The Last Place She'd Look (17 page)

“We worked on a film together—shared producer credit. I did some camera work, too. I started out as a photojournalist. One picture at a time wasn't enough for me anymore.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, intrigued by her self-confidence.

TC smiled, walked to another room, parting the chattering cliques as she moved past them, then through the French doors, onto the terrace. I followed her like a scampering pup. She lit up a cigarette and looked me up and down like I was a new car she considered test driving.

“I'm trying to quit. Want one?” she said, enticingly pointing the pack at me. “Some of the people here, it just gets to be too much.”

Just then, five loud, tattooed Venice hipsters came out to the terrace. The two men raced to bear-hug TC. The women air-kissed her. She smiled politely, listening to what they had to say for a minute. Then she took my arm and steered me off the terrace, out of the place, and into the street with the speed and agility of a cat burglar. Suddenly we were standing on the silent street in the humid night.

“There's a bar down the street; let's get a drink,” she gently commanded.

In the bar she ordered two more beers, then checked to see if
that
was what I wanted. Nodding yes as I looked into her face, I was searching to connect. In that second, she looked away, people-watching around the room. When the drinks appeared, she lovingly caressed her beer and took a big gulp. Finally, she faced me.

“You'd be a good subject for a photo study,” TC said. “You've got interesting hands and cheekbones. I'd like to shoot a few rolls with you.”

“Really? That sounds great. When would you want to do this?”

TC took another hard swallow of beer. While studying her confident face, I was excited she found me attractive and intriguing—that others sought her out, but she escaped with me. It was a glorious feeling, to be desired by someone in demand, intoxicating, like
Jungle Gardenia
perfume.

“Tuesday. Let's exchange cards and check in, get a plan,” she decided. I wasn't sure if I should shake her hand, peck her cheek, or what. Remembering Beth was back at the party, I pocketed her card, excused myself, and left the bar. TC remained behind, poised for another drink.

I found Beth, looking through the host's CD collection. Smiling devilishly, she said, “I saw you leave with TC. What happened?”

“We just went down the street for a drink.”

“That's all?” she giggled.

“She said she'd call and schedule a photo shoot with me, thinks I have good hands and cheekbones.”

“How seductive. Maybe you'll see her etchings too,” Beth said slyly. “I'm proud of your spontaneity. I had my eye on her, but she's clearly interested in you. Go for it. I hear she's a wild woman…never needy.”

Thinking back, I compared the man I met at the party — slimy and self-infatuated —with the warm and inviting women— especially TC. How could I fashion this experience into more questions for my
quiz?
Or better yet, how could I find the answers for my own life? My real life, not my virtual life! Felt good to have a choice.

Chapter 21

Hot Flash

Later that week, I faced my computer to pitch new self-help articles to my editors about love, happiness, and public acknowledgement of bisexuality. Oops, I thought – that last one was not a story I should pitch as much as one I needed to research, for my own internal editor.

Jessica emailed:
Three days of rain. I feel like I'm in an Ingmar Bergman film, and I'm the only one who isn't speaking Swedish. Wish I could see the sunshine of your smile.

I paused and thought about her smile, the smell of her hair, and how warm and delicious it felt to hold her close and nestle my nose between her ear and neck. Mmm.

A half hour later, TC called, inviting me to her house in Los Feliz later that day. She told me to bring, among other things, makeup, hair brushes, and a bathing suit. I arrived at her pink stucco 1930s Hollywood bungalow around sunset.

Entering her living room, I saw that all the furniture was pushed to the sides. Aged, woven rugs were scattered around the room, plus prominent dust bunnies in the corners. Professional lights were set up along one wall that had a white paper backdrop spread along its length. There were two cameras with big zoom lenses on the table.

“Hi, come on in,” she called, holding a camera, checking the lenses.

I smiled, dropping my weekend bag near the couch. Her manner was as formal as a dental hygienist readying me for my X-rays. It reminded me of my visit to April's office and her polite professionalism. “You brought a bathing suit or halter top? I want to get some shoulder shots and silhouettes.”

I went into the bathroom and put on a one-piece halter top bathing suit. Looking in the full-length mirror behind the door, I spied the spider veins on my dimply thighs. Seeing my exposed legs may be too much information too soon, so jeans on over the suit. I slid into a pair of flip-flops, not wanting to encounter the dust bunnies. Exiting the bathroom, I saw TC was sipping from a tall glass filled with clear liquid over ice.

Noticing her beverage, I said, “Can I get some water too?”

“I'm drinking vodka. There's some in the freezer. Help yourself.”

The kitchen was a mess — sink full of dishes brimming with grease and food, no doubt untouched for days, if not weeks. I grabbed the sticky door handle of the 1960s egg yolk-colored fridge and pulled gingerly. Blinded by the bright light and lack of food, I saw an ancient tomato, a head of lettuce that had shrunken to the size of a lime, a bowl of lemons, and in the door, three half-full jars of stuffed olives. The freezer was in desperate need of defrosting. Its contents were two half-full bottles of vodka and a pint of white Russian ice cream. I laughed to myself that this looked like a guy's kitchen. Then I found a clean glass and some ice, and poured myself a tall vodka. I walked back to the main room, where TC was moving more furniture.

“I'm ready now,” she said, fully in charge, looking sexy and in command, wearing black jeans and braless black tank top. “Stand near the window, looking out, but turn your shoulders towards me.” TC shot rapid-fire, moving around me like she was a moon and I was the planet. “Tilt your chin up—good. Hand on hip—mmm—turn towards me—good.” She stopped, reached for her glass, and gulped. “Powder your face, then come back. We'll try a few shots with the club chair over there, straight from a Joan Crawford press kit. I think you'll like it.”

I waltzed to the bathroom mirror and removed the shine from my nose and forehead. Being treated like a fashion model, I felt pretty and desirable. This was the opposite of my date at Ack's house. If this is a date, my companion is admiring me. When I returned, TC was in the kitchen refilling her glass. “More vodka?” she yelled from the other room.

“No thanks, I'm good.”

“Yes, you are,” she said smiling, walking past me, grazing the length of my arm with an ice chip, which she then slid to her tongue before it melted. She posed me in the chair, gently but firmly touching my shoulders, maneuvering me into a few different positions that simulated glamour shots of 1930s and '40s.

After shooting for an hour, she put the camera down and said, “Ya hungry? Let's order Chinese. Ya like lo mein? Let's get lo mein!”

Before I could even utter a response, she'd speed-dialed the restaurant, barked her order, and hung up the phone.

“They know me. It's like having my own Chinese chef. They'll bring it soon.” TC lovingly carried her cameras into another room. She returned instantly, glared at the magazines, old mail, and other clutter on the coffee table. With the sweep of her arm, she shoved the piles of stuff onto the floor next to another heap, no doubt removed the same way. She pulled the coffee table in front of the couch that faced the fireplace. “Ya cold? Want a fire?” TC walked to the side door, grabbed two large logs, swiftly carried them back, knelt down, and lit a fire. As she stood up and brushed off her knees, the doorbell rang. “My magic chef—food's here!”

She opened the door, took the brown bags, and closed the door.

“Can I give you some money?” I offered.

“Nah, don't worry about it. I have an account. I settle up at the end of the month.” TC speedily carried the brown bag to the table, then spun on her heel, racing into the kitchen, instantly returning with various plates and utensils.

As she leaned in, I inhaled her delicate scent, freshly showered with a hint of lemon and ginger. Her strong, muscular arms danced gracefully as she orchestrated the table; aged, chipped fine china scavenged from garage sales, mismatched serving spoons, a roll of paper towels, and a coffee can brimming with chopsticks, three-tong forks, and other silverware orphans, clinging close to one another.

“You won't let me lift a finger,” I said.

“Please sit,” she said. “You are my guest, my lovely model.”

I felt catered to and cared for as I sat politely on the couch maneuvering a plate in front of me. TC sat on the floor facing the table. I gracefully slid off the couch to sit on the floor facing her. She dove into the brown bags, ripping them away from the white square cartons inside. Opening the lid of the first carton, she peeked in, then offered it to me, “My dear, please help yourself.”

Looking into her eyes before taking the carton from her hand, I was dazzled by her smiling eyes, clearly loving life and guzzling every moment of it, like the tall glass she was still gulping from.

TC opened a clear bag of egg rolls. “Try this,” she said, practically shoving the fried roll in my mouth. I took a bite and she smiled. “Good, huh? Not too greasy.”

Feeling like I was in the frat house of a college boy, I studied her as I ate. From the waist down, she had the slim legs and flat behind of a boy, with the broad shoulders and large breasts of a commanding matriarch. Her angelic, happy face was girlish and sexy. She was bossy and mannish; testosterone and tits. I guess that's kind of butch. I liked it. I leaned my head back against the couch, sipping the watery vodka, melting into the moment. If there was a romantic interlude tonight, just like the menu, I didn't think I'd be offered a choice. TC would orchestrate it. I'd just wait for the overture.

Chapter 22

Light My Fire

The fire was crackling and sparkling, subtly illuminating the room. As TC and I finished dinner, she suggested we move in front of it. She wriggled her legs from under the table, shifting to a place on the carpet a few feet from the fireplace, then patted the spot next to her for me to join her. I eagerly obeyed.

“Beautiful, everything tonight was so beautiful,” she mumbled, leaning into me, grazing my clavicle and shoulder with her finger, then nuzzling my neck. “My muse, I think I took some great pictures tonight.”

“It was fun posing, being the center of attention” I said, a little dazed by the vodka. Tense and excited by the moment, I thought of other things to say, but I was silent, feeling the heat of her body lean into me, her hard nipples rubbing through her shirt against my bare arm, warm breath on my neck and ear as her mouth snuck up on me with hot, electrifying kisses that melted my anxiety, taking me in, devouring me with her strength, power, and desire. I felt baptized by the heat of her passion. She caressed my breasts, teasing, then squeezing. If a man did this so soon, I'd be angry and turned off. But here it fueled my passion, dissolving my inhibitions.

I groped her breasts, harder than she'd touched mine. TC growled like a lion cub in my ear. Roughly yanking my hair, pulling me down to the floor, she climbed on top of me. I had flashes of thoughts of being with a man. If any guy behaved so animally gruff the instant he touched me for the very first time, I'd be anxious and frightened, or annoyed the way I was with Ack. I'd scoop myself up and leave if I could. But I was easing into this moment, trusting and loving the carnal heat—sizzling, yet safer than being with a man. As TC ground her pelvis into mine, I was electrified. She kissed me hard; I engulfed her mouth ravenously.

TC flipped over so I was on top of her now, both of us writhing in front of the fireplace. Kissing and touching for what seemed like hours, our bodies ablaze with yearning, skin moist with anticipation. I couldn't wait for her to drag me into the bedroom like some prehistoric caveman. Was TC the answer to my Fred Flintstone fantasy?

Suddenly, my senses were frozen by an acrid, burning smell. In my mindless moments of passion, I'd somehow kicked my rubber flip-flops off—and into the fireplace. The noxious odor of burning rubber wafted throughout the house. Our lips parted, awareness came to my brain. I flew off her voluptuous body and jumped to the fireplace in hopes of retrieving my shoes and saving us from a toxic meltdown. I stared into the flames, mesmerized by the color changes of melting plastic oozing over the logs. I felt stupid and careless, like a child who left her toys in the driveway, crushed and run over by a busy parent parking the car.

TC jumped up and retrieved my melted shoes from the fire and tossed them outside, then raced to open all the windows. It was as if a bucket of water had doused our heat as well. “It's been nice, but it's late. We'll catch a movie. I'll call you,” she said, ending the interlude, just like Ack.

Tired and dazed by the roller coaster of an evening, I mumbled, “Yeah, good.” I threw my bag over my shoulder and walked to the door, barefooted, a disoriented Cinderella. Like a teenage boy with blue balls, hormones raging, I felt I could punch my fist through a glass door and not feel any pain.

Twenty minutes later, I was home. After brushing my teeth, I checked my email. Jessica was missing me. Derrick was reconfiguring his work calendar for more Sara time. I've never had anyone reconfigure for me before. I was flattered by Jessica, but knew she was restless in her situation. I didn't want to get my hopes up that she could ever really be interested in me. Derrick was an online esteem booster. Both were too far away. Meanwhile, in my tactile immediate world, still heady from the ballistic TC experience, I moved to the bedroom to put fresh sheets on the bed. Holding a red pillowcase like a bullfighter's cape, shaking it to tease my imaginary bull, I said to myself out loud, “A relationship on fire—literally. Everything with TC feels larger than life, like opera, a different kind of opera than April's. The bull charges and I step into the ring. Am I a magnet for insane pussy?” I felt heady with confidence, buoyed by my virtual pursuits, so I laughed, like a giggly teen.