Around the World in 80 Dates (19 page)

Known as the Wedding Queen of the West, over the last forty years Little White Wedding Chapel owner and marriage aficionado Charolette Richards had married everyone from Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, and Joan Collins to Britney Spears and, umm, Blue Oyster Cult. Staff included ex–chorus girls and a vast array of impersonators from Sammy Davis Jr. to Dean Martin. And, of course, Elvis. I got separated from the party after they decided to hire a stretch limo and do the wedding as a drive-through. Trying to stay out of the heat, I got chatting with Roseanne, Charolette's second in command, instead.

We retreated to the cool of the staff room, and a piece of wedding cake was pushed into my hand as Roseanne told me that 25 percent of all the ceremonies were renewals. I found this, and everything else about the place, really uplifting. The room had the atmosphere of a feel-good musical: Sammy Davis Jr. laughed and spun as he showed another Sammy Davis Jr. how to do a complicated move. Flower arrangers danced around the huge fridges that kept the blooms chilled, as Elvis teased and serenaded, begging them “Don't Be Cruel.”

“Is he practicing?” I asked Roseanne.

“Oh no,” she replied cheerfully. “He just loves to sing. Once he starts, he don't stop.” With newly married couples popping in, bursting with happy tears and heartfelt thanks, it was an emotional and joyful atmosphere. Before long I had told them about my quest and we were swapping stories and advice about love and marriage.

It was a wonderful day. Everyone hugged and kissed me good-bye, as Dean Martin prepared to drive me in a stretch limo to the Bellagio. The wardrobe mistress—a tiny Italian woman, choreographer to Michael Crawford in
Barnum,
with the unquestionable authority of a Sicilian Godmother—walked me to the car. “You wanna know the secret to a successful marriage?” she asked, poking her finger sternly into my chest. She hand-tailored fairy-tale wedding dresses and had herself been married fifty-three years, so I said yes without hesitation. “Meet the family,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Because when the sex is all gone, the family will still be there.”

 

When I got back to my room, Frank had emailed from Holland:

Although I had had a few kisses since Frank, he'd been the most fun, and I emailed him straight back, reassuring him that he was still the #1 Kisser.

For now.

 

I loved Vegas. Everything about it: my iffy hotel; the crushing heat; the incessant tackiness; the relentless beep of the slot machines. It should have been repellent, but it was the opposite. Apart from the chopper gangs, everyone was really friendly, and the tack was so well done, wandering around the imaginative air-conditioned interiors of the hotels and casinos was a real pleasure.

 

Over the next couple of days, I dated
Elvis (Date #52)
(real name Dean Z.), who had mesmerizing turquoise eyes and a pompadour as high and solid as a well-baked loaf. Sadly, he was too young, at just twenty years old, but he was gorgeous, clever, and extremely interesting. He'd been Elvis since he was three; his grandfather had been a drummer in the fifties with a big-name British performer.

Rob (Date #53)
was nearly as good-looking as Anders without being as scary. He was determined to prove I could have gone around the world without leaving Vegas. So he took me for drinks in Venice, dinner in Paris, a stroll around the pyramids and the side streets of New York, shark-watching on the Mandalay Reef, and finally drinks again, this time in Morocco. Rob couldn't sit still for two minutes, and long-term I would have found that too distracting. But we laughed and teased each other, and at the end of the night, he stole Frank's title.

 

Betty's Outrageous Adventures was a funky, lesbian social club in Vegas. I'd found them on the Internet a while back and had been in regular email contact with their president, Nanc, ever since. She seemed lovely and I was looking forward to meeting her and the other
Bettys (Date #54)
at one of their regular picnics out of town:

Nanc picked me up from the Days Inn late the following morning, with another Betty called Elizabeth. We set off in her four-wheel-drive for the mountains, forty minutes outside of Vegas.

In her mid-thirties, Nanc was pretty, blond, and petite but also incredibly gentle and kindly. We all felt a little awkward and Nanc was at pains to make me welcome. Elizabeth, on the other hand—late thirties, slim, and very fit-looking—was a nonstop acerbic wit from the moment she opened her mouth. She was a tough and successful journalist and grilled me relentlessly as we drove through increasingly heavy rain to the mountains.

It was a brilliant drive. Not just because we were all single, so the subject of my journey was close to our hearts, but also because Nanc and Elizabeth—naturally—responded to everything from a lesbian perspective. It was a completely fresh angle for me to consider my position from.

“How do you know if they're your Soul Mate if you only have one date with them?” Elizabeth demanded.

“Oh come on,” I retorted, really enjoying sparring with her. “Where's your sense of romance? Have you never just looked at someone and known they're The One?” She grudgingly admitted she had; I confessed in return that it made me uncomfortable and perplexed when men expected me to sleep with them on the first date.

“But they're men,” Elizabeth snorted, “that's why they're dating you. And they only have one date, what else do you expect them to do?”

Lesbians have different priorities than straight couples, Nanc observed gently. As she spoke she kept her eyes firmly on the road, by now bouncing with huge hailstones and illuminated by the piercing forks of lightning flickering ahead. “First and foremost, we want friendship,” she continued. “If that works out, the next priority is a long-term partner. Some, but very few, lesbians feel sex is their most important priority; it's way down the list.”

As Elizabeth and Nanc fell into a conversation about one of the Bettys for whom sex was a priority and the mess she was in at the moment, I considered Nanc's statement. Those weren't just lesbian priorities: I was sure they were most women's. They were certainly mine. I knew I wasn't gay, so where did that leave me and my search? Trying to meet my Soul Mate in a situation where our priorities were polarized.

But now wasn't the time to be introspective. We had arrived at the spot for the Bettys' hike and picnic. On the side of a steep hill, staked by huge, shaggy pine trees, twenty-three lesbians sheltered in a five-woman tent as hail and rain thundered all around. Grabbing our potluck contributions, Nanc, Elizabeth, and I splashed through the mud and sprinted toward the tent.

It had been erected around one of those outdoor wooden picnic benches, and any surface not taken with huge bowls of tuna salad, white wine, or chocolate cookies had a drenched Betty sitting on it. Nudging our way into the shelter was like squeezing into a lesbian elevator: There was not one spare inch of room.

Under these circumstances, it was incredibly easy to make friends, and—as at the Wedding Chapel yesterday—we joined in the laughing and storytelling that were already well under way. Hearing the reason for my journey, Hettie and June, a couple in their sixties, wished me luck in my search. They were Soul Mates, June told me. Not that I needed to be told: As the Love Professor had predicted, they mirrored each other's body language and unself-consciously finished each other's sentences.

There was nothing cringy or schmaltzy about them; sitting huddled in the pouring rain in their soaked hiking jackets, they looked like they were made for each other.

“We've only been together three years,” June confided. “But our entire lives were leading to our time together,” Hettie added with conviction.

June smiled and squeezed Hettie's hand.

I smiled too and told them both about Chester's positive-visualization theory. “Yes.” Hettie nodded thoughtfully. “You've got to believe it will happen, but just as importantly, when the moment comes, you have to be prepared to take that leap of faith.”

I hugged them both, touched by their story and acknowledging the truth in Hettie's advice.

Date #55—A hot kiss
at the Burning Man Festival,
Nevada, USA

The woman motioned for me to kill the engine as she stepped from the checkpoint and swaggered through the searing desert heat toward me. Eyes protected from the harsh elements by diamanté-studded goggles, she was naked but for a pair of large graying men's briefs and a golden sheriff star painted onto each of her nipples.

Walking up to my side of the car, without saying a word, the greeter stuck her head through the open window and kissed me long and hard on the mouth.

Straightening up, she then stared at me calculatingly. Without breaking eye contact, I reached behind me into the cooler on the backseat and pulled out a six-pack of beer. In silence I handed it to her. She smiled for the first time, then, rolling the icy cans across her bare stomach, threw her head back and let out a shriek of pure joy. “You're my kind of girl,” she laughed, pulling her goggles back and beaming at me. “It's a pleasure to have you in Black Rock City. Welcome to Burning Man.”

 

At the end of every summer, the Burning Man Festival set up camp on the Playa, a blistering, barren section of the Nevada desert, two hours' drive northeast of Reno.

Started in San Francisco in 1986 by Larry Harvey and relocated to the desert in 1992, it was less a festival and more a radical exercise in personal expression and communal interdependence. Nothing grew on the Playa, there was no shelter, and you couldn't buy or sell anything (with the exception of ice and coffee). Life on the Playa was about bringing everything you needed for a week, then sharing it with a community of up to thirty thousand people.

The result was Black Rock City (BRC), a well-organized collection of theme camps—arranged in vast concentric circles—that challenged you to experience thoughts and activities ranging from the spiritual or political to the physical, artistic, or just plain silly. Feel underdressed? Walk into that tent and help yourself to a ball gown from the racks. Can't cope with your dust-encrusted body for another moment? Go to the hair-washing or the feet-washing camp, or just forget the dust altogether and go to the Picasso Painting camp and get your body
arted.

I was here to work at the Costco Soul Mate Trading Outlet, the Playa's dating camp. As I drove very slowly along the dusty roads between the neighborhoods of tents, temples, and giant structures, trying to avoid the naked cyclists, I searched for the Costco banner to help me locate them.

“Hey, slow down,” I suddenly heard someone shout. Although I was going only five miles an hour, I braked hard and peered with alarm at the group of Rangers (the volunteer BRC law enforcement) standing by their bikes (the site covers fifteen and a half square miles, so once you're parked, you cycle everywhere).

As a teenager growing up in rural Essex and attending a hippie secondary school, I've been to a lot of weird festivals, where it was the norm to stand around naked or hang out of trees at 4 a.m. playing the saxophone. But because this was an American festival, it was outside my own festival culture. Self-consciously English, I was scared I'd commit a
festival pas
and do something embarrassingly uncool.

“I'm really sorry,” I called out apologetically to the Rangers. I had no idea what I'd done. “Was I going too fast?”

“No,” one of the group called back, grinning. “But you're in a car so we're experiencing some difficulty in checking you out.”

I rarely blush, but I did now. Deep, deep red.

They didn't notice, however, because they were too busy talking among themselves. “Oh, fuck, is she British? Hot and British?” They all nodded wide-eyed at the Ranger who'd spoken to me. “Hey, cute Brit chick…” he called out, handing his bike to another Ranger and walking over to my car.

Although still blushing, by now I was giggling too. “Where are you camping, sweetie?” he asked, resting his arm on the open window and leaning in, letting me admire his green eyes sparkling mischievously against his tanned skin.

“Umm, I'm with Costco,” I replied, flustered and self-conscious but unable to stop laughing. “But I'm a bit lost. Do you know where they are?”

He replied that of course he did, everyone knew Costco, and pointed me toward BRC's center. “But hey, one more thing…” he said sternly as I started the car.

“Yes?” I asked, turning anxiously to face him.

“Just remember this…” he told me, and, leaning into the car, he gave me a long, lingering kiss that gently wiped the desert dust from his face onto mine.

When he finished, he raised one eyebrow and touched a finger to my cheek. “I'll be watching out for you, Hot British Chick.” And, rejoining his group, he cycled off around a large group of naked people cartwheeling through the burning sand.

I watched him go and decided to take a moment to organize my thoughts. I had known Burning Man was going to be crazy—as many of the dates were in their own ways—so I had automatically slipped into my standard
whatever
traveling state of mind. What I hadn't expected was there to be so much kissing, but—do you know what?—it was nice. I was okay with this. In fact, I liked it: It was
sport kissing
, no-agenda fun. Feeling I had taken an emotional litmus test and the results had come back all clear, I started the car up again and drove slowly toward the Costco camp.

I was soon to discover this was barely the tip of the kissing iceberg: I was captain of the
Titanic,
powering full steam ahead toward a vast ocean of puckered lips.

Dusk settled on the cracked desert floor. The earthy scent of wood smoke mixed with the pulse of music and the sound of hundreds of camps hurrying to assemble their tents, as the long fingers of fading light brushed past them, leaving the Playa suffused in a soft, inky darkness.

As I loaded up with supplies from the trunk of the car (gallons of water, eggs, tequila) and started walking toward the Costco camp, I felt a deep and growing sense of excitement.

I'd been in contact with Rico for eight months by now and couldn't wait to finally meet him. I had a sense of most of the other forty Costco-ers too, from reading their daily email exchanges on The List (the Costco intranet).

There'd been a lot from Garry—the Seattle guy Rico had put me in contact with months ago—as he was the camp cook and had to tell The List what supplies to bring. I felt I'd left it too long to get back in contact with him after our initial exchange, but I paid close attention to any emails he posted to The List. They were always funny, affectionate, and full of energy; he sounded like a good guy, a little mysterious as well. I was curious about him, as well as feeling slightly intimidated.

There was also Annie (Rico's girlfriend), plus OB, Jennith, Kenzie, Leopard Head, Hank, Brenda and Jefe, Age, Elvis (a lovely woman called Rachel), Vanilla, Shakes, BillnotDave, Reverend Johnny, Cute Steve, Lello, Princess, Angel and Kirby, Abelicious and Boy Toy…and a whole ton of others, all of whom I met the moment I walked into the Costco camp.

I stepped over a guy rope, into a clearing full of dusty sofas. One of the couples draped across them looked up as I walked in and smiled at me. “Hi,” I said, peering over an armful of water bottles. “I'm Jennifer, I'm camping with you guys.”

It was like I had triggered some kind of Code Red security alert. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the couple jumped to their feet, ran into an area behind the sofas where three large tents backed onto each other, and yelled at the top of their lungs: “80 Dates Jen's here! 80 Dates Jen's here!”

I jumped in surprise and struggled not to drop my supplies as people poured from the tents and ran toward me. Their faces were lit up with smiles as they exclaimed, “Oh my God, she actually came. It's 80 Dates Jen!”

I had no idea why everyone was so happy to see me (or indeed until this moment that I was called “80 Dates Jen”), but it was one of the nicest welcomes I'd ever received and I burst out laughing. “Yes,” I said, grinning, accepting my title, “80 Dates Jen has arrived.”

As the group gathered around me, over their heads I noticed a man standing in the tent's doorway, staring as if sizing me up. I had no idea who he was but—although looking a little harassed—I didn't mind the attention: He was tall and utterly gorgeous with bleached blond hair, startling aquamarine blue eyes, and a broad smile on his stubbly face. Shaking his head, he walked over. “I'm in the middle of cooking, but I had to come and see this for myself,” he told me. “So you made it, huh? 80 Dates Jen, welcome to Costco. I'm Garry.”

And he kissed me.

It wasn't a long kiss, but it was knowing, playful, and sexy. Pulling away, he grinned. “Okay, gotta get back to the kitchen,” and he walked back toward the tent.

I didn't get the chance to react: As soon as he turned and walked away, every single person in the camp stepped up to introduce themselves in the same way. I felt like the U.N. of Kissing as a multitude of mouths descended on mine. About twenty kisses in, a voice shouted: “Hey, has anyone offered 80 Dates a drink?” A man with a sunburned face half-concealed by a dusty mop of curly hair and a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses beamed at me. I knew straight away it was Rico and we gave each other a big hug. “Come on, 80 Dates, let me introduce you to…the bar.” And, putting his arm affectionately around my waist, Rico steered me into a tent.

Inside the tent, I found myself at the bar, being served cocktails from a blender by Age, the barman. Rico and I sat and chatted, too happy to see each other to be shy. He introduced me to Annie, tiny and beautiful, like a gorgeous, dusty Tinkerbell; Jennith, resplendent in a leopard-print dress, not to be outdone by Leopard Head, who was outfitted head to toe in leopard print…Costco staff washed in and out as over the next couple of hours I sat in the bar—too excited to eat—and finally met my co-workers at the Costco Soul Mate Trading Outlet.

As the campsite became engulfed in darkness, Rico made a speech welcoming me to the camp. “Costco staff come from all over the world, and although we shouldn't be impressed that she's traveled from England via virtually everywhere else to be here with us, we are. Welcome, 80 Dates Jen.” And everyone cheered and raised their glasses to me.

“Hey, has she been welcomed
officially
with Age's chili vodka?” OB shouted from the back. I raised my eyebrows, having no idea what this welcome entailed. The doubt must have shown on my face, because Age squeezed my arm reassuringly.

“Don't worry,” he said. “You can nominate someone to drink it for you.”

For the last fifteen minutes, Garry had been standing a few feet away. He'd smiled at me quite a few times but hadn't yet come over to talk. I'd been dying to talk to him but had been inundated with people introducing themselves and wanting to chat; plus—if truth be told—I was feeling a little shy, so I'd contented myself with returning his smiles.

I knew this was my opportunity.

Without stopping, for fear I'd change my mind, I spun around to Age and said: “I'd like to nominate Garry to drink it for me.”

Garry, who'd obviously been keeping track of our conversation, gave a groan and rolled his eyes but came straight over. Without a word, he took the brimming shot-glass from Age and, fixing me with a steady look, put the glass to his lips and downed it in one, then pulled me to him and gave me a long, deep kiss, holding me tightly against his chest. As the chili set my mouth on fire, the kiss set my heart racing. I had no idea what was going on but I didn't want it to stop.

But it did stop with Jennith, Lello, and Kenzie suddenly tugging at my shoulder and urging, “80 Dates, come with us; we're going to play on the Playa.”

I felt dazed as Garry and I pulled apart, but I nodded and told them I'd love to go exploring. Turning back to Garry, I blurted: “Would you like to come too?”

Garry smiled and said, “Maybe I can organize the grand tour.” He disappeared for a moment and came back with two bikes. Handing one to me, he asked: “Shall we?” and together the pair of us cycled off into the night to explore BRC.

 

Cycling around the festival by the light of the moon was the physical equivalent of lying in bed at night tuning a radio. Spells of intense darkness were suddenly interrupted by unconnected voices or music that suggested an incredible story you'd grasp the edge of, before the darkness sucked it away and engulfed you in silence once more.

Sharing this experience with Garry was intimate and intense since—rattling along the bumpy desert floor in the dark—we could hear but not really see each other. There was the additional danger that if you looked away for a moment, you ran the real risk of running someone down or getting knocked off yourself.

There was so much to take in, it was almost overwhelming. But this wasn't the only new experience. From the moment Garry and I had left the Costco bar and cycled off on our own, it was almost as if the chili kissing was forgotten. The focus was off us and on the wild nightlife of the Playa. We set off like wide-eyed truants, stowing away together on the first train to London.

Paradoxically, as the seething masses stripped, whipped, danced, and paraded around the Playa, Garry and I were on a wonderfully old-fashioned date. We'd get off the bikes in busy areas and people-watch or inspect one of the many intricate pieces of art. Like the one-hundred-foot model of a chandelier that—perfect in every detail—appeared to have crashed from the sky, shattering in pieces across the Playa floor. Or the roller rink full of naked skaters laughing and crashing into each other. Or the Thunderdome, where—as in
Mad Max
—two fighters suspended from a fifty-foot metal dome by bungee ropes beat each other with padded baseball bats as the crowd roared and screamed for their champion. At the remote Temple of Remembrance, people sat quietly reflecting and remembering lost loved ones.