The Last Place She'd Look (7 page)

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:

50. Feels good, doesn't it? But what do you want for the future? 50 more healthy years? Financial security? An AARP membership can help.

Shortly after AARP found me, solicited, and sucker-punched my psyche asking for membership, I was still reeling from being qualified to join a support group for the senior population. They moved pretty quickly and aggressively for a bunch of oldsters.

I went back upstairs, checked my email, and learned that three of my new story ideas had been rejected. And I'd be receiving a kill fee (only a third of my usual rate) for a relationship story where the publisher decided they wanted a man's point of view—and a man to write it. Ah, the bleak world of rejection and the freelance writer. To take my mind off of my disappointments, I called Diana, hoping more of her Diana-isms could distract me from my inertia and rejection.

“I may have found a husband…for YOU!” she blurted.

“For me?” I gulped down a glass of water as my emotions raced from hope to horror. “Was that on my Christmas list? I thought I'm just supposed to have a good time. No relationship goals, no husband hunting.”

Diana continued, “One of my friends from my last job has a brother, Roberto. He's an opera singer, a tenor, cultured, with a few extra pounds—your type. He travels a lot, but a week from Sunday, you're meeting him at her house, for brunch.”

“Brunch next week with someone I haven't even spoken to?” I was anxious for a multitude of reasons.

“Trust me, I know what you like,” Diana said, with certainty. “I said glowing things about you. My goal is to get you married.”

Chapter 8

My Late Date

For Sunday brunch I dressed in soft colors and applied pretty pink lip gloss. I wanted to look as youthful and girlish as possible. Suzy Condella's home was a large English Tudor estate in Encino; rolling lawns, lots of trees, and no sidewalks. I walked to the front door eager and hopeful despite myself, straightening my clothes and hair before ringing the bell. Suzy came to the door wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. Although she was smiling, her eyes looked sad and red, as if she'd been crying.

“Sara? We've been expecting you. Please come in.” Suzy shook my hand and ushered me down a short hallway into a gigantic, spotless kitchen. “Please sit. I have something to tell you.” What could a total stranger have to tell me? I swallowed hard, maintaining her gaze. “You won't be meeting my brother today,” she began. “He was driving home from San Diego and…” Her voice broke. “He had a fatal heart attack. Only 55 years young. My brother is gone. The funeral was two days ago.”

I stood, thinking: Funeral? My date died before I even met him! I thought it best to excuse myself. This felt like being somewhere between a fever dream and a David Lynch film – soon my feet would feel heavy, a midget would enter, and someone would get amnesia. I tried to focus on the moment while wondering if anyone who cooked could actually keep this kitchen so spotless.

“Oh, don't go. You were invited for brunch. Diana has told me so much about you. Please join the rest of the family. They're poolside, waiting for you.”

I winced at the thought of dining with my dead date's family…but she insisted – and feeling trapped by the circumstances, my heart going out to those in such pain, I followed Suzy out the back door and greeted seven other relatives of the late Roberto.

Sitting under an umbrella, drinking an umbrella drink, conversing with the family of my late date, I marveled at the absurdity of it all. Why was I here? This table full of strangers working through their grief was nevertheless warm and cordial. How I wished I'd met them under other circumstances. I longed for a family like this. There were advantages to being a dead guy's girlfriend. He seldom embarrassed you in front of friends. You always knew where he was. If only we'd met while he was…breathing.

Despite a lovely lunch, I didn't linger. I thanked everyone profusely, with hugs and kisses on both cheeks. Driving home, my mind raced faster than the other drivers on the 101 freeway, thinking about an article I wrote years ago about the worst blind date I'd ever had – he committed suicide three hours before the date. Another late date? Was that a story-worthy article title? I'd write it up when I got home. But what really happened today? Did it count as a date, or anything resembling a date? Was this a sign I wasn't
really, really
ready for a new relationship? Or was it just another odd life experience I'd turn into a freelance paycheck? After my AARP harassing, gentle reminder, I realized I had less than half a century left. NOW was the lightning round of MY game show. The best future possible was the champion's prize. I was afraid I'd only win the washer/dryer, or even worse, a year's supply of Rice-a-Roni.

I drove lost in feelings of aloneness, aware of my own transience, eager to make every moment matter. Although I enjoyed meeting Suzy and her family, death brushed my shoulder, an intimation of mortality, as if Roberto and I had shared a fleeting hug.

I told Diana that my blind date was not a cozy Sunday brunch with Roberto, but instead a heartfelt wake with his family, making me aware of my own mortality.

“I'm shocked! He had such a charming vitality. This is unbelievable. Don't worry. I tried to find you a live man. I won't give up!” she said, coughing repeatedly.

Consoling her, I asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I think I've come down with some kind of cold or flu. All of these late nights have worn me out. Uri just left town for three weeks, so now I'll get some rest. My eyelids are so swollen it looks like I need an eye lift. It's a good thing I'm not giving any guys blow jobs, or I'd never be able to open my mouth up wide enough. Other than that I'm fine. Maybe we'll get together in a week or two. But as long as I look great for my birthday—that's all that matters.”

“What do you want to do to celebrate?” I queried.

“Not think about turning 60 and being a grandmother. Get my swollen eyes down and my libido up,” she joked.

I said goodbye to Diana, still thinking about my late date. First dates should be brimming with possibility…not fatality. I needed a date with a good EKG…and a pulse!