by K. B. Draper
“So are there any kids?” I questioned.
“I haven’t seen any and no one’s in the house,” Deputy Thomas replied.
“Do I even want to ask why she’s running around the yard with a knife?”
“Well, she told me she’s mad because the neighbor’s dog keeps getting into her trash.”
“Okay. So where’s the neighbor’s dog?”
Deputy Thomas’s grin grew wide as he pointed in Laura’s direction. “She’s chasing it.”
“Of course she is,” I sighed.
At that particular moment, Laura was in a sumo wrestler squat, dancing right, then left, as if she had her imaginary furry opponent cornered. She quickly jumped to her right and screamed, “Damn it! Come here, you little shit-eating mutt,” and then began running zigzags and circles in her yard again.
I figured I only had a few options at this point. Option one: I could use the new communication skills I had recently acquired at a three-day FBI Hostage Negotiation class. Granted, my hostage was an imaginary dog, but I figured some skills could still apply. Option two: Deputy Thomas and I could physically restrain Laura, but then there was the whole knife issue, which could get messy, and I was wearing a tan suit. Blood and grass stains never come out of tan. Option three: I could resign myself to do what Deputy Thomas had already concluded: she was a big lady and she’d get tired soon. So I hopped on the hood of the patrol car and watched the chase, throwing the occasional cheer of encouragement to Laura but secretly rooting for the imaginary dog.
Seven minutes and thirty-six seconds later Laura threw down the knife and walked over to the side of her house. She turned on the garden hose and took a long, slurping, apparently refreshing drink. After she was rehydrated, I thought it was time to conclude this little situation. I walked over to her, already deciding to play “the president is running late and sent us to come get you and your kids” card. Satisfied with the government’s response, she was even more easily persuaded to get into the back of Deputy Thomas’s patrol car. With Laura and the imaginary dog’s safety ensured, we headed to the sheriff’s department. I smiled with satisfaction at the successful and uneventful conclusion to the incident and at the memory of seeing my lesbian nemesis’s car in the department’s parking lot before I left for the call, meaning she would be the one processing and searching Laura before she was sent to the loony bin.
I fell in behind Deputy Thomas and Laura for the drive back to the department. I was already mentally writing the “Details of Mental Behavior” section of the Psychiatric Submission Request form, when a black boot hit my front windshield. Two seconds later, it was followed by a Bengals jersey. I couldn’t blame Laura for not wanting to be seen in public wearing a Bengals jersey, but then came her DD bra. I watched, transfixed, as it floated from the patrol car’s window through the air like a fall leaf being gently sailed through the sky by a soft fall breeze, except it was large, white, double cupped, and it was coming right at me. I ducked before quickly realizing that was stupid since there was a protective, shatter-resistant glass windshield between it and me and I was relatively certain that automakers have safety shatterproof standards higher than floating cotton undergarments. It hit my windshield and stuck. I swerved right, then left in an attempt to throw off the massive obstruction. This only made it spread out to its full windshield-covering size.
I drove scrunched down, head tilted at a forty-five-degree angle for a half-mile so I could see through one of the shoulder straps when out of the corner of my eye I saw the symbol for the windshield wipers. DUH. I hit the knob and the first swipe of the wipers cleared my view. The bra went sailing off and the emergency was swiftly averted.
“Sorry. The air-conditioning is broken so I had the window rolled down a bit,” Deputy Thomas said over the two-way radio, a little undisguised chuckle in his voice.
We proceeded to the department without further incident. Apparently, having a topless and shoeless woman in the backseat of his car clued Deputy Thomas into rolling up the back windows, despite the lack of air circulation. I pulled my car in behind Deputy Thomas’s and got out to assist in the extraction of the now half-naked Laura when I noticed the other deputies, who had also come out to assist, were looking at my vehicle. Then in one big chorus they all burst out laughing. I turned to see what had caused this explosion to find Laura’s bra dangling from my radio antenna. Oh nice! I’d driven all the way through town and by the courthouse in a mini-police car motorcade with a bra flying from my car like I was escorting a diplomat from the Nation of Victoria’s Secret.
The end of the day couldn’t come quick enough. I’d just completed the final paperwork on Laura and heard the 200th bra comment when Whitney called, wondering if I wanted to meet for a beer? ABSOLUTELY! I hadn’t seen Whitney as much since she and my now lesbian nemesis had broken up, but recently she’d been calling more since she found out our exes were now together.
I met Whitney, accompanied by several other women, at a local dive bar. After introductions were made I took an open seat next to a woman named Jenny. At some point Whitney had told the group I was a detective and as every conversation begins when people find out what I did, they wanted to hear stories. I started to answer “what is the grossest thing you’ve ever seen” when a tall, attractive, blonde walked up to the table. Sweet! Santa did bring me what I want for Christmas! The blonde walked over to Whitney and gave her a kiss. And Santa is a cruel bitch. After the blonde’s tongue dislodged from Whitney’s throat, Whitney introduced her.
“Everyone, this is Loren. Loren this is …” as Whitney went around the table giving everyone’s name, Loren smiled and I decided I liked her immediately.
After we’d ordered the second round of beer and I resumed answering the “grossest thing ever” question, Whitney and Loren excused themselves to go to the bathroom. In new couple lingo this translated to “let’s go make out somewhere more private.” Now, I’m perfectly comfortable with public displays of affection, more so when I’m the one getting the affection, but Whitney’s and Loren’s display had quickly evolved from “cute new couple affection” to “drunks making out in the corner.” Fortunately, they were both attractive so it wasn’t all that horrible.
In mid-description of what exactly happens to a 425-pound male when he falls victim to a heart attack while masturbating to a porno tape in the middle of winter in a trailer with the thermostat turned to 87 degrees, Whitney knocked over a chair, yelled “fuck you,” and stormed out of the bar. We all turned toward the sound, collectively shrugged, and then they all turned back to me, eager to hear the gory conclusion.
“Shouldn’t someone go after her?” Jenny questioned.
“No. She does this all the time,” someone responded, while everyone else concurred with a head nod.
Loren stood staring at the door until she decided Whitney wasn’t going to come storming back in. She ordered a pitcher of beer and rejoined the rest of the group.
Jenny and I talked the rest of the evening while I multitasked and watched Loren out of the corner of my eye. I was attracted to both women for different reasons. Jenny was intelligent, had a dry but funny sense of humor, and was kindhearted. And though Loren had demonstrated her above-average making-out skills earlier, once Whitney left Loren also revealed that she was fun, engaging, and had the most intoxicating laugh I’d ever heard. At the end of the evening we all decided we should get together again the next week. As I left I realized I was already looking forward to seeing Jenny again and secretly hoped Loren would be there as well.
The week went by relatively slowly. On the night of our next get-together, I wandered through the bar and found the group out on the back patio. I stood in the doorway for a long moment watching Loren who had them all engaged in some elaborate story. She was completely animated, standing and talking with her entire body. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but it ended with her intoxicating laugh. Yep, Santa was a cold, cruel bitch. I paid for my beer and joined the group.
The w
eekly meetings continued, and I found myself forming a close relationship with Jenny. I couldn’t say we had a lot in common but that was why I liked her. She was a bit older than me and reserved. I’d ramble on about nothing and she’d laugh at me. I enjoyed being around her. I wasn’t attracted or not attracted to her. Somehow I knew I wanted, maybe needed, her in my life and if I added the confusion of dating, it might or might not work out. I wasn’t willing to risk losing her and I wasn’t entirely sure she was gay (and I wasn’t eager to relive the Maggie experience) so Jenny fell quickly into the “friend” category. Nonetheless, we began making plans outside the bar, going to eat, movies, playing tennis, golf, or just hanging out.
A friendship with Loren had also started to flourish. She began calling me or swinging by my house whenever she and Whitney were fighting, which became more and more frequent. I knew through the tenure of my friendship with Whitney that she had a temper and that it got worse when she drank, but I couldn’t grasp the reason for the escalating frequency of her outbursts.
This sounding board relationship between Loren and me went on for months. Loren would come by, have a beer, cry, and question why Whitney would treat her like she did. I, of course, couldn’t imagine. Loren was fun, big-hearted, and seemingly just wanted Whitney to love her. My attraction to Loren grew. Every time she showed up I wanted to be more than a shoulder to cry on. On many occasions I wanted to tell her I would never treat her like Whitney, but out of respect for Whitney and their relationship, I said nothing. Nothing, that is, until Loren showed up on my doorstep with bruises on her arm and bite marks on her back. That was all it took to throw me into full “Knight in Shining Armor” mode, minus the white horse and the armor.
Loren stayed at my house for three days. I held her, I let her cry, and I told her it would be okay. By the third day the vibe between us changed. Part of me felt guilty because this was my friend’s girlfriend and I knew what it felt like to be betrayed. However, I justified it in my mind because of the injuries Whitney had inflicted on her. I didn’t act on my feelings and when Loren decided to go home, although I didn’t want her to go, I didn’t try to stop her. I walked her out to her car and gave her a cheery pep talk to make her laugh, which was really more for me than for her. She gave me a long, lingering hug and got into her car. I missed her immediately, but knew she’d be back.
A week later, she called. “Are you going to be home tonight? Can I come over?”
“Of course. Are you okay?” I could hear the tears in her voice.
“No. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
What had Whitney done this time? This is ridiculous. I swear if she shows up with bruises and bite marks again, I’ll go arrest her myself. To-do list tomorrow: Buy oats for my new white horse.
“Whitney left,” she said as she came in.
Good, but she won’t stay gone, unfortunately. “I’m sorry,” I said aloud.
Loren cried for the next two hours, but by the last beer and the last piece of pizza she was almost smiling. “You know, it could be worse,” I said.
“How’s that?” she replied.
“You could have my love life.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. My first girlfriend had a boyfriend the whole time I was dating her …” I continued the story, slightly over-dramatizing the highlights in an effort to make her laugh. “... yeah, and I ended up as her maid-of-honor, complete with an ugly, teal, poofy dress.”
She laughed. “You’re kidding me. That still doesn’t beat my story. I was married …” There was a good possibility I would have to have a doctor surgically replace my jaw, since I hadn’t known she’d been married. But I wasn’t able to ponder that little detail very long because I became engrossed in the details of her divorce settlement. “… per the divorce papers, my husband was supposed to leave me the house, half the furniture, and the washer and dryer. However, since there weren’t any specifications for him to leave our current washer and dryer, he bought used, coin-operated machines from a laundromat and kept the keys. So, for two months I had to go to the bank every week to get a roll of quarters to do my laundry in my own house.”
I laughed out loud. “Okay, one point for that. Well, actually one point for your ex-husband because that was pretty ingenious.”
I wasn’t going to let her win this little game of one-upmanship for bad relationships. I went for sympathy points and threw out my next relationship catastrophe.
“My second girlfriend left me for my best friend while I was tending to my ailing grandmother,” I said, strategically leaving out the fact that the best friend was Whitney’s ex.
“I cheated on my husband with a girl who didn’t tell me she had crabs until they infested my couch,” she retorted.
I stared at her blankly for a minute while I mentally fought the urge to look down at my own couch that she was so comfortably sitting on, and then replied. “Okay, two points to you only because it involved a venereal disease.” To-do list tomorrow: Vacuum my couch.
Knowing there was no chance of me winning this little game, which I had so cleverly conceived to distract Loren from her relationship blues, I was now depressed so I threw out my last confession. “My third girlfriend was married, straight, and apparently only wanted a short vacation on Lesbo Island.”
“I slept with one of my female students when I was a high school PE teacher, and we got caught in the back seat of my car by a park ranger,” she countered confidently.
“Okay, you win,” I said as the faintest of warning sirens started going off in my head. I glanced up at Loren, and she smiled. And screw the warning signals, uptight bastards. I went to the kitchen to find something stronger for us to drink. I felt Loren come up behind me. Damn. What was it about my kitchen that drew women into it and suddenly made them want to slink up behind me? Was it built over ancient brothel house ruins? Loren moved closer, and then I felt her head against my back. Her touch sent shock waves through me.
“I want you to hold me,” she said softly.
I turned around and wrapped my arms around her trying to decide what to do or, better yet, what NOT to do next. I didn’t have to ponder long because she pulled back, ran her fingers through my hair, and gave me an “I want to fuck you” kiss. I, of course, being the self-sacrificing person that I am, and in my continuous effort to console Loren, conceded to her wishes.
I was accustomed to sex with women, and not to brag, but I thought I was pretty dang okay at it. However, I wasn’t prepared for Loren. Until that point, my first encounters with women had been slow, investigative, and passionate. Loren was fast, hot, and required a fair amount of stamina and a sturdy bed frame.
During a “holy crap, give me a minute” timeout, I found myself staring at her tattoos. Not until later did I discover they were a painted history of her previous relationships. I realized there was a theme, six simple colors. On her right ankle was a cartoon elephant holding six balloons—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple. On the top of her foot were the same colors contained within a triangle.
To date, I have fully embraced my gayness; however, I haven’t yet figured out the whole rainbow association and symbolism thing. Diversity, I know. Or it was some evil plot of a gay dictator who wanted to invoke fear in the hearts of parents so every time their child drew a rainbow, the parents would wonder if their kid was gay. That’s cruel, unless the parents are big homophobes; then it’s super funny.
Still, I think we could’ve just as easily picked colors that no one was using, like brown, mauve, turquoise, and gold. You couldn’t get much more diverse than that, right? And flags, why exactly do we have a flag? Flags used to be flown to signify accomplishments like discovering new territory or conquering another’s land. I mean what were we signifying? I guess a gay guy could be using the flag to indicate he has conquered and subsequently redecorated the property of previous straight ownership, or lesbians could be using it to signify they have moved in, fixed the plumbing, and built a deck? I don’t know. I k
ind of like Jesus’s bracelet deal. They’re way more portable and you don’t have to retrieve it from the front yard of your neighbor four houses down after a thunderstorm.
In typical lesbian style, Loren’s and my relationship developed quickly. Nearly every night I was staying at her house or she was staying at mine. She had the overwhelming ability to make me feel like I was the most important person in the world. Her laugh was intoxicating and the sex rivaled porn videos, minus the penises, women with fake boobs, and bad story lines. Okay, maybe it wasn’t anything like porn sex but we did have fun, sweaty, laughing, roll-around sex. I was quickly becoming addicted to her. I should’ve probably stopped and analyzed that statement, but I didn’t have time as there was a lot of sweaty, laughing, roll-around sex.
I was off work early one day and Loren and I had decided to go to a movie. “I’m not really hungry,” she said. “Think I’d rather run home real quick, change, and grab a bag so I can stay here tonight.”
Thoughts of sweaty, roll-around, laughing sex ran through my mind. “That’s fine. The movie starts at 7:30 so I’ll see you around 7:00?”
“I’ll be here,” she replied and gave me a kiss that had me halfway through the sweaty part and wanting to jump to the roll-around. God, she had turned me into a fifteen-year-old boy. I really should get a better, more mature handle on this relationship. Maybe later, after I take a shower and shave because I can’t really have sweaty, roll-around sex with leg stubble.
I was ready at 6:45 p.m. and began to clock watch, eager to see her even though it had only been a few hours. 7:00 came and went. I didn’t get too excited since Loren often ran on Central Standard Loren Time. 7:15 came and went. 7:30 ticked by. Okay, no big deal. We’d skip the movie and go straight to sweaty, roll-around sex. At 8:00 I called her phone to make sure she was okay. No answer. 9:00, 10:00, 11:00. I called the sheriff’s department and asked if we had any car accidents reported. None. I called the hospitals and there were no tall, cute blondes with amnesia. The next morning I drove to her house. No answer. I saw a neighbor and asked if she’d seen her.
