by Beth Burnett
“I’ve had plenty of boyfriends.”
“Not recently.”
I groaned. “I know where this is going and, no, I am not secretly a lesbian.”
“Oh, come on,” Lynne persisted. “It all fits. You’re a feminist, you hang around with lesbians, your favorite hang out is a gay bar, you go to a gay male hairdresser, your best friends at work are a gay male couple, you listen to the Indigo Girls, and you find most men extremely irritating.”
“And you have crappy fashion sense,” Andy interjected.
“Fuck you! You wear nothing but men’s jeans and muscle shirts!”
“It’s a butch thing,” Andy smiled. “This is my uniform.”
“At least you don’t have a mullet,” I shot back.
Andy grinned, rubbing a hand over her fuzzy shaved head.
I love Andy. She is the best person I know. She has a warm heart, she is brilliant, she always changes my tires and takes my car in when it needs servicing, and she has never, in the thirty-three years in which we have been friends, not been there for me when I needed it.
It is true that I have crappy fashion sense. My two best friends are lesbians. My two other best friends, Steve and Erik are a couple. And I may find most straight men irritating, but only because I seem to have been flypaper for assholes in the dating department.
I had glared at Lynne as I said, “I find this conversation extremely irritating, we’ve been having the same discussion for years. I can’t help that you two are homos. Of course my best friends at work are gay; I am the only straight person who works in my department! If I was a lesbian, I would be out and proud. I’m proof positive that being gay is not a choice. Trust me, if it was a choice, I would be gay! I would love to be gay. Women are so much more understanding than men.”
Lynne shakes her head. “You haven’t dated anyone in almost two years.”
Andy chuckled and shook her head. “Lynne, come on. I’ve known Davey since we were kids. Despite the fashion issue and the spiky hair, she isn’t a lesbo.”
“Yeah, but you two made out in high school.”
“You made out with guys in high school,” I pointed out.
“Totally different.”
“Totally not different,” Andy said. “You were engaged to what’s-his-nuts with the big hair.”
“Yeah, well, he turned out to be gay, too, so it doesn’t count.”
I shook my head. “Lynne, your insistence that I am a lesbian is no different than a man insisting that you must be straight.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true,” Andy interjected. “If some guy was always telling me that I must be straight, I would be pretty pissed.”
“No one would mistake you for straight, Andy!”
Andy flexed her biceps. “If they did, I would straight punch them in the trachea!”
“Lynne’s just antsy because she hasn’t had sex for so long.”
“Fuck you.” Lynne shook her head. “You haven’t had sex in almost two years.”
“You haven’t had good sex in almost all of that time.”
“I have good sex.”
“Good sex?” Andy laughed. “You’re so repressed you can’t even cheat on your celebrity crush!”
“I’ve never had a reason to fantasize about anyone other than Ellen,” Lynne shrieked, laughing.
I went to the bar to get more drinks. “Shots!” Andy yelled as I walked away. I bought the round and came back to the table.
The thing is, I really haven’t had sex in almost two years. Not since Joe. Andy keeps saying the only way to get over someone is to get under someone, but that’s not my way. Not that I haven’t had sport sex in my life, but I prefer to be in a relationship. I like to know a guy and trust him before we get jiggy with it. And even that isn’t a guarantee, because I really liked, and possibly loved Joe, and I definitely trusted him — and look how that turned out. Maybe I’ve stopped trying, but it seems to me that there aren’t many men out there worth spending an entire evening with, let alone several.
But that night at the bar, the drinks were setting in. I glared at Lynne from the bar, bothered. She had no room to mock my sex life. She and her wife haven’t had sex in months. In fact, it was always months between encounters. She’s tried everything from sexy lingerie to new toys to flavored lubes, but nothing helps. For years, she took every hint that Andy and I could give her, but eventually she lost interest in trying.
Lynne looked contrite by the time I got back with the drinks. “Davey, you’re right. I’m sorry. It sucks being in a relationship and never having sex.”
“Lesbian Bed Death,” Andy intoned in a deep announcer’s voice. “A very real issue.”
“What would you know about it?” I asked.
Andy shrugged. “I never stay with anyone long enough for the excitement to wear off.”
Lynne looked upset . “We never had much excitement to begin with.”
Andy shook her head. “Frankly, I don’t know why you stay with her.” She turned her attention to me. “And you!”
“What?”
“I know you dated a lot of jerks, but I don’t think being celibate for the rest of your life is the answer.”
“It’s not like it’s a conscious choice,” I answered.
Andy stretched back, looking like some massively muscled cat.
“Well, I think you both need to get laid.”
“This from the woman who once had to figure out a chick’s name by searching through her mail the next morning!” Lynne said, rolling her eyes.
“Hey, I knew her name before I fucked her, I just couldn’t remember it.” Andy laughed. Somehow, she always got away with being a player. She has met and screwed more women than I can count. She rarely stays with one for long, and yet they would keep coming back to her if she gave them the slightest hint of interest. She has a long string of ex-lovers or current lovers who either love her or hate her, but almost every single one of them would come running if she called and promised to change. I have never been able to figure out what keeps these women coming back, but I think it has something to do with hope. They all hope that someday, Andy will decide it’s time to settle down with one woman. This despite the fact that she is unfailingly honest. Andy has never lied to any of the women she has slept with. I don’t get it. Of course, it probably helps that she looks like some giant, blonde goddess who could kill dragons for a girl… Barehanded.
I drag my thoughts back to the present as I dial Andy’s number.
“Hey. How’s your date?” Andy answers.
“Over,” I say. “How’s yours?”
“Same. Coming over?” She sounds amused.
“Be there in a few.”
I walk into Andy’s place and head straight for the kitchen. “Need a beer?”
“I’m good.”
I pop open a can as I walk into the living room. Andy is sprawled on the couch in nothing but a pair of men’s tighty whiteys. I sigh, as I do every time I see Andy naked, or nearly so.
“I want your body.”
“Well, you need to start working out with me.”
“I still wouldn’t look like you.” I grumble.
Andy is laughing. We’ve had this conversation a million times. “You are beautiful just the way you are. Stop comparing yourself to other people, just be happy with you.”
“Oh God, philosophical wisdom from Andrea Eriksson, life coach.” I’m groaning and laughing. There is something so relaxing about a conversation that is always the same. And it isn’t fair, anyway. Maybe if I had the kind of time that Andy has, I would have a perfect body, too. She has no jiggle. None. Not even under her arms. I take in her long, toned legs, that perfect vee of her abs. “Who has the vee anyway?” I growl. “That pisses me off. No one should spend that much time on their abs.”
Andy is laughing hysterically now. She reaches over and pats my belly. “I love your little pot belly,” she chuckles. Pot belly? Okay, I have gained a few pound over the la
st couple of years. Okay, ten. Well, fifteen. But I’m 5’7, it spreads out. “Dammit, Andy. You’re right, I do have a pot belly.”
“Stop sweating it,” she says. Easy for her to say. Andy is a trust fund baby. What that means is that she works part time in a bookstore for the fun of it and spends a whole bunch of time working out, biking, playing softball, and running in charity races. In other words, her entire life is a chick magnet. I need a hobby.
“Davey baby, you look great. I love the way you look. And so do men. Men with taste, that is. So tell me about your bad date.”
I lean back on the couch, nursing my beer. I’m telling her all about Ted and she laughs in all of the important places. “Hang on, hang on,” she interrupts at one point. She picks up her phone and dials Steve’s cell. “Voicemail,” she mouths. Of course, it’s a Friday night. Steve is young, gorgeous, gay, and in love. Well, maybe not so young. He’s just a couple years younger than me. “Steve, you’re a jackass. Seriously. Ted, the homophobe? Where did you find this idiot?” She hangs up the phone, shaking her head. “You should never have trusted him. He knows nothing about what you need in a man.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And you do?”
Andy nods seriously. “I do. I do, actually.”
She goes into the kitchen and comes back with two beers. She opens one, hands it to me, opens the other.
“A gentleman, Andy. That is what I want.”
“Hell, if your only criteria is someone who opens your beer for you, I’m right here.”
“Ha ha.” I do want a gentleman, though. In this day and age, that might be asking too much. Are there any men left who actually hold doors open for women? I want someone who opens the car door. I wish I smoked, I could judge if I was going to date a guy based on whether or not he lit my cigarettes for me.
“Anyway, this whole ridiculous bet was all your fault.”
“My fault?” Andy looks incredulous. “I had nothing to do with it!”
“Nothing?” I raise my eyebrow at her.
She raised both hands. “Hey, you and Lynne are the ones who got all competitive about it. I just pointed out the obvious.”
Last week, at the bar, after Andy made her comment about Lynne and I needing to get laid, what with the booze and all, Lynne and I might have made a bet about who would have sex first. Should be a no-brainer for her, she is married and all. But I thought I would give it the old college try, hence the date. I made the mistake of mentioning it to Steve and Erik the next day at work. I’m sure Steve thought he was helping when he set me up with Ted, but either way, as of last night’s regular Thursday thing, neither Lynne, nor I had gotten laid and I had just walked out on my one chance. Maybe I should have stuck around and chatted with Danny.
“That reminds me,” I decide to change the subject. “I met an angel.”
Andy lifts her head off of the couch. “An angel?”
“He was beautiful. Face of an angel. For real, though. Voice of an angel, too. Hands of an angel. Eyes of an angel. Vocabulary of a truck driver. And he reads Vonnegut. I could quite possibly fall in love.”
Andy rolls her eyes. “Love. There’s no such thing, baby girl, you know that.”
“Andy, I love you.”
“Totally different.”
“Totally not different,” I snarked back, stealing her favorite line. “I love Lynne. I love my mother. I love Steve and Erik. My grandparents. I could probably count twenty people that I love.” I could, too. I always give my heart freely to my friends and family. I am a great believer in love. I just don’t necessarily believe in soul mate love.
“I love my king-size, pillow top mattress.” Andy is standing up, stretching. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Such a gentleman. Wait. How about your date?”
Andy shrugs. “We weren’t compatible.”
I laugh. “That doesn’t usually stop you from having sex. What’s up?”
Andy perches on the arm of the couch. “She doesn’t have tits.”
I look pointedly at Andy’s small breasts.
“No, not like mine. She literally doesn’t have tits. She’s had them removed.”
“She’s had top surgery? Is she transitioning?”
Andy shrugs again, looking uncomfortable. “Whatever.”
“Andy. What the hell?”
“Hey, I don’t have a problem with transgendered people. I just don’t want to date one.”
“If she’s transitioning, wouldn’t she be transsexual? And shouldn’t we be saying him?”
Andy shrugs again and finishes her beer in one long gulp.
“Kind of odd for you to end up with a FTM anyway.” It didn’t really make sense to me. Most female to male trans-gendered people were usually pretty manly looking. Not really Andy’s regular type. Not that she is that picky. Andy’s spectrum on what is attractive in a woman is pretty broad. She usually has to look like a woman, though. Andy is not a butch who dates other butches.
“She was kind of androgynous. I thought she was cute. Then we got to talking a little more in depth … apparently, she is not transitioning. She considers herself neither. Or both. Or sometimes one, sometimes the other. She’s taken testosterone before. She’s had her tits cut off. Look, it just isn’t my scene!”
I decide this is time for another couple of beers. I pop one open for Andy, then sprawl back out on the couch, taking a big swig of mine.
“Andy, I’ve talked to a few people like that. They believe gender is fluid. They don’t necessarily want to be one or the other, they believe that they can be both, or neither.”
“It’s creepy.” Andy looks irritated.
I’m shocked. Andy has been confusing people about her gender since puberty. To me, she looks nothing like a man, but that doesn’t stop people from accosting her in the ladies room and telling her she is in the wrong place. If anyone is going to be sympathetic to gender issues, it should be her.
“Andy, really? Come on, sex is physical, gender is emotional and mental.”
“Look, I can buy it when a woman is born in a man’s body and goes through the procedures to make him female, or vice versa. Not that I would date a woman who used to be a man. But at least I can understand it. But cutting your own tits off just so people can’t classify you as one gender or another is ridiculous. You are one or the other. Period.”
“Andy, you should do some research. There’s a whole movement of people who don’t believe that you have to fall under society’s rules for binary gender.”
“I must be old.”
“Well, you’re old school.” I grin at her.
“They come out to the same thing,” Andy sighs. “Look, in my day, there were butches and femmes, but we were still all women. Stone butches, diesel dykes, baby dykes, whatever. I dress like a man, I work out like a man, and I am damn sure there isn’t a man around who could kick my ass. But I am still a woman. It just is.”
I decide to let it go. For now. Andy is obviously upset so I plant a kiss on her head. “Come on, old school butchy one, put some clothes on and escort me to my car and save me from the evils of this uppity suburb.”
Chapter Two
I wake up in the world’s most comfortable bed, in the world’s crappiest apartment. First of all, I love my bed. It was a present from my mother. My mom has about as much earning power as I do, so I know this was a stretch, but damn, this is the most comfortable bed I have ever slept in. It is soft and huge. I splurged on expensive sheets and big, fluffy pillows, so the entire sleeping experience is amazing. Maybe this is one of the reasons I don’t have sex more often. I think a guy would have to be pretty special to bring him into this bed. This is a bed meant for cuddling and reading the Sunday papers with someone I find incredible. It’s a seriously awesome bed.
My apartment, on the other hand, sucks. Look, it isn’t as if I expected to get rich doing what I do. I love my job — I do it because I love it. I love making a difference, I love helping people. Not that it isn’t stress
ful as all hell, it is. For every one person that you help, it seems there are ten that fall through the cracks. I want everyone to be happy and that is definitely not possible in my job. So, I’ve accepted that I will never be rich. But I sometimes wish I had a better place to live. Andy’s little ranch house is perfect. Sparsely decorated with hardwood floors and bright throw rugs. She has afew expensive pieces of furniture, a mahogany desk, a beautiful butcher’s block table. I wouldn’t mind a little place like that. I wouldn’t even mind a place like Lynne’s. Well, technically it belongs to Sarah, Lynne’s wife, but they’ve lived in it together now for almost the entire fifteen years they have been together. It’s a fantastic house, one of those big, old, two-story, multiple bedroom deals, but way overcrowded with too much stuff. Neither Lynne, nor Sarah ever throw anything away, so the entire house is crammed with a lifetime’s worth of “stuff we once loved.” And Lynne is one of those people who wants to try everything, but loses interest quickly. So there are huge bins full of art supplies from Lynne’s painting phase. There are boxes full of pieces of broken glass from that time she decided to make broken glass table tops. There is an entire bookshelf filled with different language tapes. “Learn to Speak Latin. Learn to Speak French. Learn to Speak Spanish.” There are little scraps of paper everywhere from that time she decided she could probably learn origami. I understand and even applaud her desire to learn how to do something, anything. I have no cool talents, either. Andy is good at everything. Sarah plays the guitar and is an excellent archer. My mother is an expert seamstress and an expert sharpshooter. Yeah, I’m serious. Steve and Erik are both part time volunteer actors with a little local playhouse. And here Lynne and I just drift along with no interesting hobbies or talents. Andy says my greatest talent is being a warm and loving person and making the world a better place. Yeah, that’s great, but you know, what about motorcycle racing or mountain climbing?
So anyway, here I am in my first floor crappy one bedroom apartment, with thrift store furniture and thrift store dishes and thrift store art. It’s just small. The living room has room for my couch, a couple of chairs and my bookshelves. I collect books, I can’t help it. I figure if you have to have an addiction, that’s the best one to have. But my apartment is so tiny, the books are threatening to take over. The only great thing in my apartment, as I said, is my bed. Oh, and a full-size black and white poster of Angie Lee, a totally fit body-building chick. She’s my inspiration to work out and get fit. Or, at least, she’s my inspiration to think about working out and getting fit.
