by K. B. Draper
“Exactly my point! You never have and you need to. Loosen up. You don’t have to date and end up in a relationship. Just have fun. Have sex. Move on.”
I contemplated her Buddha-like words of wisdom. Just have fun. Have sex. Move on. Maybe it’s not that bad an idea. People do it all the time. Okay, so most of them happen to be my GIRLFRIENDS, but why should they have all the fun? I attempted to be a player once but that lasted all of a week. Of course, I’d met Carly out of the deal. Okay, new motto: Just have fun. Have sex. Move on. Should I get a bumper sticker proclaiming my new way of life? I was relatively sure I was going to have to have a serious amount of alcohol to fulfill my new way of life so I headed to the bar, swinging by the vampire hostess to grab two glow in the dark plastic rings, one for each hand.
I downed a shot of tequila, a.k.a. liquid courage, and turned to look for the Chic jean wearer and put my new motto into action. I found her across the room. I ordered a beer then headed toward the first victim of my new do ’em and leave ’em lifestyle. When I was approximately two feet from her, she turned to face me fully. Our eyes locked. Well, one of her eyes locked on mine. The other one was looking in the direction of Wisconsin, which if my internal compass was correct was a good forty-five degrees in the other direction.
I stood frozen and my catchy pickup lines got stuck in my throat. A few awkward seconds passed before I fumbled out, “Ahhh sorry. I thought you were my … my … my podiatrist.” I turned quickly and headed back to my friends.
“Did you talk to her?” Stacy asked.
“Ahhh, kind of. What’s a podiatrist?”
“A foot doctor. Why? Is she a doctor?” Stacy asked, anxiously thinking she’d picked out a cute doctor for me and my first one-night stand expedition.
“No, just asking.”
“What happened? What did you do? You were only gone for a minute. How in the world did you screw up so fast?”
“I didn’t. I just don’t think we’d click. I’m not sure we’d see eye to eye on things.”
“Ahhh! You’re not looking for someone to see eye to eye with, you’re looking for someone to go vagina to vagina with!”
“Oh no, trust me, I need the eye to eye thing. I’ll keep looking. Geez.”
I was not completely discouraged but I did think my motto needed just a slight modification and clarification. New motto: Just have fun with pretty people. Have sex with pretty people. Move on from the pretty people. I rescanned the room for my next potential victim. There was the regular group of forty-plus-year-old ladies in denim shirts and black jeans at the pool tables. They had their stacks of quarters lined up on the edge to send the message “This table is reserved until next March.” Okay, no potential there unless I need my refrigerator moved or a date for a tractor pull. I moved on.
At the edge of the dance floor was a group of either young lesbians attempting to look like Justin Timberlake and R. Kelly or actual fourteen-year-old boys. No potential there either, considering the only time I find it sexy when one’s jeans are halfway down one’s butt is when said jeans are actively being removed completely from one’s body. I continued my scan of the room.
There was a femme being hit on by a Mack truck in flannel. Potential, yes. Potential ass kicking also a yes. Therefore, nope.
The entire women’s rugby team was high-fiving around the dart machines? No potentials there. They always have dirty fingernails.
A bachelorette party was in the middle of the dance floor and already drunk. Hmmm? Maybe. But there was also a possibility they’d have long manicured fingernails. Ouch! No, thank you.
I glanced at the tables around the dance floor and spotted Loren’s ex seated with another of Loren’s exes. No, thank you. I’d already escaped, disease-free, from Loren herself, but they might not have been so lucky.
Okay that was it, there were absolutely no potentials. My friends’ night out at the bar with mood-altering agenda was a success. I was now officially more depressed than when we arrived.
Seeing from the expression on my face that their plan was not working they moved to Plan B, shots. After two Kamikazes, one Slippery Nipple also known as a Blow Job (if you’re in a men’s gay bar), and one that tasted like a mixture of cough syrup and Jolly Ranchers, my mood had successfully moved from depressed to depressed and tipsy. I sooo wished I could’ve just stayed home and watched Golden Girls reruns. I was content and perfectly comfortable in the company of those four single women. Of course there is something about Betty White … and I’m drunk.
“Okay, time to dance!” Stacy announced as The Pussycat Dolls came over the speakers.
“Oh, yes. Please let’s all go out and dance, so you can pair up and grind on each other while I dance off to the side reliving my first sixth-grade dance.”
“There’s a bunch of us. We’ll dance in a big group so no one will know who is with whom,” Stacy said.
I looked down at her holding her girlfriend’s hand, Sheila leaning over to her girlfriend asking if she needed another drink, Little Jo’s hand on the back of her girlfriend, and Lucy taking the last jalapeño popper from the plate to be shared with her girlfriend. “Yeah, no one will be able to tell.”
Despite my protest, they pulled me physically to the dance floor. As predicted, by the second chorus they were pelvis to pelvis, pelvis to butt, butt to butt, and Sheila was using her girlfriend as a stripper pole. Okay, no more shots for Sheila and now I needed another one.
I nonchalantly danced my way to the edge of the mating circle. I did a quick half-spin, step-back to check whether the couples had noticed my ebbing. Three out of four were lip-locked, and Sheila was being lifted off the floor by her girlfriend. I turned back and plotted my escape route. Two shuffle steps around the old lesbian couple slow dancing despite the fast-paced song, a spin move around Mack, who had moved on to her second victim of the evening, four slides in a modified moonwalk with my back turned to the resident lesbian dancing solo and apparently to a song playing only in her head, and then one last spin move off the edge of the dance floor to freedom.
I threw a glance over my shoulder. Three pairs were back to grinding on each other, and Sheila was sliding her way back down her girlfriend. I made my move. Shuffle, shuffle, spin, slide, slide, slide, slide, spin and then … I came to an abrupt stop as my eyes locked with a girl dancing at the edge of a group of coupled-up women. I froze. She was Asian and wearing a short skirt. I went through my mental Rolodex of women I’d dated. Nope, not a single Asian, nor was there a woman who had worn a skirt that sexy. I glanced again at the skirt. Potential? Absolutely. She smiled.
I stood there and realized suddenly I was JUST standing there, not stepping, not dancing, not moving. I looked down at my feet, praying I’d actually made it from the dance floor to the “dancing not expected” carpet. Of course not. I was standing on the “you look like a loser if you’re not dancing” wood floor. Instead of taking the last few steps to the non-dancing freedom of the carpet, a choice I belatedly realized would’ve been a better option, I began to dance again. Mid-dance move, I became semiconscious of my mistake because I was not only dancing by myself but still moving to the song that had been playing before my temporary paralysis. I broke eye contact with the short-skirt-wearing Asian and moved quickly to the bar. My heart was beating out of my chest, my palms were sweating, and my legs felt a little weak. This is fear and embarrassment, not excitement. It’s simply my body’s reaction to an attractive woman looking at me, and it knows the ramifications of me and an attractive woman in the same room; it leads to a relationship.
Yep, it’s official; you can get post-traumatic stress disorder from a relationship. I reached for the beer before the bartender sat in front of me. My hand was shaking uncontrollably. And apparently Parkinson’s disease. You probably can’t get Parkinson’s from being in relationships with women, but I don’t think they know for sure. I should campaign for some testing.
I made a conscious effort to calm myself. I took a couple of slow deep breath
s and downed my beer. My heart rate was back into non-heart attack range when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I knew it was only a matter of time before one of my friends, probably not Sheila, would notice I was missing and come looking for me. I turned as I said, “I really don’t want to be a part of your little dancing makeout session.”
“So how about just a drink then?” the skirt-wearing Asian woman said with a smile.
I smiled back. Or at least I think I did. Mentally I wasn’t sure my neurons where capable of sending the “turn up” signals to the corners of my mouth.
“I’m Nicole,” my sexy little eggroll said. Are eggrolls Chinese? Since I didn’t know her true nationality, there was a possibility she could be my spicy little sushi roll or my fiery little … What’s that Korean dish with the cabbage? Oh, my fiery little Kim Chi. That’s probably not PC, but worse, now I’m hungry. Dang it. I wonder if it’s okay to stop and get something to eat before you love ’em and leave ’em?
“Hi,” I said.
By the time my friends had detached themselves from their girlfriends and found me at the bar, Nicole was standing very close to me with her hand on my knee. Stacy looked at me questioningly. I sent her a smile as an answer.
We talked, we danced, and we made out on the dance floor. I began thinking I just might be good at this little love ’em and leave ’em way of life. We exchanged numbers at the end of the night. Okay, maybe call ’em, love ’em, and then leave ’em later would be a more accurate motto. Whatever it was, I was no longer depressed. Still drunk, but not depressed.
Nicole waited a polite two days before calling me, well, the new age form of calling. She texted.
Nicole: Hi. This is Nicole. I met u the othr nite at the bar.
Me: How could I 4get?
Nicole: :) Sorry if I did or said nething stupd. I was a little drunk.
Me: No worries. I like when women say Im hot. Repeatedly. :)
Nicole: :D
This continued for approximately two and a half hours with the last text ending with our first-date agenda.
The next Friday, Nicole pulled up at my house. I watched out my window as she stepped out of a red convertible wearing heels, white slacks, a teal girly shirt, and shades. I wiped imaginary sweat off my brow. I was hoping she was as cute as I remembered through my drunken haze. I took another look as she headed up the sidewalk. She was way hotter than I remembered. Oh God, what if I’m not as cute as she remembered from her drunken haze? A bolt of panic had me flying to the full-length mirror. Well, that’s as good as it’s going to get. Damn. I wondered how fast I could get her drunk. Of course to get her drunk, I’d have to open the door, affording her a sober view. Ugh. I really need to get a maid and a parlor. Oh, and one of those world globe things that doubles as a secret liquor cabinet. That would go nicely in a parlor. And maybe an umbrella stand and a floral couch. Breaking news, this just in, dating makes me crazy.
The doorbell rang. I considered fleeing out the back door, or pretending there was a death in the family and wearing one of those hats with a veil. Stop it, geez. I’d never had any complaints before and I’d dated some pretty attractive women who weren’t drunk. Well, not the whole relationship. I opened the door. She smiled and we greeted each other with a hug. She smelled as good as she looked. Yep, I could definitely handle this. Plus, what was I worried about anyway? It’s not like I was going to see her again. I was doing the love ’em and leave ’em thing.
And that’s when I noticed my first gigolo mistake. How was I going to leave ’em if I wasn’t the one with the car? What was I going to do? “Hey baby, now that I’ve loved ya … can you drive me home?” Rookie mistake. Maybe this could just be a pre-love ’em date and then I’d pick her up next time, then love her and leave her.
I stepped out and turned back to lock the door.
“It was good meeting you,” Nicole said.
I froze. What? She’s leaving? I knew I should’ve asked her in for a drink, or seven. Whatever. I wouldn’t want to date someone so shallow or as rude as she was anyway. I turned to tell her so but she was standing on the walk still smiling at me. Well, this was a record. I usually dated someone for a good month or two before their split personality came out. It figured I’d pick a mental patient to have my first fling with. Great, I’ll love her then try to leave her, she’ll become obsessed and start hiding in my bushes, which was not good since I didn’t have many bushes, which means she’d have to resort to sitting out in the middle of my yard in a lawn chair with binoculars. I walked slowly toward her trying to come up with a way to get out of our little tryst. I knew I could outrun her since she was wearing heels. Wait, what am I thinking? She’s probably some kung fu master who’d just use the heels like a modern-day feminist throwing star. Well, this is just great. I smiled back quickly so as not to trigger her in case she did have some violent tendencies. I was determined to just play it cool, try not to piss her off, and just survive the night. Then I could get a restraining order on Monday.
“Have a good date!” a menacing voice said from behind me. Oh this keeps getting better. I was going out with a schizophrenic, heel-throwing, kung fu ventriloquist. I glanced at Nicole. She smiled and waved over my shoulder to her imaginary friend. I didn’t want to set her off by being rude to her little evil-voiced, make-believe companion so I also turned to wave a friendly good-bye. Why did her evil little friend look like … Kellie!? And why was Kellie sitting in my front flowerbed with a trash bag, gloves, and a shovel? Nice. I haven’t had a date in six months and Kellie chose today to win me back by landscaping my yard. Just perfect. Well, at least now I have nice new bushes for Nicole to hide behind.
My second date with Nicole was to Janet’s fortieth birthday party. We walked into Stacy and Janet’s house and I quickly scanned the attendees, looking for my exes and for my friends’ exes to determine the evening’s drama potential. All appeared to be drama free until I walked into the kitchen and saw my lesbian nemesis, Alexis. I wondered how I could talk Nicole into going into the back bedroom with me so I could pee on her leg. The thought was stupid. It had been nearly a decade since she’d slept with one of my girlfriends. I couldn’t keep letting my lesbian nemesis make me think crazy things every time I saw her. I mean a little pee wasn’t going to deter her. I was going to make Nicole follow Mom’s Wal-Mart rules, “You will not get out of my sight while we are here. Don’t touch anything. If I so much as see you think about touching anything we’re getting back in the car and going home!”
Two dates down and I had yet to love or leave Nicole and it was Saturday night. That was not very lesbo gigolo-ish of me. I knew I wasn’t going to be any good at this. As if she knew I was thinking of her, she called and asked if she could come over. I glanced at the clock, 11:30 p.m. “Sure?” I replied curiously. Oh my God! Panic ran through me. It’s the love ’em part. I ran and jumped into the shower, shaved, and double-washed the essentials. She showed up fifteen minutes later.
The next morning, I woke slowly, tired and achy in all the right places. Smiling, I ran through the rather eventful evening and early morning hours with Nicole. Maybe I was good at this lesbo gigolo thing. I’d be like Jiffy Lube. Women would just arrive at my door asking to be serviced. Hmmm? Does gigolo etiquette dictate that I get up and fix her breakfast? Or maybe service her again in the a.m., like an early bird special? Thinking I should brush my teeth first, I reluctantly opened one eye to see if I could escape the bed without waking her. Not going to be a problem since the bed was empty. I leaned up to search the room. She was gone. Nicole was the lesbo gigolo. I dropped my head back to the pillow. I can’t believe she just left without saying anything. Crap. I was supposed to be the one with the love ’em and leave ’em thing. This is sooo not as much fun. I sighed heavily. Of course, I was still in the comfort of my bed and I wasn’t the one who had to get up and find her underwear. With no further need to brush my teeth, I pulled the sheets up to my neck and snuggled back into bed with my new motto: Have fun with pretty people in my
bed. Have sex with pretty people in my bed. Have the pretty people move on so I can go back to bed. Yep, I could get used to being a lesbo gigolo. Maybe I should get a mirror over my bed, a silk robe, and a gold pinky ring.
The drive-through booty call relationship continued for the next month. Nicole would call once if not twice a week, drop in, we’d have sex, and then she’d get up and leave in the early morning. We threw a couple of dates in between but I mostly saw her in the midnight to dawn hours. At first I was enjoying the casual relationship, but I found that the more I got to know Nicole, the more I didn’t like her leaving in the morning. She too was starting to linger more and we had more dates that ended in the bedroom versus starting there. But it wasn’t until I went on a week’s vacation that she ever indicated she wanted more than dating. During one of the phone calls I made to her from my Mexican beachfront condo, she stated she didn’t like that I was gone and we needed to talk when I got back. So I came back from Mexico with a new loathing for tequila, a couple of cheap T-shirts, and a new girlfriend.
Once a relationship was established between Nicole and me, there was a new rhythm to us. We met each other’s families. We planned vacations together. We began spending the entire night at each other’s house. One night in particular I went over to her house for what I thought was one of our now routine dinners and nights together only to find a note and a box with a silver band in it.
A couple of months later, she sold her house and moved into mine. We were nearly two years into our relationship when Nicole wanted to begin looking for “our” house. I was nervous about that. After moving Lucy for the third time after a breakup, I’d given her the following advice: Buy your own house. Then if they decide to leave, all you have to do is rearrange. I was going to break my own rule. I didn’t want to move from the safety and security of my own house, but I’d refused to move once before and had lost Carly. I refused to let my insecurities come between me and another girlfriend.
