by K. B. Draper
A waitress walked over and asked if we’d like something to drink. Loren immediately ordered a beer, and Erin followed suit. The waitress informed them with a smile that this was a juice bar and no alcohol was allowed on the premises. She then offered some alternative drink options, like orange, apple, cranberry, and cran-apple juices. My pocketbook and I inwardly cheered because there was no way Loren would overindulge with juice, and there was no way she’d want to stay where there was no alcohol. My hopes of a return home before sunrise returned.
Smiling, I said, “I’ll take a large apple juice.”
Loren sighed, glanced at me, and then turned to the waitress and said she’d take the same.
The lights dimmed with the increased volume of a new song. I turned my attention back to the cleaning duo, but they had disappeared. Rays of colored lights began to pulse and dance around the room, then flew toward the stage and focused on the curtains behind the chrome poles. The curtain parted suddenly and a tall, blond woman wearing a sequined red dress about the size of a hand towel came strutting out on stage. She was attractive from my vantage point, which was approximately fifteen feet. She hit the end of the stage like a runway model, moving and dancing to the music. I was entranced, not so much at her dancing skills but that she could stand, walk, move, gyrate, leg raise, and squat without a misstep in her four-inch strappy, open-toed heels. She made a few more impossible swirling, leg kicking, leg-splitting moves and then off came her hand towel. I’d expected a slower transition from dressed to naked. I needed some time to adjust and thought it wouldn’t have hurt to progress through a bra and underwear or at least some pasties and a G-string. But no, the blond speed stripper was so completely naked underneath her hand towel that I couldn’t even verify she was a true blond.
I diverted my eyes, since I’m just a bit old-fashioned, if you can be old-fashioned and sleep with women. Despite that, I still believe if they don’t call me “doctor” or I haven’t bought a person dinner first, then I shouldn’t be seeing their … mmm, sugar bowl. And after only a few seconds, thanks to a leg kick that would’ve impressed the Rockettes, I’d not only seen speed stripper’s sugar bowl, but I’d seen her whole service set.
At the sound of a quick intake of breath from Erin and a quick glance at Loren, whose face was wearing an expression of confusion and pain, I followed their gazes back to the stage. Speed stripper was ankles over ass at the top of the chrome pole. I wonder if the Chief ever had to deal with this at the fire station? Speed stripper’s legs splayed open. Okay, I should at least order a pizza and have it delivered to her backstage. She slid around the pole then splayed her legs open again. Or maybe I should reconsider that online medical degree at the University of Chinapa. She wrapped her legs around the pole then released her hands, letting herself slide slowly, stopping halfway down. I cringed and instinctively flexed my own sugar bowl muscles. She’s DEFINITELY using her Thigh Master in a location different from the recommended positioning and I bet she went to Meineke and had brake pads installed on her labia majora.
The waitress came to the table with our apple juices and informed me it would be twenty-five-dollars. I was going to question when apples had become the same price as oil, but then I caught speed stripper making another slide down her pole and figured the inflated cost of drinks was due to the cost of oil, as in the baby oil variety.
I sipped my Dom Perignon apple juice as speed stripper finished her routine and left the stage. The lights came back on and the music faded to the background. After a few minutes, speed stripper, like the cleaning duo prior, came back out in a robe with a bottle of cleaning solution. Reflecting only briefly on her “dance routine,” I was sure she wasn’t just cleaning fingerprints from the pole. I hoped for the next stripper’s sake that she was using an industrial-strength cleaner to remove her coochie snail trail.
Two weeks after the strip club experience Loren wanted to head “out and about” again. This time, however, she posed it as she and I should go have dinner and do something. I, of course, was leery but again figured if I declined, the “we” would convert to “she” and she’d go without me. So again I agreed.
We headed to one of our favorite restaurants. During dinner we talked and joked. As I listened and watched her tell animated stories and laugh, I remembered why I was so easily taken in. She was so full of life and when it was just Loren and me, she made me feel like I was the only person in her world. Though I’d been intrigued by her the first time I’d been around her, I’d fallen for her after seeing her with kids at the school for the mentally and physically handicapped. Visiting her one day at work, I stood outside her classroom door watching her interact with the kids. Most were in wheelchairs and silent but as she moved from kid to kid, she didn’t see their disabilities. She kissed them, held their hands, and joked and played with them. Though most couldn’t respond verbally or even hold their head up straight, they lit up and responded in their own happy way. I watched in awe as they smiled, bounced, and clapped, expressing their excitement and their pure affection for her. I figured they felt like I felt now. When you had her attention, no matter how short a time, she had the most amazing ability to make you feel as if you were the most incredible person in the world despite your flaws, your limitations, and your scars.
The bill for dinner came.
“So, I think I’m going to visit a friend for a week or so,” she said as she picked up the bill.
“Which friend?” I asked, immediately suspicious.
“You don’t know her. She’s just a friend.” She put her card out for payment.
“When are you leaving to see this friend?”
“Tomorrow,” she said.
I took her to the airport the next day and as she pulled me tight and gave me a kiss, she told me all the things you’d want your girlfriend to say to you if she was leaving for a “week or so.” “I love you, I’ll call, I’ll be back before you know it, I’ll miss you …” I looked over her shoulder to see “Flight 1447 to Las Vegas Now Boarding” scroll across the gate’s marquee.
True love conquers all things.
Except for insecurity, fear, and overly friendly nurses …
Carly August 1998–February 2000
After a long career of softball, I’d vowed to hang up my glove for good. I swore I was not going to fall into the slow-pitch softball circuit like every other retired college softball-playing lesbian. However, Eric, my if-I-was-straight-and-going-to-be-with-a-guy-it-would-be-him guy friend, begged me to play in a weekend tournament. Apparently, his coed softball team had won their league, qualifying them for the State Tournament but they were a player short because the left-center fielder sprained her ankle while attempting to jump on stage at a Michael Bolton concert.
My first instinct was to say “no” because anyone who would actually run toward the stage at a Michael Bolton concert, instead of away from it, should’ve been recognized as mentally unstable and therefore he should’ve had a spare player. I finally gave in to Eric after a long pathetic plea and bribery settlement. Eric first offered me a case of beer. I counter-offered with his motorcycle. We settled on his sperm if I found my forever girlfriend.
I decided to drive myself to the tournament for a few reasons. One, I didn’t want to risk that there might be another die-hard Michael Bolton fan on the team and I’d get trapped in a vehicle listening to sappy love songs for the hundred-fifty-mile drive. Two, it just so happened that the tournament was in the same town as the bar Whitney and my lesbian nemesis took me to when I was just a wee-little lesbian. So I thought I’d get an opportunity to revisit the bar for nostalgia sake and if there just happened to be women dancing topless in neon glow-in-the-dark body paint, so be it. And three, Claire, my lesbian nemesis’s ex, had also moved to the area shortly after our night of consoling each other when we found our girlfriends were sleeping together. I was thinking I might be in need of some more consoling. Not for Stacy and my lesbian nemesis’s little soiree years ago, which I’d put way behind
me, but there was still world hunger, the diminishing population of polar bears, and the dream I had last night where Celine Dion’s ginormous singing head was chasing me. For those reasons, I was in need of some serious consoling, maybe some counseling, and possibly a low dose of medication.
After a long day on the ball field I went to the snack shack to get a five-dollar hotdog and a five-dollar Gatorade, and look at the tournament bracket to determine how many more freaking games I had left to play in one hundred-degree weather.
“How’s your team doing?” a woman beside me asked.
I turned to see a dark-skinned, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman standing next to me with a big smile.
I counter-smiled then replied, “Three wins. We’re done until tomorrow. You?”
“Two wins and one miserable loss. We have to play again in 30 minutes.”
She was attractive and kind of … bouncy. I immediately pegged her as one of those always-happy kind of people.
“Good luck,” I said.
“Thanks.”
I walked off, curious whether she’d just been flirting with me. The idea of it made me smile so that’s how I recorded the little encounter in my head.
Two hours later, Claire, her NEW girlfriend, I, and my disappointment entered the bar. Despite there not being any neon-painted girls, it was as I remembered: A dark, dirty bar but still kind of homey. We sat near the bathroom and dance floor. This is my favorite location in any bar because at some point or another every woman in the bar will walk by on the way to the restroom, effectively eliminating having to cruise the bar myself. I’m not lazy; I’m just efficient.
Since my introduction to lesbian bars, I’d observed four types of dancers: “new relationship” dancers, “old relationship” dancers, the “too nice to say no” dancers, and the “I’m drunk and think I can dance” dancers.
With “new relationship” dancers there’s always one woman who can dance and she’s swirling behind and moving up against the other woman, whose dance moves consist of step left, step right and clap. All the while, the look of “I’m completely embarrassed, I know I’m a horrible dancer but I’m out here because she wants me to be and I’m hoping for sex soon” is plastered on her face.
“Old relationship” dancers are quickly recognized because they’re the only ones on the dance floor during Indigo Girls songs.
For the “I’m not interested but I’m too nice to say no” dancers, there is always a lesser attractive woman who keeps trying to move in close and grind up against a significantly more attractive woman who, just before pelvis to pelvis contact, quickly incorporates a half spin into her dance moves so she can turn to face her friends and mouth “Oh my God, help me” only to find they are watching, pointing, and laughing at her.
The drunk “I think I can dance” is self-explanatory, always the most entertaining, and sadly the category I typically fall in.
A rather rotund woman was demonstrating that particular dance performance to the rhythm of Funky Cold Medina. I was pondering whether I should go tell her that wasn’t the song playing when a waitress set a beer in front of me and informed me it was from the lady at the bar. I turned to see the woman from the snack shack. Guess that confirmed the flirting question. Nice. After a full minute of questioning and harassment from Claire, I headed to the bar to say thank you. We introduced ourselves and Melonie joined us at the table. We ended up talking and dancing the rest of the evening. When it was time to leave, we walked out together, and after an awkward moment she stated, “I’m supposed to be in your area next weekend to see a friend. Can I call you?”
I hesitated because even though I was single and she was very nice, fun, and attractive I wasn’t really ready for any kind of relationship, casual, serious, or otherwise and especially not a long-distance one at this point. But, I didn’t know exactly how to tell her that and I couldn’t say she wanted anything from me either. Maybe she just wanted an inner-state pen pal or someone else to call in the big city if her car broke down. Or if she did want something more than free AAA service, who said I’d have to let it turn into a relationship? Dates don’t always have to turn into relationships.
That’s it, I could become a female gigolo. I’ll just provide my skills and abilities unselfishly to women in need. It would be like volunteer work. I do need to volunteer more since I was banned from being a bell ringer for the Salvation Army. In my defense, I’d honestly thought the cowbell would be a nice change from the annoying high-pitched bells they handed out. And I don’t care what they said, my cowbell rendition did sound like We Are the World. And it also wasn’t my fault when all thirty-seven dinners ended up on the floorboard of the car my first time out as a Meals-on-Wheels delivery person. That old lady just appeared in the crosswalk.
“Sure, just give me a call.”
I gave her my number and a hug. As I pulled away, I ran my finger down her jaw line and winked at her over my shoulder, the first in my gigolo-style moves.
Melonie called me the next weekend. “I’m in town, and my friends and I were thinking about going out tonight. Would you want to meet up?”
Hmmm. I fought my first instinct to say I’m busy. Being a newly self-proclaimed gigolo, I didn’t think it was very gigolo-ish of me so I agreed. “Sure, I have to work a little this evening but I can meet you at the bar later.”
“Well, we’re going to be eating dinner near your work. Can we stop by and see you for a minute?” she asked.
She really wants me. I might actually turn out to be good at this gigolo thing. It was probably the finger down her cheek and wink move. I suggested a public place versus my office because I figured if I was going to be a gigolo, I couldn’t have my soon-to-be harem parading in and out of my office. Plus, to walk from my office to the designated location I’d have to pass by my favorite candy store. It’s owned by an old lesbian that has a little crush on me so I often score free treats. I hadn’t visited her in a week, because as part of my gigolo transformation, I figured I should lose a pound or two. I have a small weakness for sugar and I’m not talking candy bars, chocolate, or cookies. I’m talking straight sugar, like Sprees, Bottle Caps, and Fun Dip—well, the Fun Dip powder, not the weird chalk stick thing. If only Candyland were a real place. Of course if it were, I’d probably be some Pixy Straw, sugared-up crackhead lying toothless at the bottom of Gumdrop Mountain begging the gingerbread people for a fix. Just the thought of gumdrops and lollipops had me picking up my pace.
My lesbian candy dealer had a jar of Smarties suckers on the counter. “I ordered these just for you,” she said.
“Perfect! Compressed sour sugar on a stick. I think I love you.” I paid for three suckers, and she gave me five plus a wink. I wondered if sugar could be a basis for a relationship. Oh wait, I’m a gigolo. I wonder if I could sleep with her for Jelly Bellies. Hmmm … yeah probably.
I was waiting on the corner, one sucker down and a second in my mouth, when an SUV pulled up and I recognized my first harem candidate waving to me from the backseat. I smiled at Melonie, said “hi” to the driver, and glanced over to greet the passenger. When my eyes met those of the woman in the passenger’s seat, my heart began bouncing freakishly around in my chest. My first reaction was to wonder what kind of sugar was in that sucker. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. It wasn’t because she was drop-dead, supermodel gorgeous. She had a simple, natural beauty. The kind that made every cell in my body react. I’d never felt this way. I’d never been so instantly and overwhelmingly overtaken by a woman before.
God, if you make her single and gay, I’ll give up my harem and my gigolo ways. Granted I’ve only been at the gigolo thing for a week and I have no official members in my harem, but I promise to give it all up. I’ll even go to church or at least I’ll watch one of those preacher guys on TV for a full hour. And I’ll even stop using Merry Xmas because I know it’s wrong to take Christ out of Christmas even though my hand cramps after spelling it out on Christmas cards every year.
She smiled,
and with that simple gesture I knew that love at first sight was real, it wasn’t just some propaganda from Hallmark, Hollywood, and country singers. All this time I thought it was a myth or fable like unicorns, Bigfoot, honest politicians, and OJ Simpson’s innocence. But it wasn’t, it’s real. I was looking at the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
Melonie bounced up from the backseat and greeted me. “We found you.”
Yes, and I’ve never been so thankful for anything my whole life. I pulled the sucker out of my mouth and scrambled to say something charming, cool, and intelligent. Unknowingly, Melonie spared me when she put her hand on the shoulder of the driver and said, “This is Michelle,” and then put her other hand on the passenger and said, “This is Carly, the one I came up to visit.”
Carly, the love of my life’s name is Carly. I imagined Carly and me holding hands and happily skipping through a wheat field. I saw us getting into a playful roll-around fight while painting our white picket fence as our 2.5 pets played in the yard behind us. I heard our answering machine. “Sorry we aren’t available right now ’cause we’re making love, but please leave us a message after the beep and once we stop gazing into each other’s eyes, we’ll get back to you.” Beeeep. Okay maybe we’d leave out the making love part; our parents might not be comfortable with it and it would really confuse grandma. But I knew it worked, the whole thing would work. I wanted this woman.
“How’s your day going?” Melonie asked.
My heart was hammering, and I had to lean on the door to keep my knees from buckling. My head was spinning, and I was fighting an overwhelming urge to dive through the window, kiss Carly, and profess my love to her. “Good,” I answered.
After an awkward silence I blurted out, “Anyone want a sucker?” Oh my God, I’m a complete idiot. How did that statement get out of my mouth? It’s over. Carly’s going to think I’m an idiot.
