Claire confided, “I broke up with all three of my ‘boyfriends’ this week.” I thought that first I possibly should have congratulated her on having three boyfriends, since no one else I ever heard of seemed to have managed it but then I realized that, of course, something had to be wrong. “They really weren’t boyfriends,” Claire admitted, as if reading my mind. “Just bad fantasies.”
I listened to the Serenity Prayer and others sharing their stories. The more I heard the more realized how much I belonged there. These people were the only ones who understood, and shared, the pain and humiliation I felt when I acted out.
Afterward, as we headed for the Shamrock, Claire walked in the opposite direction. “Are you going to your secret place?” I asked.
She nodded and gave me a wicked smile. “Want to try it?”
Despite that smile, or maybe because of it, I hesitated. Even though Claire said she couldn’t act out there it didn’t mean that I couldn’t! But the Shamrock didn’t appeal to me either. The group members were mostly older and talked about broken marriages. At least Claire was my age, and where else was I going to find some ‘perfect’ place. “Sure,” I shrugged. “Why not?”
Before I took a step, Elaine called back, “Sherry, call me when you get home.”
In a childish voice, I answered, “Yes, Auntie Elaine.”
Katherine chimed in, “Claire, call me.”
Claire giggled. “Yes, Auntie Katherine.”
We laughed our way up the street.
I had suspected that Katherine was another rich housewife like Elaine. Claire said that she was actually the opposite, an unwed mother and an addict at seventeen, she had gotten herself sober and then parlayed grants and scholarships into a Ph.D. in Psychology. She now had a thriving practice and often appeared on TV.
“Her specialty is—surprise, surprise—addiction,” noted Claire. “Every morning, she dresses for success to remind herself that she only has to be successful that one day. I also think she buys all her clothes at Filene’s Basement and T.J. Maxx.”
From that moment on, Katherine became my idol. I felt that if she could become that successful maybe I could, too.
Off of Seventh Avenue South, Claire turned into a bar, which petrified me. Bars and I were not a heavenly prospect. Claire perched herself on a bar stool. “Notice anything different?”
The place was fairly dark so I couldn’t really see that well but as my eyes adjusted, I saw a huge difference. There were no men. We were in a lesbian bar called Diva.
Before I could say anything the pretty brunette bartender wearing a T-shirt that said “Go Girl” came over to us.
“Hi, Brenda,” Claire greeted her. “I always drink white wine to try to stay somewhat sober,” Claire confided, “but, of course, it never works, and tonight, I feel safe.”
“How about the house special?” suggested Brenda.
Claire and I looked at each either. Claire decided, “Make that two.”
As Brenda began mixing some concoction in a blender, I turned to Claire, “I didn’t know you were—”
“—I’m not,” she answered. “Last night, I told Brenda that I was straight and just wanted to be alone and that was pretty much that. No one bothered me. I just love that this is the one place where I can’t act out with men.”
Brenda served us some pink potion. I realized that Diva was also perfect for me. I could get completely smashed and not have to worry about waking up next to some guy with no name. “I’ll drink to that,” I said. We clinked our glasses in a toast.
The pink concoction tasted sweet and was potent as hell. It appeared to be some vodka-rum combination that Brenda said “goes down easy and then straight up to your head.” We ordered another round.
Claire began telling me about her three ‘boyfriends.’ “Actually, I only have one, Peter,” she confided, “I’ve been living with him off and on for about a year. I see Al or Ken mainly when Peter gets drunk and I need somewhere to go. Peter’s an alcoholic but he won’t admit it. It’s like living with Jekyll and Hyde. The nicest sober guy in the world suddenly turns into the meanest drunk on earth. On Wednesday night he went into a rage and tried to smash in my face. I escaped and went to a women’s shelter. But instead of staying there, of course, I went to see Al. While we’re acting out, his girlfriend calls and he’s telling her how much he loves her while we’re still doing it. And what do I do? Nothing. How sick is that?”
She takes a long swig of her drink and adds, “All three of them have a history of violence against women but crazy me thinks that I can somehow save them and therefore somehow get their love or my father’s love or some other insane denial issue. How the hell am I going to save them when I can even save myself?” She downs her drink and orders us another round. “When I look at my life, all of my problems have been caused by men. At first they weren’t my fault but now they are all my fault.”
“You and me both,” I agreed, knocking back my drink and grabbing the new one. Claire could have been talking about me.
“I swear,” Claire said, “if I never saw another man, I’d be better off.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said.
We toasted again.
“I mean it though,” Claire insisted.
“So do I.”
We looked each other and then burst into hysterical laughter. Claire clinked her glass against mine and declared, “Here’s to life without football.”
“To toilet seats never being up,” I added.
“To not worrying about being thin enough.”
“Or having a flat stomach.”
“To never worrying about being too messy.”
“Or being too neat.”
“And when we’re lost—” said Claire,
“—We can ask for directions,” I declared.
We downed our drinks and two more appeared before us. We hoisted our new glasses as Claire continued, “To never having to tweeze our eyebrows.”
“Or shave our legs.”
“Or wear matching underwear.
“Or see him flirt with other women.” After a long drink, Claire added, “And the worst, is worrying—”
We looked and each other and cried out in unison, “—Will he ever call!”
We laughed uncontrollably again and drained our drinks before we realized that we hadn’t paid for the previous round. Brenda gestured to a tall Blonde and a busty Redhead near the pool table. They both smiled at us. We smiled back and then returned to our drinks and our male-bashing. But after a few minutes, the Blonde and the Redhead strolled over.
“We wondered if you wanted to play a little pool,” the Blonde asked.
The Redhead smiled. “You seem in a mood to smash a few balls.”
Claire and I looked and each other and laughed. “What the hell,” she said.
We played pool but we weren’t very good, partly because the balls were very blurry. Although they were both very good, pool didn’t seem to be on their mind. They played seductively, choosing shots which allowed them to lean over and show an expanse of cleavage or their tight jeans, while Claire and I giggled like schoolgirls.
Finally, the Blonde sank the eight ball and looked up at us. “We won. But we didn’t say what we were playing for.”
“We were just playing for fun,” Claire insisted.
The Redhead replied, “That sounds good. We love fun. How would you like to come over to my place for a drink?”
Claire and I looked at each other. Neither of us knew what to do. Finally, Claire grabbed my arm and yanked me off the stool, saying, “We’d love to, but we’re in love.”
We ran outside and skipped across the street, still laughing. “That was too much,” she exclaimed.
The Blonde and the Redhead emerged from Diva and looked at us. Claire said, “Let’s give them a thrill.” She took me into her arms and gave me a long, tender kiss. Afterward, we smiled and Claire said, “That was nice.”
It was nice for me, too, so tender and loving
that it almost seemed like my first real kiss because it was devoid of the sexual politics that seem to accompany every kiss I’d ever gotten from a guy. The Blonde and the Redhead ambled up the block.
Neither Claire nor I felt like being alone so she came back to my apartment. We fell onto the sofa and embraced and then Claire kissed me again. When she fondled me, it was electrifying. After enduring countless guys groping me, turning me off as often as turning me on, Claire was the first person who actually knew how it felt to be fondled and what would excite me. I responded to her touch with a ravenous passion that I had never felt before. Suddenly, she looked up from kissing my breast and asked, “Are you breaking any boundaries?”
I thought a moment and then shook my head. “All mine are with men.”
“So are mine,” she said cheerfully.
We made love for hours, slowly and tenderly, while climaxing together, something I had never done with a man.
The next morning, I awoke with a huge hangover and looked around, disappointed to see that once more I was naked and alone in bed. Then I heard a rustling in the kitchen and soon Claire entered wearing my T-shirt while bearing orange juice and coffee. “I don’t know how you like your coffee, so it’s regular,” she said, holding out both the OJ and the coffee cup. I went for both, draining the juice and starting on the coffee.
“Your cat?” she asked, sitting on the bed.
I nodded. “He came with the apartment.”
“I guess he doesn’t approve of me. I tried to pet him and he shot out to the fire escape.”
“Robie doesn’t approve of me.”
Claire burst out laughing. “Robie? That’s great. He’s Cary Grant, huh?” I stared blankly at her. “You’ve never seen To Catch a Thief?”
I hadn’t. Aunt Dottie didn’t approve of TV and I would have been too busy acting out to watch it anyway.
“Well, we will have to upgrade your cinematic education,” she said, lying down beside me. After a pause, she asked, “Any regrets?”
I shook my head. “None.” Then she gave me a long, tender kiss on the lips and I felt my body tingle. “Okay, you can admit now that you’ve been in the closet for years.”
She laughed. “You are first woman I’ve ever even kissed.”
“I can’t believe that. You’re awesome.”
She smiled. “I was thinking about that this morning. Guys usually don’t have a clue as to what you want so you have to tell them, which is so lame. So I just did for you what I would want and when you responded, I responded, and we just seemed to end up with these multiple orgasms.”
She kissed me again but then her cell phone rang. “It’s Katherine,” she declared. “She’s already called twice.” Claire answered it and withdrew into the living room while speaking in low tones. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry, I don’t feel that way,” and hung up. “I guess Katherine won’t be inviting us to dinner anytime soon,” she said, lying down beside me again. “She said that I only did the usual, get drunk and act out. The only difference was that this time it was a woman and that I had managed to make you slip with me.”
I laughed. “I don’t get any credit?” I kissed her. “If this is acting out, then acting out can’t be that bad.”
We made love again. Then I called Elaine to ask how she was. “Desperate,” she said and then gave a small laugh.
“Do you want me to go to the Boathouse with you?”
“He won’t be there,” she answered. “I was just leaving to have lunch with Gregory.” She didn’t invite me and I didn’t really want to come but I asked if I could bring someone to our Sunday session. “Of course.” Elaine didn’t ask who and I knew she had already talked to Katherine.
Claire and I timidly held hands as we went to a nearby café with a weekend brunch special. “Bloody Marys or mimosas?” Claire asked me.
“I don’t like Bloody Marys,” I answered, daunted by the menu selections. “Rosebud was simpler, just over easy or sunny side up.”
Claire ordered us Eggs Benedict and two mimosas in some foreign language that our waiter completely understood.
“I’m a waitress,” Claire said. I suspected that her addiction confined her to some greasy spoon but learned that she worked at an expensive celebrity Upper West Side Restaurant called Chez Passy and made twice the money that I did. “I’m good and even if you act out all night, you still should be able to make it to work by five p.m.” Claire paused and then said softly, “But I am still on probation for excessive absences.” Our drinks arrived and we raised them in a sober toast. Claire continued, “They call me ‘Mask’ because I wear so much dark makeup to cover my crying. They just think I’m punk.” Suddenly, Claire burst into tears. “I’ve got to get myself together,” she sobbed.
The restaurant was too crowded to pull my chair up beside her, so I just leaned over the small table and held her hands. “Will you help me?” she asked.
“Of course. If you’ll help me.”
Suddenly, Claire straightened up, brushed the tears from her cheeks and smiled bravely. “Time for a restroom run to apply the mast.” But after a few seconds, she broke down again, then got up and ran off. I followed her outside out and grabbed her but Claire pulled away. “Leave me alone. I’m not right for you.” She headed up West 4th St. Suddenly, I burst out laughing. Claire turned on me incensed. “You think I’m being funny.”
I shook my head and admitted, “I never thought I’d ever meet someone more insecure than me.”
Claire smiled and again brushed away her tears. “Look, I can’t do this.”
“Do what? Tell me! Because I don’t know.”
She came up to me and said softly. “Last night was the greatest sex of my life. You’re loving and tender, without any macho BS and you’re the sweetest person. But every ‘relationship’ in my life has ended badly and before we get there I’d love to just remember our moment of bliss before all hell sets in.”
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You think all of my relationship endings have been jolly?” I began sobbing. “Can’t you realize that everything you said last night, this morning, right now, maybe in your whole damn life, you’re talking about me? I’m probably more scared than you are and I don’t know if we are going to last one hour, one day, one month or forever. But I’m willing to find out!”
Then I broke down, overwhelmed. Claire embraced me tightly and it felt so wonderful that someone cared for me, even for a moment. “It’s time you tried Eggs Benedict,” she said. We both laughed.
We started back inside when Claire stopped. “Decision time. We could both go straight to the john so I can give you the whole routine, starting with the cold water to tighten the skin. Very important. But I say we just puffy-eye these people. They’re New Yorkers. They can handle it.”
We laughed again and returned to our table where our mimosas awaited us but our waiter said that he’d put our brunch on hold. “We’re going to be brave,” Claire informed him. “We’re going to try to stay together a whole meal.”
I loved the brunch and, basically, just being alive. Although some hurricane down South was streaking storms up the East Coast, the day looked so beautiful that Claire suggested we stroll along the river or in the Park. “Let’s do both,” I replied.
First, we strolled along the winding walkways of Central Park, occasionally timidly holding hands. While crossing a stone bridge and overwhelmed by the view of the verdant park, the shimmering pond and the backdrop of the majestic skyline, we hugged and kissed. No one really took notice of us. Again, I marveled at the beauty of New York. No one cared what you did as long as you didn’t bother them.
As we neared the soccer fields, I noticed that one field was creating a lot of excitement but I couldn’t really see the players because there were so many spectators crowded around it. I didn’t really want to see. I had tried for years not to follow soccer because it hurt too much. I didn’t want to spoil our wonderful afternoon by mentioning anything to Claire, so I gently sti
rred her away without a word.
Later, we ambled along the Hudson River Walk and perched on a bench, tightly holding hands. The crimson sun was slipping behind the Palisades casting into silhouettes the splashing river, the cawing seagulls and the waves lapping against the pilings. Neither of us felt the necessity to fill the silence with conversation. Our feelings couldn’t be expressed in words. For the first time in our lives, we were beginning to know what real love felt like. Love without baggage. We didn’t have to talk about our backgrounds. We knew that both our childhoods had been stolen and neither of us wanted to bring up old, sad memories.
“You know what we are?” Claire said, finally. “Virgins.”
We both burst out laughing. Of all the names that I’d been called a virgin was never one of them and I suspected that neither had Claire. “That’s how it feels?” Claire insisted. “Before last night have you ever really made love?”
I thought about it. “Not really.”
“Me neither. We’re virgins, or we were virgins until yesterday.” We laughed again. “About every weekend since forever, I’ve been falling in love. And falling. And falling. This weekend, I feel like I finally landed in love.” She hugged and kissed me.
We lingered until storm clouds hovered over the horizon and decided we should move indoors. “Want to go to a movie?” she asked.
“I’d rather go home and be alone with you.” I answered, giving her a sexy smile. “What say we get a bottle of wine? Gregory’s got a million DVDs we can watch.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Claire said seriously. “Katherine thinks we’re just acting out. But what if tonight we don’t drink and don’t have sex. We just enjoy each other’s company. Then we can’t be acting out.”
“Can we make love first?” I asked wickedly.
“Look. Two sex addicts can’t have a relationship based on sex, agreed?”
Although I wasn’t thrilled about suddenly not being able to make love so soon after discovering it, Claire was right. “Okay.”
The soft breezes had turned blustery, so we headed for home. Outside a townhouse on Jane Street, someone had left out an old carved-oak coffee table with a glass top. Gregory didn’t have a coffee table, probably because the drawing room was too small. Claire assured me that we had enough room for the table and that a little furniture polish and glass cleaner could turn it into a lovely piece. A wobbly leg worried me but Claire figured some glue would solve that problem. So we carted it home and after a little polish we had a place to rest our pizza and diet colas.
Falling in Love Page 11
