The Last Place She'd Look (16 page)

As I was reaching for the bread basket, he reached for my hand. Too startled to recoil, I was curious for him to reveal his agenda. Email communicates only so much.

“I feel as giddy as a school girl,” he blushed. “You know I had the biggest crush on you in college. But was too shy and virginal to approach you.”

“You were a virgin?”

“I wanted you to remedy that. I was in math club. We were all virgins.”

We both sipped wine—to help us swallow Derrick's statement. I was flattered but uncomfortable. A giant salad arrived. He cheerfully and dutifully put salad on a small plate and gave it to me, just like a good dad.

“How are your daughters?”

“I like being a parent. I'm a good dad for daughters. They think I'm sensitive, easy to confide in.”

“Yes, that's one of your best qualities. I remember whenever we talked, I never felt like a fat girl.”

“I never saw you as fat. You had gorgeous skin and were luscious—with long hair and a warm smile,“ he said reflectively, like it was last week.

I wanted to make a joke, but thankfully stepped on my own line. As I took a bite of salad, Derrick studied me. “It's good to see that you are even lovelier than I'd remembered. I've thought about you a lot over the years, always wondering what it would be like to be with you.”

I stopped chewing. I had a feeling he'd open his heart to me, so why was I taken aback that it was happing? Did I think he'd rather wait till after the main course rather than before? The idiot and the mathematician. Change the subject.

“So you like your job?” I said, trying to cool down the moment.

“I like you, always have,” he said, gently turning the heat back on.

“Well, it's nice having dinner with you. I know you are probably tired and have a busy day tomorrow with your conference.

“Slept on the plane. More wine?” he said, beaming, looking at me adoringly.

Here was a kind, loving man, pouring out his feelings— and more wine to me. I should have paid better attention to him in college. If I did, maybe I would have had a good husband, not the crummy one I chose. Good husband. That's an oxymoron for my life. He's someone else's good husband. Don't even think of him like the other men you have dinner with—I reprimanded myself. The main course arrived. I wanted the meal to move quickly now. I thought if I could gently deflect the conversation, I could change the mood and calm his agenda.

Taking a bite, he said, “Everything tonight is great, better than I could have imagined.” He looked up to smile at me.

I nodded, but continued eating, thinking that the quicker I ate, the sooner I'd be home in bed, alone.

Derrick talked about cheering the girls on at swim meets, coaching their baseball teams, and hiking with them on Sundays. He was a devoted dad who adored his daughters and never mentioned his wife. So the reporter in me dove in.

“You haven't said a word about your wife.”

“Rita? We've become dear friends, confidantes, not so much lovers anymore. I miss that.”

“You know, the articles I write help women have better relationships.”

“So you have all the answers? You must have great relationships —tell me,” his voice lowered.

“No. There's no one. Those who can, are in relationships. Those who can't, talk about them. Those who really can't, write for women's magazines,” I joked. Neither of us laughed. In this moment I felt sad for myself. I was face-to-face with a great, stable guy—who was yearning for me—worlds away from the men I knew. But he was untouchable—off limits to me.

After he signed for the check, Derrick touched my hand, and said, “I thought you were a great prize. I was sure someone would sweep you off your feet, love, and cherish you…I always thought about how I'd wished you'd have given me a chance. You never seemed to notice me then. But it's not the '70s anymore. Are you ready to go?”

Back in my car, I drove robotically, searching for his hotel, eager to cool the inner heat and end the evening. As I drove into the circular drive, my heart raced with uncertainty. “Thank you for dinner,” I said officiously, as if speaking to one of the blind dates I knew would never have a sequel.

Derrick turned and leaned in. He kissed my cheek and lingered, saying, “I wish you'd come upstairs with me, just for a drink.” His voice was soft and inviting like outstretched arms hungering for a heated caress.

I took a deep breath and whispered back, “We both know I should go.” I felt pleased that I'd said something mature and kind. Derrick kissed my cheek again and then moved towards my mouth. Another sweet peck, and then he got out of the car.

I watched him walk through the hotel's glass doors before driving away. After turning on the radio, I tried to cool down my overheated self.

As soon as I arrived home, I had to wash my face. While toweling off I thought, this is the closest I've gotten to an emotional connection with a man in two years. It doesn't even feel like anything. So why am I still thinking about him—wondering what his naked chest looks like? Wondering what it would be like to have his hands on me – I closed my eyes and realized my nipples were getting harder. I touched my breasts as my mind raced to what a kiss might feel like. Just as my hand wandered into my panties, Julia called.

“I think you just interrupted a sexual experience,” I said.

“You're not sure?”

“It was self-pleasure, following a
Facebook
date.” I remarked.

“Was any of this in the real world, or are you living in cyberspace?”

“Real person. But he's married, from out-of-town, the loathsome double don't. I was going to diddle myself so no one would get hurt.”

“Good plan of action.”

“Glad you think so. And you?”

I did that earlier today, to break in and celebrate a new vibrator I bought yesterday, after dinner with twin lesbians yesterday. Tonight, cocktails with my neighbor Diego.

“Doesn't he have the mirror on his bedroom ceiling?”

“Yup, it's so disco era. But he's a great cook with a giant cock!”

“Have you given up on love in your life?” I asked, uncertain.

“While love is elusive, I don't want to be sex-starved,” Julia said proudly.

“I look up to you…and not with a mirror on the ceiling.”

The following morning I called my editor at
Today's Woman
magazine and pitched an article:
Facebook
Flirtations, 10 Women Share
. My editor said she'd have to think about it. Then I pitched the idea of a quiz:
Are You Bisexual?

She said, “Write it up. We'll use it as filler.”

Chapter 20

Are You Bisexual?

After drinking a pot of strong coffee, I prepared to compose the quiz. What I loved most about writing self-help articles was getting paid to do my own personal problem-solving.

When you're at a party, who do you look at first, men or women?

men

women

I look for the bar or the food

How do you feel about touching men's bodies?

great

fine if they're there

no thank you

How do you feel about touching women's bodies?

I don't touch any woman's body but my own

fine if it's there

great

The phone rang. I turned away from my quiz.

“Sara, I'm going to a party tonight. I thought you and April might want to join me,” Beth said, gleefully.

“We just broke up,” I said. “I left her after what seemed like an argument that could never be resolved.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I thought she had possibilities.”

“Me too. But she's a gorgeous bundle of needy.”

“Oh, so you'll be looking for new women,” Beth exclaimed. “You seem so happy when you're in touch with your female-on-female self.”

“Well, my girl-on-girl side met someone promising,” I added. “But I've recently had an Internet encounter with a guy from college.”

“You've been busy, hopefully just having a good time.”

“The two helped me take my mind off of April. I thought I was starting to fall in love with her, until I felt strangled by her. I recoiled in self-preservation. Does that make me a bad person?”

“No, you're just taking care of yourself,” Beth offered. “It makes you a mature and healthy person.”

Just then, my call waiting beeped. The other call: April. Oh no, I can't do this, a parachute ride back into crazy town. What does she want? Is she okay? Would she harm herself? I should at least make sure she's safe. I clicked to speak with her.

“I want you to come back. I am lonely without you,” April said. It sounded like she'd been crying.

“Please don't cry.” I froze. I didn't want to say much, afraid to be sucked in.

“Things can be better,” April said in her seductive voice, the one I'd heard that night in the closet. “We can be good together.”

“We can be good together?” I just recited what she was saying. This moment felt hollow to me. “We each need time to think about things. Stay strong.”

I hung up. I felt her agony though the phone. Knowing I was the cause of her despair brought knots of guilt to my gut. I couldn't even say a joke to evaporate the bad feelings, my usual approach for diffusing tension and pain. So, I just felt guilty. April always appeared rock-hard strong, like nothing could break her. I couldn't change the situation. She needed time. But I knew that soon, once this pain subsided, we'd both find happier, healthier futures.

I clicked back to Beth. “That was her. I've never been on the other end of a woman suffering rejection. I feel horrible.”

“I've changed my phone number because of it,” Beth said. “Come out with me. There'll be pretty women and men at this party too, creative types, old bohos like us.”

“I'm writing a quiz; are you bisexual?”

“Hell, yes. I think you are too. Meet me tonight, you'll get all your Q's and A's,” she chuckled. “I'll pick you up at nine o'clock.”

Later that afternoon, I checked my email: On
Facebook
I now had 204 friends. Plus, Jessica felt lonely in the senior community and was still missing me. Derrick had a glorious time and would speak with his boss about more frequent California trips. I turned my computer off, having mixed feelings about my “virtual popularity.”

Beth arrived promptly that night, jazzed for new adventures. When we opened the door to the Spanish-style house with a view of the “Hollywood” sign, everyone there looked familiar, yet I'd never met any of them before. Rooms full of attractive, friendly men and women smiled at me. In answer to my own quiz question:
When you're at a party, who do you look at first, men or women,
my answer was — everyone!

As we passed the food, Anton, a half-Filipino, half-Chinese writer Beth and I had worked with a few years ago, stopped us.

“Ladies, don't miss the artichoke dip while it's still hot,” Anton urged. “Sara, Beth told me you're shopping for a new team…you have a girlfriend?”

“Had a girlfriend,” I answered. “We broke up last week.”

“Ah. Before I lived with Carlos, I dated women, mainly in college. It was the thing to do, like having a mullet. I love sex with women. But you have to have long conversations with women, listen to their problems, make them feel beautiful. Oy—it takes so much time and energy to make a woman open her legs. Now, a man sees you and says, 'Hey', looks you up and down, and nods as if to say, 'You look fine to me, let's go' and the next thing I know, we're going at it. Nice to see you, Sara. Good luck.”

I was surprised by his candor. I grabbed a stick of celery, scooped it into the artichoke dip. Anton was right—at least about the dip. I searched for Beth.

She introduced me to a couple, Jill and Jeffrey, both freelance writer- photographers. They were in the middle of a conversation.

“Why didn't Thompson take your photo book? What happened? I thought he really liked your stuff," Jill asked Jeffrey.

"I wouldn't suck his dick," Jeffrey said.

"You mean you wouldn't schmooze, flatter, fawn, and play the game?”

"No, I mean I wouldn't suck his dick."

I gulped my drink when I heard Jeffrey's comment. There's a lot of sexual energy brewing in this town, right here at this party. I glanced across the room, wanting to get away from the conversation, and noticed a man looking at me. He smiled, nodded, and beckoned me to walk towards the wall he was holding up. He looked smart-ass New York attractive, a smooth-skinned Richard Belzer type.

He kissed my hand, goofy gallant. “I've been watching you make the rounds of this party. I'm Paul. You're quite the mingler.”

“Better a mingler than a mangler,” I tossed off, with the sarcasm that made average men flee.

“I knew you would be smart,” he said, leaning in, as if to tell me a secret. “I noticed you came in with another woman. I know Beth. I've seen her with other women before. If you two are together, I'd love it if you'd take me home with you. My birthday is next week. A threesome would be a great gift.”

Disgusted, I pulled away, trying to shake the feeling that I'd been slimed, so I fled to the kitchen. There was a trio of women huddled near the fridge. I politely tried to maneuver past them to the ice chest for a beer.

One woman saw me, broke from the conversation, and said, “Want one of these?” She bent down towards the selection of longnecks in the sea of ice.

“Yes, something imported would be great.”

“Try this,” she said, yanking one out of the cooler, removing the cap, and then giving it to me. She pulled another one for herself, uncapped it, and clinked bottles with mine. “I'm Theresa. My friends call me TC.”

TC was my height, strong-shouldered, with a young face framed by short, salt-and-pepper hair. She could have been any age from 25 to 50. Exuding confidence and sexuality out of every pore, she was a female Rhett Butler, and I was a flighty Scarlett O'Hara.

“I'm Sara,” I said flirtily, mind racing for something to talk about. “How do you know our host?”