by K. B. Draper
I laid my head back. Guilt washed over me again. I left, needing to pee and figuring I should go register my name at the local sheriff’s department for the shallow stalker, deviant voyeur list. Hopefully I’d get a nice parole officer.
Friday night I stood in front of Alicia’s door wondering if I needed to even knock since my heart was pounding loud enough to be heard a half a block away. Fist posed in pre-knocking position, I paused and dropped my hand. Wait, what if she was a 4.0 on the scale of hotness? What was I going to do? Stop it! I can deal with it. I’m not that shallow and I like her.
Again, I raised my knuckles back up and prepared to knock. Then I realized there was one little thing I hadn’t considered … WHAT IF SHE WAS HOTTER THAN ME? What if she was a 10 and thinks I’m a 4.0? Crap. To-do list tomorrow: Look for where I misplaced my confidence. It’s probably the same place I left my pride on my last birthday when Stacy bought me four shots and convinced me I sounded just like Patsy Cline and should sing “Crazy” during karaoke night at Dan’s Dirty Tavern.
Seriously, I need to stop. I can’t stand out here forever and if I can live through singing Patsy Cline at a biker bar, then I can live through this. Plus, I’m probably a 7.0. (I used to rank higher on the hot lesbian bell curve before freakin’ Angelina decided to dip on this side of the line, dropping us all a point or two.) Then there’s my hair, which is not following my strict instructions despite our lengthy conversation to be on its best behavior in front of strangers before we left the house. So I might be more like a 6.95. Oh my God, I’ve got to get a grip. Cyber-Jennifer is waiting.
I took a deep breath and knocked, then realized there was a doorbell. I rang the doorbell. Oh God, I just knocked and then rang the doorbell within the same second. She’s going to think I’m an impatient freak. I turned to flee when I heard the door open. I turned back and looked into the eyes of my cyber-Jennifer. More precisely, I looked down into the eyes of my cyber-Jennifer because she was like 4 feet six inches tall. She looked at me. Did she only have one eyebrow? Okay, no more worries about the “What if she’s a 10?” part. My heart sank as low as her belt. Cyber-Jennifer was more like cyber-creepy old psychic lady from the Poltergeist movie, but younger. I managed a smile.
“Alicia?” I asked with a quick hope that she’d answer, “No, I’m Alicia’s half-sister, Alicia is in the back brushing out her locks of golden-brown hair.”
“Come in.” She widened the door and stepped aside. “You obviously found the place okay?”
I stepped inside. “Yeah, it was no problem,” I answered, figuring I should leave off, “because I was here the other night stalking you.”
She shut the door and turned to appraise me from my shoes to my head. I did the same. Of course I finished before her, since there was less to appraise. “You’re cuter than I thought you’d be,” she finally said.
I quickly tried to compile an equally complimentary response. Yeah, I had nothing. “Thanks,” I said instead.
“I’m almost ready. Have a seat and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she said as she headed down the hall.
“No problem, take your time.”
Knowing that I could sit here until Christmas and it wouldn’t be enough time for her to transform into my cyber-Jennifer, I went to sit in the chair closest to the door to ensure a quick exit in case the television decided to spontaneously turn on and summon me to the other side. But due to the amount of hair matted to the chair cushion, I assumed this was where Bigfoot had sat when he discovered he’d used Nair instead of his normal shampoo. I took a seat on the couch. A low, angry growl came from behind my head, convincing me that Bigfoot was still here and obviously still pissed. I stood quickly, resumed my position by the door, and thought about going next door to see what her cute neighbor was doing this evening. I’m evil.
As I waited, I glanced around her apartment trying to find a hint of the person she had so alluringly described to me. In the corner was a stationary bike acting as a clothes rack. “I use my bike daily.” Well, I guess that was one interpretation. Okay, maybe that was my fault and I had mistakenly thought when she said “use it” she actually meant in a method that would involve pedaling.
A cat jumped on the back of Bigfoot’s chair. Okay a cat. She did say she had cats. The growling started again from the back of the couch. Two more cats came tumbling out in fighting, rolling summersaults. Three cats. She did say cats. Again, my fault for mistakenly assuming cats meant two, but three was not a big deal. I felt something wind slowly and seductively through my legs. Four cats. Okay, maybe pushing the boundaries of acceptable cat limits. I heard her voice shout a command from the back of the apartment, “Pablo, get down off the cabinet.” Pablo didn’t sound like a fitting nickname for Bigfoot, so I could only assume Pablo was another cat. Five cats. I was pretty sure that five cats, unless four of them were nursing on the fifth cat or they were sitting in a box at Wal-Mart with a FREE sign attached, was not the acceptable norm for cat cohabitants.
Alicia came out of the backroom. I reassessed her. She smiled and I saw a birthmark just above the left corner of her somewhat attractive smile. So, no resemblance to my cyber-Jennifer, but maybe there was a small hint of cyber-Cindy Crawford, if you detached Cindy’s legs at her knees and added 45 pounds.
As we drove to the restaurant, all the hundreds of things we had discussed via email and our two-hour phone conversation eluded me. Alicia broke the silence first. She asked me about a meeting I had not been looking forward to at work. Confused for a second, I turned to look at the total stranger seated in my passenger seat who knew about my day’s activities. Then I remembered; the person sitting next to me was not a stranger. She was the person with whom I had discussed my days, my nights, the events of my life, the person whose name I ran home longing to see in the “from” box of my email.
I felt so shallow. I’d connected on some level with her during the past few weeks, and now I was disregarding this connection because I was not physically attracted to her. So we probably wouldn’t be taking scenic biking trips through North Carolina, and the two-dog, animal-loving home I had envisioned would be more like a two-dog, five-cat, one-Bigfoot kind of home. And so she didn’t look like Jennifer Aniston; none of my past girlfriends had either. They were more attractive, yes, but it wasn’t like those relationships worked out either. Maybe there didn’t need to be a physical attraction, but just a connection and it would grow from there. Satisfied with my revelation, I looked at her and began talking to her as I had in our emails. She was nice and easy to talk to, so maybe this could work. Maybe I’d become physically attracted to her over time.
Five hours later, after dinner, drinks, and great conversation, we decided to call it a night. When we arrived at her apartment complex, I walked her to her door. As we climbed the stairs I became nervous. What was I going to do when we reached the door? What if she acted like she wanted a kiss goodnight? What if she asked me in? My attraction hadn’t grown that far yet. I was only at handshake level attraction.
Oh God, I’m a horrible person. I could give her a nice, quick, polite peck on the lips or maybe the cheek. I just needed to focus on the things that were attractive about her like her kindness, her ease of conversation, her smile, and the sexy Cindy Crawford-ish “birthmark.” I’d just stare at her lips and birthmark. Lips and birthmark, lips and birthmark, lips and birthmark I chanted as we approached her door. She turned and was silhouetted by the glow of her porch light. Lips and birthmark. I took a tentative step toward her and prepared to give her a quick peck on the lips … lips and birthmark, lips and birthmarrr- Is that a hair? Oh God, lips and mole, lips and mole, mole, mole … I can’t do it! What if the mole hair tickled my nose and I sneezed on her? I have been feeling kind of puny lately. So for her own germ protection I probably shouldn’t kiss her.
We stood there uncomfortably for a moment until she finally said, “It was good to actually see you in person. I had a good time tonight.”
“Yeah, me too.” I st
ill stood there in awkward, intimate, I’m-going-to-kiss-you range.
Needing to make some kind of good-bye contact to end the awkwardness, I reached out to shake her hand. But since we were standing approximately a foot apart, we were too close. I tried to quickly change it to a hug, which resulted in me raising my semi-outstretched hand directly up and into her armpit. Distracted by the residual sweat that had transferred from her pit to my hand, I was not conscious of my left arm, which had automatically begun to swing in to complete the hug, at normal hugging height, which on Alicia happened to be the crown of her head. I squeezed then quickly released the armpit-headlock hug and stepped back. Well, that wasn’t awkward at all.
“Thanks again for dinner,” she said as she turned and opened her door.
“No problem. My pleasure. So I’ll email you or something tomorrow?”
“Hmm … yeah, that would be great. Goodnight then.” She shut her door, and I bolted down the stairs and drove home.
I crawled into bed and reflected on Alicia, the events of the evening, my shallowness, and the past month of emails where she and I had shared so much. In those emails, Alicia had awakened me. I had for the first time in over a year actually considered the thought of opening myself to another woman. I’d email her in the morning and make up for this evening. Maybe I just needed to bide some time. Maybe by the second or third date my attraction would have time to grow; if not, maybe I could get hypnotized? Evil. I just needed to overcome this belief that I had to be physically attracted to her, because I was attracted to her mentally. Isn’t there some saying about “beauty fades with age, it’s internal beauty that lasts” or something? Hers just faded a little more quickly than I liked but ... I really need to stop thinking that way. I just need to spend time with her and focus on the things that I found attractive. Of course, that’s what got me in trouble with the mole thing.
Okay seriously, I started playing back the emails in my head remembering the things she wrote and the things I’d liked at the time. Like … Victoria’s Secret lingerie. A mental picture developed of black lingerie and … hairy moles. Okay disregard, I’m out. I’m shallow. I’m just going to have to learn how to deal with it. I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head. I flipped them back off. Christ, no I can’t. I don’t want to be shallow. Damn my mother for raising me to be kind and thoughtful. To-do list tomorrow: Look up hypnotists and laser hair clinics.
The next evening, I emailed Alicia. Wanting to bide some time to deal with my petty idiosyncrasies and to give me time to research effective treatments or medications for said flaws, I kept my email simple. I thanked her again for the nice evening and said I hoped we could do it again soon. Well, as soon as I returned from my month-long trip to Zimbabwe, formerly Southern Rhodesia, a landlocked country located in the southern part of Africa, which I had learned from checking out the Z volume at the library earlier in the day just in case I couldn’t go through with my current New Year’s Resolution and I needed a backup resolution because I didn’t want to be shallow and a quitter. I hit the send button, logged off, and picked up my S.A., Superficial Anonymous, Ten Steps to Recovery pamphlet. 1. Admit you have a problem. Done.
The next night I logged on, excited to read Alicia’s response. There was none. Aw cute, she’s playing hard to get. I checked the next evening, no response. She probably just had a PTA meeting or something, no big deal. I checked again later. Still nothing. Thinking maybe my message got lost in cyber space, I resent it. The third day, still nothing and the same for the fourth, fifth, sixth … tenth …
Young love is the purest love.
Or at least the best sex …
Abby January 2002–December 2002
“Everyone’s going out tonight,” Stacy announced.
“No, thanks.”
I declined because after the somewhat disastrous result of my forced escapade into the world of internet dating, I’d decided to take another hiatus from women. As a result of this decision, I’d strategically rejected any invitations to bars, roller derby games, visiting the third floor of Barnes and Noble, or any backyard barbeques hosted by a lesbian. I had even gone as far as canceling my appointment with my female doctor, figuring I’d reschedule when I was a little less vulnerable.
“You’re going. Everyone is going and you’ll be a loser if you don’t go,” Stacy jeered.
I’ll be a loser? Hmmm, not necessarily that persuasive since I was reasonably sure I had already earned a “loser” title after the internet fiasco. Not even a “Double Loser” title fazed me.
“Who’s everyone?” I asked, relatively positive that “everyone” didn’t include Demi Moore, Meg Ryan, or Sandra Bullock—the only three women for whom I’d consider breaking my vow of solitude. Stacy rattled off our typical group of friends, far short of “everyone.” But as I had expected, “everyone” did include her girlfriend, who I happen to believe is the direct descendant of Satan and Nancy Grace. I usually try not to breach the “if you don’t have anything nice to say” rule. However, she, being mini-Satan, started it when Stacy invited me to a ritualistic “friends, meet my new girlfriend” dinner.
I had gone into that first meeting with an open mind, happy that Stacy had found someone to date besides my lesbian nemesis. I walked up to the front porch that as of a week ago was Stacy’s new residence. I knocked, and Stacy flew open the door and greeted me with her normal body-engulfing hug. I replied in kind with my normal half hug and “okay, let me go now” pat on the back. Appearing immediately by Stacy’s side was a four-foot-tall, seventy-year-old woman with glowing red eyes. Okay, maybe she was five feet and forty but she did have the glowing red eyes, at least when she looked at me. New girlfriend, who I will from this point forward affectionately refer to as old-crotchety-Satan-gnome or OCSG for short, had immediately pulled Stacy back to her side and wrapped a possessive arm around her waist. I waited patiently for OCSG to take out a black magic marker and write “MINE” on Stacy’s forehead, but instead she put on her best fake smile and said, “You must be the ex. I’ve heard A LOT about you.”
I could only assume by her tone, the punctuated way she said A LOT, the eye roll, and the immediate and abrupt turning away from me that she had failed to be entertained or amused by any of the vast stories she’d heard about me. “I go by ‘friend’ these days.”
OCSG didn’t speak to me the rest of the night. This didn’t bother me. Stacy had only said, “I want you to meet my new girlfriend,” not “I want you to meet, talk to, and get to know my new girlfriend,” so the mission had been accomplished.
“Get ready! You need to be there in an hour,” Stacy instructed.
I voiced what I thought were most convincing excuses as to why I needed to be exempt from the evening’s activities, but they were of no avail because Stacy had the most effective rebuttals: “Shut up,” “You’re stupid,” “Quit being stupid,” and “You’re going because I said.” So with my excuses running thin and a small yet healthy fear of Stacy, I reluctantly agreed. Surely a five-dollar beer bust at a gay men’s bar would only attract a few women; therefore, there’d be only a small chance of seeing, let alone meeting, a viable candidate for a future ex-girlfriend.
One hour later, Little Jo, Alisa, and Sheila, who had been sent by Stacy to ensure my attendance, knocked at my door and dragged me to the men’s bar. We paid our five bucks and were sent down a long winding hall that was illuminated only by the occasional flash of blue light. Walking in near darkness Sheila, Alisa, Little Jo, and I linked our arms like kindergarteners crossing the street. A flash of light illuminated two men in a seating area, which I was sure had been designed as a small space for people to briefly get away from the music and have a conversation. They instead were using it as an open-air, no wall, no bed, no door, seedy hotel room and the only conversation going on between them was tongue telegrams.
The hall plummeted back into darkness. I felt someone put a hand on my stomach. I instinctively sucked in. Stranger or not, no one was going to feel the
few extra pounds I’d put on since I substituted Ho Hos for the lack of female contact. Another flash of light. I looked straight into the face of a guy, a guy I was relatively sure had ovaries. I was not willing to stay to get a definitive answer. As soon as we were covered in darkness again, I quickly moved our four-woman conga line forward. The floor began to pulse under my feet and with the next flash of light the walls were illuminated in artistic expressions of guy-on-guy love in fluorescent paint. Darkness. Thank you, God. Flash. More images, none of which helped me to ever want to have sex again. Darkness. Flash.
I looked out into a large room smelling of stale smoke and booze. I scanned the crowd expecting it to be a sea of men. To my dismay, it was more like an aquifer of men that flowed between a significant sea of WOMEN. Damn. I looked away and tried to find something else to catch my attention. Swirling colored lights were sweeping the ceiling, walls, and stage where a Tina Turner wannabe drag queen was lip-syncing to “Private Dancer.” And with the very short miniskirt he was sporting, that wasn’t the only thing I suspected “Tina” was singing about being private. And he-Tina was hot. And welcome to your new low, I hope you enjoy your stay. This was definitely bad. I had to get out of here. I turned to retreat, but as if they knew I’d be the one bolting for the chicken exit of this erotic haunted sex house Little Jo, Alisa, and Sheila had deliberately placed themselves ahead, beside, and behind me. Little Jo grabbed me and spun me back toward the pounding beat of the music, women, and the potential cause of my demise.
