my spirits and soothed my inner sadness. I glowed. Finally, I was free to uncork the wine and serve the dinner I'd cooked.

  While sipping, April surveyed my living room, intrigued to see all of the books I'd collected. She wanted to know the names of everyone in the photos on the mantle, and anecdotes about them: mother, father, grandfather. She especially liked hearing about my quirky grandfather, who always slept with socks on, afraid he'd catch a head cold in his exposed big toes. After telling of Grandpa, I said, “Tell me about your grandparents.”

  Hoping she'd serve up a slice of her own history, instead, she spied a wooden box next to the photos, “This is lovely. Tell me about this.” She sipped again, skirting her own reveal.

  “I bought that on a trip to Italy,” I explained. “Ten days with three friends: museums, wine, and shoes. I was able to write off the trip thanks to an article about Italian wines, another one on “What to pack for 10 days in Europe,” and “Everything you always wanted to know about olive oil.”

  April laughed, slow, throaty, and sexy. I wanted to drink her in like an intoxicating cocktail. “See my bracelet?” she pointed to a thin turquoise bangle dangling on her delicate wrist. “This is from Italy too. It would be so delicious if we could go there together…and drink in the beauty.” She raised her glass to me, then to her lips for a big swallow. “You are my glorious beauty,” she raised her glass to me again.

  And for the first time, I felt beautiful in her eyes. Dessert was chocolate mousse. I served it in long-stemmed wine glasses with parfait spoons. We sat on the couch together, entwined, feeding each other, immersed in the sweetness of the evening. On this night I thought of no one else, just the magic we created together.

  “Wouldn't it be nice if we could do this all the time…you know, live together?” she said, all girlish and idealistic.

  I sat up and disengaged from our cozy, mellow entwinement, “Do you really think we know each other well enough or long enough to think about that?” I said, serious about the question.

  “I was being wishful, and idealistic. I've been seduced by your mousse!” She leaned into me for a passionate kiss. I melted into her sensuality, lost in time, place, novelty, and sensibility, drenched in desirability. After so many dates with men who had now become nameless and faceless to me for their indifference or rejection of me—here and now I was a hot commodity! I slurped up every self-esteem-quenching moment of passion without a thought for next week or next year—just gorging on the heat of the moment and how it filled my hungry heart and heated my uber-rejected, underappreciated self.

  By the end of that evening I did not learn anything new about April's past or family. She avoided my questions about them. In the morning I woke up with three hickeys near my navel and bite marks on my left thigh. Overall, I felt contented.

  Then there was the night April invited me to her client's wedding at a mansion in Malibu. When she arrived to pick me up, April was wearing form-fitting silk pants and a tight turquoise wrap top that oozed cleavage and sexuality. If I didn't know better I'd think she was dressed purposefully provocatively to pick up new hot prospects. I was surprised, since I was certain it was going to be an all-female lesbian wedding.

  When we walked into the wedding, I saw a living room with French doors that opened to a well-appointed backyard. It was half filled with attractive straight men our age, dressed in tuxedoes. They all smiled warmly and leeringly at April and her eye-catching breasts. She nodded knowingly at their admiring glances. The more that men noticed and smiled at her, the tighter she held to me as if to say, “You want me? See who I'm with? I don't need a dick. I don't need men.”

  April drank lots of champagne that night, hardly speaking to any of the women in the room. Instead she flirted with the handsomest of men, rubbing up against them in conversation, touching and fingering the studs on their crisp tuxedo shirts, as if she wanted more from them. But why here and now, and why if she was with me?

  One man started to follow her around the room, first with his eyes, then striding to be just a few feet away from her wherever she was. As soon as she became aware of his pursuit, she grabbed my arm and dragged me upstairs to the master bedroom, and then into the room's gigantic walk-in closet.

  Bothered by April's behavior, I was glad she took me away from the party to give me a tour of the house. I liked her best when we were alone together. Venturing into the off-limits part of the house was exhilarating. After turning on a tiny light in the closet, I saw a beige suede settee with animal print pillows. The rack behind it held Chanel suits, evening gowns, and other finery. Before I could examine the garments, April grabbed my arm and kissed me hard on the mouth, then roughly squeezed my breasts, while her hand speedily raced up my skirt, tugging at my panties.

  “Where's the fire?” I whispered, laughing.

  We both giggled, and then paused as we heard footsteps climbing the stairs. This didn't stop her. Instead, it fueled her ravenous behavior as she practically ripped my panties off, tongue diving deep inside me. The footsteps got faster, louder, closer. The room was hotter and so were we, heaving and moaning.

  Then I felt a heavy breathing at the closet doorway, followed by a gasp. April turned for a second, glancing at the shadowy male figure lurking in the doorway.

  “Go away. I'm with my girlfriend. We don't need a man. Go back downstairs.”

  She resumed pleasuring me. I'd never had someone else watching me while I was being made love to. The moment heightened my excitement. April was on fire too, her tongue darting to new places in unique ways. I felt her heart pounding on my thigh.

  The man in the shadows stared at us another minute, then spun on his heel and left. As soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, so did April's passion. I was on the edge of orgasm—then, I no longer felt her tongue, or her touch. I was confused.

  “Let's go back to the wedding,” she whispered. “The music and dancing should be starting soon.”

  “A few more minutes. I'm almost done,” I said, stroking her hand, hoping my big O moment was forthcoming.

  “Let's finish later,” she insisted. “Dance now, make love all night long.”

  I wondered if her performance was part of the evening's entertainment for her. Was it to tease him? A dare for me? Excitement for herself? A perverse game of cat and mouse and who gets the pussy? Or was she just drunk?

  This exhibitionist behavior was scintillating, disturbing, exhausting, and might somehow bite me in the ass someday. But until then, it could be a joyous jungle-printed merry-go-round. As the champagne went to my head, I tossed off those thoughts. We spent the rest of the evening on the dance floor. Maybe this was the prom night I'd always wanted.

  In the car on the way home I was outwardly silent. But inside, I rehearsed the conversation I was afraid to speak, filled with anger, frustration, and feelings of powerlessness. As the car sped along the coast highway, I looked out at the water, the waves, and how it reminded me of our first night together —crashing waves and sultry breezes on the sand—never dull, always on the edge of rocky.

  April broke the silence, inquiring, “How are you, dear?”

  “What happened in the closet?” I blurted. “Power? Exhibitionism? Control?”

  April laughed her throaty laugh again. This time it wasn't sexy, but menacing instead. We clearly lusted after one another. But could I trust her?

  I was conflicted. I knew I didn't want to be alone, but did I really want April? Was our time together a budding relationship? Was it a celebration of my new
ly awakened sexuality? Or was it my consolation prize for not being with a man? Stop thinking and just enjoy yourself, was the last thing my inner voice said before zoning out on the view from the car window.

  The following night, each of us pushing a giant shopping cart, Beth and I navigated the warehouse aisles of COSTCO.

  “She was doing you there in the closet and then just stopped,” Beth exclaimed. “That's more mean than kinky. Did you tell her you were angry?”

  “I tried to express myself,” I said meekly. “But I think it sounded more like a self-help quiz than my feelings,” I said while loading my cart with vast quantities of canned goods.

  “You didn't tell her how you really felt,” said Beth. “You can't have an honest relationship if you're unable to talk about things.”

  “I had a husband who lied about everything from who he was fucking to whether or not he ate an ice cream sandwich while walking the dog. Do I even know what an honest relationship looks like?” I asked, with concern and sincerity. “I don't think you have an honest relationship with Jeff.”

  “Ya know, it's a problem,” Beth responded.

  “April avoids talking about herself, as if there is a veil of mystery separating us.”

  “Maybe you like that about her. Avoiding emotional exploration has its appeal.”

  “Am I an unfocused lesbian?” I asked my favorite sexual juggler, hoping she would help me navigate my uncharted explorations. “When I'm intimate with April, I always think about how it would feel if I were having sex with a man.”

  “You're trying to sort out too much of your old dirty laundry,” Beth explained. “Just forget about boxer shorts for a while. Try to focus and be in the moment.”

  “She makes me feel great. But I know how I am. I sit in a restaurant with a delicious plate of food in front of me while my eyes eagerly follow a waiter carrying a different, amazing dish.”

  “I've seen you do that,” Beth said.

  “She's a hot dish. But sometimes I wish April had a penis,” I whispered.

  Beth laughed girlishly. “That's what makes being with a woman so interesting. She can get one…or more.”

  Later in the day, we were sitting on Beth's living room couch. Her husband Jeff was outside mowing the lawn. The hum of his lawnmower reminded me of my old vibrator, the one I'd stopped using since I met April.

  “Does thinking about dick make me a hetero on holiday?” I asked.

  “Don't think about labels. Think about what makes you happy,” Beth implored. ”That's the lesson I've been learning lately. Jeff and I went to that Tantra weekend, did intimacy exercises, learned a lot, and got closer.”

  “What happens at a Tantra weekend?” I asked.

  “You spend a lot of time in your underwear or naked, facing each other, cross-legged, gazing endlessly into each other's eyes. You learn listening skills. They call it mirroring. Jeff said something and I repeated what I heard. Then the skills counselors help you see if you are correct or not. You learn to reflect back the love that was mirrored in your partner.”

  “Was it successful?”

  “When we first got back from the weekend, we did our exercises every night. We were closer than when we were first married. Before that weekend I was worried. I thought I had nothing left for him. I felt dried up inside. When we're talking in that face-to-face clinch, my body just starts humming. I become so turned on! I 'd been trapped in this peri-menopausal mayhem. Now, my passion and sexuality are back.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “I don't think Hallmark makes a card for that.”

  “Don't get too happy for me. I see my own problems more clearly,” Beth said.

  “What problems?”

  “I still want intimacy with a woman,” Beth replied. “Sometimes Jeff is cool about it. Other times, he's uncomfortable.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Beth stood and walked to the nearby desk, picked up a pamphlet, and handed it to me: Lavender Visions.

  “You know how I love a weekend workshop. Last weekend was a Lavender Visions weekend,” she said. “It's a support group for married, bisexual women. There were 18 of us there from all over the U.S. and Canada. All the women were beautiful – and accessorized. It was nice to learn that I'm not alone.”

  “What did Jeff say about this?”

  “He encouraged me to go. Since it was all married women, he knew they'd bolster my staying married and offer solutions for juggling the two sides of me.”

  Listening to Beth, I thought about myself: no husband, no kids, and no strong attachments to anyone, really. She was juggling two sides; I didn't even have one.

  Beth continued, “Marriage vows were written before people lived long lives—or acknowledged their lesbianism. All of the women at the workshop said they're honest with their husbands. They have understanding and open relationships. They all seek out sex with women but don't want to hurt their best friend—their husband—or leave their marriage.”

  Beth brimmed with emotion, so I hugged her. I was happy she had found a support group to sustain her. I really was. But I couldn't help feeling a tiny sting of jealousy. I saw myself as a party of one, a pot without a cover, a player without a team. Was I an ambivi-sexual? I was a woman without a support group. I had to find someone to mirror my feelings.

  Chapter 16

  The Ambivi-Sexual

  Pleased I was starting to have a sex life, not sure if it was really a burgeoning love life. Whenever I felt confused about my sexuality, which happened at least daily these days, I remembered that Julia really was my touchstone in the single world. For all of her experimentation and wacky encounters, she was alone. Like me. On Tuesday night, I cooked dinner for us, with a great bottle of Cabernet and a low-cal chocolate dessert. My goal: deep-dish brain-picking.

  “Who do you see yourself within five years?” I asked, pouring a second glass of wine for each of us.

  “With a woman,” Julia replied.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Most certainly,” she said, caressing the wine goblet with confidence. “Let me ask you—men or women, who do you trust more?”

  The table was turned; now my brain was being picked. “Women?” I said with uncertainty.

  “Who do you feel more comfortable being naked with?”

  My mind replayed whatever past experiences it could find, “Women?”

  “Really?” Julia's voice lilted upward, in a way that always made me smile.

  “There's a self-sufficient ease that mid-life women have. Their figures resemble Renaissance paintings. Lush nude forms, in the French countryside. Their bodies say, 'This is who I am. Take it or leave it.' If an invisible woman dances naked, and no one sees her, is she any less beautiful? They are incredibly unhurried and glowing.”

  “Who do you have better sex with?” Julia asked.

  We both laughed, knowing I had to stumble through my memories, reaching back to my 20s and 30s for happy recollections and comparisons.

  “Wait,” I said. “I need an extra minute. I'm not quite in this century yet. My brain is still processing.” After a brief pause, I admitted, “Men!”

  Julia laughed. “There are challenges in any relationship. But I believe women make better partners,” she explained. “They're more focused on maintaining relationships and nesting, loving feelings.”

  “Those feelings and emotions can make women more moody and erratic.”

  “And erotic,” Julia added with a sweet giggle. “They understand how your engine runs, what makes it purr.”

  “Single men want sex, with anyone they can find,” I said. “They take their taste, lick their lips, and move on. I feel like I'm an appetizer at a cocktail party.”

  “I think you're the bitter turnip on the appetizer tray,” replied Julia.

  “I guess I'm angrier at men than I thought I was,” I confessed.

  “Yet you defend them, like they're the only dish on the menu.”

  “They've been the main course on MY
menu,” I said.

  “And you've been love-starved for years!” Julia pointed out.

  “I never felt strong enough to deal with the social stigma of being with a woman,” I explained. “Most of my world is straight—or straight-minded.”

  “Your friends love you and will cheer for your happiness, no matter who you're with,” she said.

  “I don't think Diana is a lesbian cheerleader,” I offered.

  “She's one person,” Julia said. “Besides, whenever she's in a relationship, you never hear from her. You need to do more sampling, meet more women, taste different experiences,” Julia explained. “Sex with one woman does not make you a lesbian. You can't judge your entire sexuality by one partner. That's so prehistoric and dull.”

  “What about monogamy?”

  “It's easy to be monogamous once you've gotten a lay of the land, so to speak. Monogamy without other experiences is monotony.” She laughed at her own joke.

  “That's my problem?” I asked, eager for resolution.

  “Be open to new experiences. Say hello to people you see on the street. Smile at total strangers. Open yourself up to the world and the answers will come to you.”

  Two days later, I soaked in a bubble bath, primping for a date with April—and I was still thinking about men, angry that I felt ignored by them.

  I remembered walking down the street, painfully aware that as a mid-life woman I was invisible to almost any man who passed me. Men didn't even glance up and then look away — they never turned their heads towards me in the first place, like I was not even worth a peek, as if I weren't there. These feelings were confirmed by the world of Internet dating, where most men, no matter what their age, listed themselves as only interested in women up to 44 years old. When a friend recently turned 46 and wanted to date online, I told her the age-range factoid and instructed her to “pick an age from 40 to 44, then just do the math when asked questions about your childhood.”

  Why were confident, self-assured women at their sexual peak invisible, ignored, and undesired on the American landscape? I'd just seen the film Door in the Floor at a revival house. When mid-life beauties Kim Basinger and Mimi Rogers had sensual nude scenes, the audience gasped with the same surprise and amazement as they did viewing the special effects moments from a Star Wars film.