She was, in a word, drunk.
I wasn't much soberer as I struggled with the lock on the exterior of the bar, trying to make sure it was closed as we exited. Faye was spinning on the sidewalk, her little black purse and Claire's big green purse swinging around her knees.
"Which way are you?" Faye asked, laughing at nothing in particular.
"This way," I gestured with my chin, sticking my keys in my pocket and bracing my shoulders against the 3:30am chill.
"Oh good, me too!" Faye babbled.
I walked quickly, trying not to grin like an idiot. We were both drunk, and yet we were still the playing as though we weren't thinking about asking each other back to our houses.
I decided to take the plunge and offer Faye another drink at my house. Justine was in Santa Cruz with her boyfriend for the weekend, so we would have the place to ourselves.
“Hey, want to-"
"Come to my place," Faye blurted in the middle of my sentence. "Come... have another drink with me."
"Yeah?" I breathed.
She looked at me with a wicked, lopsided smile. “Yeah.”
A few hours into my morning at Turner Institute, I was standing by the copier waiting for the collator when I got a text from Faye. I couldn't believe I'd accidentally agreed to go out with a woman, but I figured it would be rude to back out now. I was looking at my phone when Dr. Turner walked in. He always walked with his head up high, nose in the air like he owned the place. He looked directly at me, like he actually saw me. My stomach flipped and I flushed.
"I didn't realize the copier was being used." He looked annoyed.
"I'm almost done. I'll make your copies for you if you like," I offered. I wanted him to see how helpful I can be.
Dr. Turner stepped close to me and handed me the paper. I smelled his aftershave and Old Spice. It was such a sexy, masculine smell, woody and rich and clean.
"Fifty copies, double-sided," he said, waiting for me to take the paper.
I took it and relished the moment that piece of paper connected us. "Sure."
"Thanks, doll.”
As he turned to go, he patted my ass twice with a gentle hand. It happened so quickly, I didn't realize he'd actually touched me until he was gone.
I was buzzing. Maybe he was actually seeing behind the lab coat and the twist I had to keep my hair in. I started thinking about all the neuroreceptors that were going crazy in my brain, absorbing the chemicals that were released as a result of human touch.
I remember being mesmerized by the CAT scans of brains at rest when they sat in the MRI untouched, versus when someone held their hand. I felt the area Dr. Turner had touched freeze and tingle, excited like I felt the first time my high school boyfriend kissed me.
Over the next few days, I let my doubts about meeting up with Faye eat away at me. Justine seemed to route all conversations back to my upcoming date, even when I managed to forget about it for a few minutes.
On the day of the date, I woke up too early. It was Saturday, my day to sleep in, but I jolted awake only half an hour after my workweek alarm would have gone off. I ended up just laying there for an hour, feeling my stomach twist and flip with anxiety. Why had I agreed to go on this stupid date?
I thought about asking Justine to help me pick an outfit, but then decided that was a terrible idea. She'd find my raciest bra and skankiest panties and declare that was all I needed.
I gave up trying to sleep and went to my closet. If I could figure out what I was going to wear, I wouldn't have to worry about it for the rest of the day.
I looked through the blouses and slacks that I wore under my lab coat and felt myself starting to sink. Drab and shapeless, they deserved to be covered up by a lab coat.
Deciding to put off the decision between drab outfit number one and drab outfit number two, I slid into my running clothes and grabbed my key, darting out the door before Justine woke up.
I ran my usual circuit twice that morning. I was hoping that the extra exercise would banish my nerves. I was almost back to my apartment when I spotted a little boutique that had opened a few months ago. I slowed from my jog and peered in the window, seeing a few cute skirts and tops, and racks of heels and sandals. I wanted to go in, but of course, the boutique wouldn't be open on a Saturday at 8:45. I looked at the sign and saw that it would open in an hour and decided I would come back.
But then I decided it would be stupid to pay boutique prices for one date. What would I do with the outfit after? It's not like I could wear it to work, and if for some strange reason Faye wanted to see me again, I couldn't wear the same thing. So I found something mildly presentable and hoped it didn't look too forced.
I was so nervous by the time our coffee date rolled around, I almost bolted from the shop. When Faye walked in, everything seemed to speed up.
We exchanged obligatory greetings, and she seemed warmer and more relaxed now that she was out of her business attire and wasn't recording our conversation. She seemed more like someone my age.
After we found a table and sat down, an excruciating few seconds of silence passed. I panicked, needing to fill them.
"So tell me about the stuff that's not on your business card."
Faye shifted in her seat as she leaned on the table between us. "Like what?"
"How did you end up in San Francisco?"
She gestured up with her palm, "You go to New York to be important, LA to be famous, and San Francisco to be yourself." She smiled down at the table for a moment, then seemed to realize I was still there as she zipped back up. "Plus it's a better place for journalism than San Antonio."
"Is that where you're from?"
"Born and raised."
There was an awkward pause and I scrambled for something to say. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"
Faye agreed and asked for me to order two extra shots in hers.
I stood in line, nervously bouncing on my feet, trying to think of things to talk about when I got back to the table. Faye's presence seemed to suck all the air out of the room, and I got dizzy and started floating in a haze of beautiful near-death. If I didn't look at her, instead studying the calligraphed chalkboards over the counter, I could get my bearings.
The curlicue words above boasted the finest local organic vegan fair-trade gluten-free delights in the city. I love vegetables and morality as much as the next person, but nothing can substitute for a chocolate chip cookie with a glass of milk or a turkey melt when I'm feeling down. But to each her own.
I set Faye's drink down in front of her and sat down. She took a sip, closing her eyes for a second to appreciate the rich, bitter taste. After she swallowed, she looked up at me again and proceeded to ask polite questions. She asked me about my day and how my week had been, which was a boring thing to talk about.
And then she asked, “How's that horrible job of yours?"
I shrank into my seat. Faye thought my life was pathetic.
“It's not too bad. A job is a job.”
Fueled by my humiliation, I asked her the same polite questions she had asked me previously. Her answers were more interesting, talking about a recent conflict with her editor that had finally been resolved over a box of donuts and a wager that involved him buying her a beer after work. It sounded like she worked with interesting and quirky people. The only interesting person I worked with was Dr. TurnerDr. Turner...
I wondered what he was doing. He probably had a date tonight. He had dates all the time, right? He was too handsome and well-spoken not to.
I wondered what kind of girl Dr. Turner dated, and the only thing I could come up with was that she was definitely not like me. She was probably more like... well, she was probably more like Faye. Beautiful and polished, everything from her nails to her résumé. She wore heels and lipstick and had a laugh that wafted over the wine glasses between them as they ate in trendy restaurants. I would never be that girl for Dr. Turner.
Our conversation meandered on. Even though we never ventured into anything too
personal, Faye genuinely wanted to know about growing up in Michigan, and what had brought me to San Francisco, and where I was living and with whom. And even though everything about her made me feel foggy in the best way, I felt tension rising. Were we on a date? She wasn't acting like it. We were just talking like two people trying to become friends. But then again, I didn't know what it felt like to be on a date with a girl as an adult. When I'd dated a girl in college, we'd just hung out in each other's dorm rooms.
My uncertainty built up tension like a bowstring in my stomach until it shot out of me.
"Are we on a date?" I blurted.
Faye blinked quickly, then let out a nervous giggle. "Um... I didn't think we were. Did you?"
Although the tension was finally gone, now I felt humiliated. "I wasn't sure.”
She looked at me, curious. "Do you date women?"
I shrugged, wishing I could disappear under the table. "I did in college."
She seemed intrigued. "We have that in common, I guess.”
And then it struck me that Faye had never outed herself to me. Justine had been the one who planted the idea of this being a date in my head, and I had fabricated it with her. Faye was just having coffee with a girl she met through work.
Wanting to diffuse my humiliation, I asked her about college. She answered politely, but then paused and said, "I had a lot of fun with the ladies in college. What about you?"
I laughed nervously, breaking the eye contact that had suddenly become too intense for me.
"Oh, it was nothing.”
As I said it, I knew it sounded fake. Maybe I was trying to put up some kind of firewall between us that she couldn't cross. If I glossed over my foray into dating women, she would put me in that category of "girls who have experimented and then gone back to men." That was the only way I understood my sexuality.
"I don't buy it," Faye said. "Everyone's first girl is a big deal, no matter what happens afterward."
She seemed to be giving me space to stay in the "college exploratory" category by saying, ”No matter what happens afterward." Afterward I had gone back to dating men, and I could use my experience to titillate them if I chose. I realized shamefully that I had. I had dangled my faux-bisexuality in front of the men I'd dated, smiling as I intentionally let them think it might mean I was game for a threesome or some other adventure planted in their brains by the porn industry. This, Justine had informed me, was why lesbians hated bisexuals.
But I wasn't a real bisexual. Right?
As Faye looked at me from across the table, I wasn't sure. I felt I owed her something, though I wasn't sure why.
"I mean, it was good," I assured her. "I had fun."
"And by fun you mean..." She drifted off, then followed with, "Some good sex?"
I was startled by her bluntness, but I found myself nodding. I remembered Maggie's post-sex face and how she was so satisfied that she'd pleased me. The world seemed to slow and her smile shone. She'd whispered in my ear, sticky fingers still inside me as she brought me down before caressing the rest of me, working the afterglow into every muscle and crevice. It was so good that it alarmed me. It felt unfair to Maggie to not give her the credit she was due.
"Yeah," I said with a sheepish smile.
Faye smiled like the cat who's caught the mouse, but she composed herself before it grew too smug.
"How's your dating life today?"
I felt myself sink down from the floating memory of my first time with Maggie to the reality of working for Dr. Turner, dating no one, and being intimate only with myself.
I scrunched up my lips and shrugged.
"That bad?" Faye asked. She raised her eyebrows as she took a sip of her drink. "What is wrong with people in this town? All the singles I know would love to date someone like you."
I blushed, first at the compliment, and then at the realization that most of those people were probably women. She was probably thinking about which of her female friends would want to date me. That was too far from my white picket fence.
"I kind of have a thing for my boss," I admitted.
"Dr. Turner?" Faye asked, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
I nodded, a quick ashamed nod. "Don't tell anyone."
Faye sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was planning to put it in this week's column, but I won't if it would make you uncomfortable."
I shot her a pained look with a roll of my eyes. Her sarcasm didn't mask the fact that she thought I was pathetic for lusting after my boss.
"So what's the deal with Dr. Dreamboat?" she asked with a hint of resigned frustration.
I told her about how smart and charming Dr. Turner was, and she listened without a trace of a smile on her face. After a while I started feeling ridiculous, as though I was describing something that didn't exist. So I asked her about growing up in San Antonio, and everything got easier.
Before I knew it, the sun was setting. I had spent several hours with Faye, and it felt like just a few minutes. Anyone who is that easy to be around is worth keeping around.
"Want to hang out again?" Faye asked. "Now that you know I'm not trying to get in your pants," she added with a smirk.
I gave her a pained giggle and nodded. Despite her dismissal of Dr. Turner, I liked her. And in truth, I was excited to see her again.
I let the prostitution money sit on my dresser for a week as a reminder that I needed to sort out how I felt about sex for pay. I knew by taking the money I was now an accomplice in an act of prostitution. I briefly entertained the idea of returning it, but dismissed the idea after I imagined handing Dr. Turner his money back. I wasn't going to contact him just to return his money. So I spent it. The groceries I bought and the student loan bill I paid were immensely satisfying.
I'd engaged in prostitution. It hadn't been gross or seedy or debasing. It had been boring.
But my upbringing niggled into my brain, forcing me to consider the moral underpinnings of what I'd done. I'd done something illegal, and I'd used my body to make money. Most people break some kind of laws regularly, and most people have done physical labor. Sex is physical labor, isn't it? Just because places deemed private by society were involved didn't mean I was so different from farmers or construction workers.
I settled that with myself and decided what I'd done hadn't been wrong.
I'd been smart enough to change my voicemail the second I gave my number to Dr. Turner. Since he thought my name was Violet, I couldn't have him call and discover from my voicemail that my name was Riley. I figured if I didn't hear from him again in a few weeks, I could change it back, and prostituting myself would be that thing I did once in grad school.
But to my surprise, he called the next weekend, around ten on Saturday night. I let it go to voicemail because I had no idea what to say to him. After I set the phone back down on the coffee table and hoped Justine wouldn't pry, she did just that.
"Who are you avoiding?" she asked.
“No one,” I said, stiffening.
She picked up my phone, seeing the missed call from Dr. Turner. She gave me a pointed look and said, “You still haven't told me anything about your date except where you went to dinner and that it was 'nice.'"
"Not much more to tell," I shrugged.
I didn't want her to know that Dr. Turner had given me money for sleeping with him. She'd make me feel worse than Dr. Turner had, and I'd lose all the satisfaction I'd gained with my groceries and loan payment.
I glued my eyes to the TV and tried to appear indifferent to Justine's prodding. I watched the actors as they staged reenactments on the History Channel. The documentary we were watching was about a famous outlaw during Gold Rush. When the show made a comment in a copacetically coy voice about this outlaw's affinity for saloon women, I glanced over at Justine. What did she think of prostitutes?
Justine may have been opinionated and sassy, but above all, I loved and respected her. What would she think of what I had done? Did she think prostitutes were empowered, as I had
felt in my own way as I spent Dr. Turner's – no, my — money, or did she view them with disgust, as I had been taught to?
"What do you think of these saloon ladies?" I asked, tipping my chin toward the screen.
"What do you mean?" Justine frowned.
It hinted at disapproval, which frightened me. I just wanted her political opinion, sans emotion.
"Prostitutes," I said. "What do you think?"
Justine frowned at the screen for a moment, pursing her lips in thought. Then she let out a weary sigh. "People care way too much about women's bodies."
"Yeah?" I asked, encouraged.
Justine nodded. "If we're not sex objects, we're political objects. If women want to prostitute themselves, more power to them. As long as it's their choice.”
I nodded and kept my eyes on the screen. But inside, I was delighted. Justine wouldn't be angry if she found out. Even though I had no plans to tell her about my foray into prostitution, I was relieved.
After Justine went to bed that night, I checked the message Dr. Turner had left. He was mumbling a bit, and I wondered if he'd been drinking. His deep, husky voice went straight to the point: he wanted to see me again. And although I didn't call him back until the following day after I'd poked around on some escort message boards, I never thought twice about it.
When I saw him the following weekend, I wasn't sure what to expect. Would he bother with the pretense of dinner? Acknowledge that he'd paid me for sex? Feel entitled to more this time? I braced myself, which must have come across as rigidity.
"You okay?" he asked after I'd been in his apartment for less than a minute and realized we were not going out to dinner.
That did nothing but increase my anxiety. But I surprised myself with my forwardness.
"If we're gonna do this, I need to set some ground rules.”
He looked surprised, but not offended. Then he gestured to the couch. "By all means."
Wherever the Dandelion Falls Page 4
