The Last Place She'd Look (12 page)

The following night, each of us pushing a giant shopping cart, Beth and I navigated the warehouse aisles of COSTCO.

“She was doing you there in the closet and then just stopped,” Beth exclaimed. “That's more mean than kinky. Did you tell her you were angry?”

“I tried to express myself,” I said meekly. “But I think it sounded more like a self-help quiz than my feelings,” I said while loading my cart with vast quantities of canned goods.

“You didn't tell her how you really felt,” said Beth. “You can't have an honest relationship if you're unable to talk about things.”

“I had a husband who lied about everything from who he was fucking to whether or not he ate an ice cream sandwich while walking the dog. Do I even know what an honest relationship looks like?” I asked, with concern and sincerity. “I don't think you have an honest relationship with Jeff.”

“Ya know, it's a problem,” Beth responded.

“April avoids talking about herself, as if there is a veil of mystery separating us.”

“Maybe you like that about her. Avoiding emotional exploration has its appeal.”

“Am I an unfocused lesbian?” I asked my favorite sexual juggler, hoping she would help me navigate my uncharted explorations. “When I'm intimate with April, I always think about how it would feel if I were having sex with a man.”

“You're trying to sort out too much of your old dirty laundry,” Beth explained. “Just forget about boxer shorts for a while. Try to focus and be in the moment.”

“She makes me feel great. But I know how I am. I sit in a restaurant with a delicious plate of food in front of me while my eyes eagerly follow a waiter carrying a different, amazing dish.”

“I've seen you do that,” Beth said.

“She's a hot dish. But sometimes I wish April had a penis,” I whispered.

Beth laughed girlishly. “That's what makes being with a woman so interesting. She can get one…or more.”

Later in the day, we were sitting on Beth's living room couch. Her husband Jeff was outside mowing the lawn. The hum of his lawnmower reminded me of my old vibrator, the one I'd stopped using since I met April.

“Does thinking about dick make me a hetero on holiday?” I asked.

“Don't think about labels. Think about what makes you happy,” Beth implored. ”That's the lesson I've been learning lately. Jeff and I went to that Tantra weekend, did intimacy exercises, learned a lot, and got closer.”

“What happens at a Tantra weekend?” I asked.

“You spend a lot of time in your underwear or naked, facing each other, cross-legged, gazing endlessly into each other's eyes. You learn listening skills. They call it mirroring. Jeff said something and I repeated what I heard. Then the skills counselors help you see if you are correct or not. You learn to reflect back the love that was mirrored in your partner.”

“Was it successful?”

“When we first got back from the weekend, we did our exercises every night. We were closer than when we were first married. Before that weekend I was worried. I thought I had nothing left for him. I felt dried up inside. When we're talking in that face-to-face clinch, my body just starts humming. I become so turned on! I 'd been trapped in this peri-menopausal mayhem. Now, my passion and sexuality are back.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “I don't think Hallmark makes a card for that.”

“Don't get too happy for me. I see my own problems more clearly,” Beth said.

“What problems?”

“I still want intimacy with a woman,” Beth replied. “Sometimes Jeff is cool about it. Other times, he's uncomfortable.”

“What are you going to do?”

Beth stood and walked to the nearby desk, picked up a pamphlet, and handed it to me:
Lavender Visions
.

“You know how I love a weekend workshop. Last weekend was a Lavender Visions weekend,” she said. “It's a support group for married, bisexual women. There were 18 of us there from all over the U.S. and Canada. All the women were beautiful – and accessorized. It was nice to learn that I'm not alone.”

“What did Jeff say about this?”

“He encouraged me to go. Since it was all married women, he knew they'd bolster my staying married and offer solutions for juggling the two sides of me.”

Listening to Beth, I thought about myself: no husband, no kids, and no strong attachments to anyone, really. She was juggling two sides; I didn't even have one.

Beth continued, “Marriage vows were written before people lived long lives—or acknowledged their lesbianism. All of the women at the workshop said they're honest with their husbands. They have understanding and open relationships. They all seek out sex with women but don't want to hurt their best friend—their husband—or leave their marriage.”

Beth brimmed with emotion, so I hugged her. I was happy she had found a support group to sustain her. I really was. But I couldn't help feeling a tiny sting of jealousy. I saw myself as a party of one, a pot without a cover, a player without a team. Was I an ambivi-sexual? I was a woman without a support group. I had to find someone to mirror my feelings.

Chapter 16

The Ambivi-Sexual

Pleased I was starting to have a sex life, not sure if it was really a burgeoning love life. Whenever I felt confused about my sexuality, which happened at least daily these days, I remembered that Julia really was my touchstone in the single world. For all of her experimentation and wacky encounters, she was alone. Like me. On Tuesday night, I cooked dinner for us, with a great bottle of Cabernet and a low-cal chocolate dessert. My goal: deep-dish brain-picking.

“Who do you see yourself within five years?” I asked, pouring a second glass of wine for each of us.

“With a woman,” Julia replied.

“Are you sure?”

“Most certainly,” she said, caressing the wine goblet with confidence. “Let me ask you—men or women, who do you trust more?”

The table was turned; now my brain was being picked. “Women?” I said with uncertainty.

“Who do you feel more comfortable being naked with?”

My mind replayed whatever past experiences it could find, “Women?”

“Really?” Julia's voice lilted upward, in a way that always made me smile.

“There's a self-sufficient ease that mid-life women have. Their figures resemble Renaissance paintings. Lush nude forms, in the French countryside. Their bodies say, 'This is who I am. Take it or leave it.' If an invisible woman dances naked, and no one sees her, is she any less beautiful? They are incredibly unhurried and glowing.”

“Who do you have better sex with?” Julia asked.

We both laughed, knowing I had to stumble through my memories, reaching back to my 20s and 30s for happy recollections and comparisons.

“Wait,” I said. “I need an extra minute. I'm not quite in this century yet. My brain is still processing.” After a brief pause, I admitted, “Men!”

Julia laughed. “There are challenges in any relationship. But I believe women make better partners,” she explained. “They're more focused on maintaining relationships and nesting, loving feelings.”

“Those feelings and emotions can make women more moody and erratic.”

“And erotic,” Julia added with a sweet giggle. “They understand how your engine runs, what makes it purr.”

“Single men want sex, with anyone they can find,” I said. “They take their taste, lick their lips, and move on. I feel like I'm an appetizer at a cocktail party.”

“I think you're the bitter turnip on the appetizer tray,” replied Julia.

“I guess I'm angrier at men than I thought I was,” I confessed.

“Yet you defend them, like they're the only dish on the menu.”

“They've been the main course on MY menu,” I said.

“And you've been love-starved for years!” Julia pointed out.

“I never felt strong enough to deal with the social stigma of being with a woman,” I explained. “Most of my world is straight—or straight-minded.”

“Your friends love you and will cheer for your happiness, no matter who you're with,” she said.

“I don't think Diana is a lesbian cheerleader,” I offered.

“She's one person,” Julia said. “Besides, whenever she's in a relationship, you never hear from her. You need to do more sampling, meet more women, taste different experiences,” Julia explained. “Sex with one woman does not make you a lesbian. You can't judge your entire sexuality by one partner. That's so prehistoric and dull.”

“What about monogamy?”

“It's easy to be monogamous once you've gotten a lay of the land, so to speak. Monogamy without other experiences is monotony.” She laughed at her own joke.

“That's my problem?” I asked, eager for resolution.

“Be open to new experiences. Say hello to people you see on the street. Smile at total strangers. Open yourself up to the world and the answers will come to you.”

Two days later, I soaked in a bubble bath, primping for a date with April—and I was still thinking about men, angry that I felt ignored by them.

I remembered walking down the street, painfully aware that as a mid-life woman I was invisible to almost any man who passed me. Men didn't even glance up and then look away — they
never
turned their heads towards me in the first place, like I was not even worth a peek, as if I weren't there. These feelings were confirmed by the world of Internet dating, where most men, no matter what their age, listed themselves as only interested in women up to 44 years old. When a friend recently turned 46 and wanted to date online, I told her the age-range factoid and instructed her to “pick an age from 40 to 44, then just do the math when asked questions about your childhood.”

Why were confident, self-assured women at their sexual peak invisible, ignored, and undesired on the American landscape? I'd just seen the film
Door in the Floor
at a revival house. When mid-life beauties Kim Basinger and Mimi Rogers had sensual nude scenes, the audience gasped with the same surprise and amazement as they did viewing the special effects moments from a
Star Wars
film.

I believe a mid-life woman is like a classic car, a fine wine, or an imported cigar. The engine purrs, with a complex taste and a smooth, relaxing smoke. What did men want? Naïve girls they could control? Oh, how I wished a sharp, insightful man, who could appreciate the passion, depth, and beauty of a seasoned, sensual woman, would smile at me on the street and offer a friendly
“Hello.”

As I got out of the tub and toweled off, I thought, “If only I could turn away from the need for male approval and acceptance, I'd love life more and feel better about myself. I dated men and they were hurtful and disappointing. Yet I date a woman now — and all I think about is dick. Would a chick with a dick make me happy?”

That night, as if reading my mind, April brought a treasure chest of sex toys into bed. First, she tickled my naked torso with a feather. I didn't care for it. Then we rubbed each other with chocolate-scented massage oils. Not only did they taste like chocolate, there was a heat-like sensation on my skin that turned me on. This was more like it – my two favorite pleasures, food and sex, combined! Finally, she rummaged through the box and pulled out a strap-on dildo.

In this moment, I heard Julia's voice say, “Open yourself to the world and the answers will come to you.”

Fully aroused and engaged, tingling with anticipation, thinking this escapade would answer some of my questions and concerns, I kissed April passionately, fondling her breasts. She stroked my skin: arms, legs, and back. I felt cared for and at ease, ready for anything. We both fumbled with the fasteners on the dildo harness. April fit it to herself and positioned the life-like penis so it seemed to belong to her body. I swiftly slid down the pillows on my back, trying not to seem too eager for penetration. She paused and turned away. I took a deep breath, my insecurity getting the better of me. To my relief, April reached into her night table for a half-empty tube of lubricant. She'd obviously done this quite a few times before.

With ballerina-like grace, April straddled me. First she probed deep inside me with her fingers, making sure I was wet and ready. With the other hand, she lubricated our new friend. When everyone was hot, wet, and ready, the dildo dance began.

At first, penetration was uncomfortable, then familiar. As April thrusted inside me, I admired her firm torso, jiggling breasts, and delighted smile. She was enjoying this as much as I was. A gorgeous, adoring woman was making love to me—and I felt filled up inside. I had no wants or thoughts of men!

I wet my fingers with my tongue and touched them to April's nipples, which hardened in seconds. I grabbed her entire breast, squeezing in rhythm with her thrusting inside me. Seconds later, we both came, hard. She collapsed on top of me and I held her close. Her heart pounded against mine. Now that she had fucked me like a man, something inside me felt safe to open my heart to her. I held her tight, as if it would help me hold onto the warmth of loving feelings that were welling up inside me. This was the first moment I thought I was falling in love with April.

Next, April brought out another toy and explained that the strap-on blow job was the ultimate in gender-bending sex theater, because our biggest sex organ was our brain. It's all about desire. The idea, the visual thrill, the feeling of power, and the unique physical sensations all combined to make our motors rev. The person on either side of the dildo was in a position for which no romantic comedy or high school sex-ed had prepared you. At first I was uneasy, but April encouraged me to do some deep yoga breathing—and like a master of meditation, my mind let the weirdness go.

“I like watching my lover's head bob up and down the shaft,” April said eagerly, getting into the perverse thrill. While I sucked away, she revisited my wetness with her hand, frantically stroking my clit. I fondled her breasts. We both came hard, again.

As I held April in my arms, spent, satiated, and happy, my mind replayed Julia's question: “Who do you have better sex with: men or women?” I shouted my answer out loud. “April! April!” I hugged her tightly, my ever-opening, happy heart pressing against her body, and we both drifted off into blissful slumber.