The Last Place She'd Look (6 page)

“Isn't this illegal?” I asked, thrilled to be pleasured anonymously. Though I'd never think of procuring a “happy ending” myself, I was delighted she had orchestrated my full-body birthday pleasure event.

“Anybody can be bought for cash under the table,” Lila explained. “I do it all the time for my clients.”

“You really are thoughtful.” I hugged her. “Thank you. That was more memorable than a Target gift card.”

“Found your target, didn't we?” Lila said, chuckling.

“Bull's eye,” I blushed. “It was great. At first I didn't know what to think.”

“The key to sexual pleasure is not thinking,” she said. “And knowing what you want. What is it for you, Sara?”

I was silent. What were my sexual wants? I always saw sex in the context of a relationship—and since that had been elusive, sex had been on the back burner for so long, I forgot how to “cook.” My face saddened searching for a memory to reflect on.

“Don't think about it too much. I ordered you a chicken Caesar and a cranberry juice,” Lila said. After lunch, we headed to our lounge chairs for more trashy reading, a glorious nap, and then back in the mineral pool. “Are you having a good time?”

“That was really memorable. And nobody had to buy anyone dinner,” I said smiling, still tingling and re-running the event through my mind.

“Sex with a partner was so last century for me,” Lila tossed off, a sense of nostalgia to her aside. “You should be open to new experiences,” she suggested gently. “I think the older we get, the less available men there are, the more it makes sense to consider the company of women. Even Margaret Mead said that as women live longer, it's an anthropological evolution to be with another woman. And she had a few husbands. The friendship of women grows deeper as we mature. If it turns sexual, there's more tenderness and compassion than fumbling around with some old man attached to a limp dick.”

“Enough. You refuse to ever mention your husband. What is he, a hit man? How is he?” I asked.

“Far away, in Florida, the man boob and draggy ass capital of America. He's out of sight and out of mind, only calls when he needs something. He's not going anywhere—that's my problem. I'm too lazy to get a divorce. I see my horse's ass of a husband for holidays. We're buddies now, that's all. So, I have an excuse not to date, a poor excuse, one I send a monthly check to.” We chuckled.

“Well, there's the company of women, which we both like,” I explained. “And there's keeping company with women, touching another woman's body?”

Lila said, “It's been so long since I've been touched. I barely remember what it feels like to be kissed, to know the softness of someone's mouth on mine, or even their lips on a shoulder, let alone anywhere down south.”

In this moment, I wanted to hold Lila, caress and console her, be the warm body to comfort her. I was certain any gesture like that from me would be fiercely rejected. Being a caring friend and being a lover was a boundary that seemed uncrossable. Whenever I was with Lila, I wondered momentarily about that leap because I thought there was a scent of sexual tension between us.

“We've both been married. We are straight,” I said, tentatively. “The men I meet tell me we have no chemistry. What they mean is that I don't make their dicks hard. At their age, no one makes their dicks hard, but they blame us. Without a little blue pill, most mid-life men are limp noodles. The main reason men get married is because they can only hold their farts in for so long,” I laughed. “Men who are hot to marry women our age are ready for adult diapers. During foreplay, instead of moaning 'Oh baby,' I'll moan, 'Grampa, still breathing?'” Feeling sad, I added, “Yet, I want to find someone…”

“After last night's group hug about your love life, I thought you wanted to take things easier. New birthday, new beginnings. The very things we were afraid of and running from all these years might offer great comfort and joy when we least expect it.”

“I'd like to lose some of my cynicism—or at least believe it's not too late to be happy. I have one last bit of hope left,” I added, walking back to dunk in another pool.

“That's a good wish. That's my wish for myself. May I share it with you?” Lila asked, while adjusting the straps of her suit. We each found a spot in the mineral pool.

“Sure. I want to believe that at our age, if we fall in love, we won't break a hip,” I joked. Was my wish realistic or a dream? Last night I agreed to just let life surprise me—could I do it?

“Today is about celebration—birthday, joy, and beauty. So lighten up!” she said.

“At 16, I could enter a room and everyone looked at me,” I remembered aloud.

Lila splashed me with warm water and said, “Honey, if you want to go into the way-back machine, I was at Woodstock, shirtless, boobs bouncing in the breeze, listening to Janis Joplin. I was from the peace and love crowd, the free love generation! Now I can't give it away.”

“I stopped dating bald men,” I said triumphantly. “I liked going to the movies with them because if I needed to pee in the middle of the film, I'd always find my way back. I just used their head as a row marker.”

“Age has a cruel sense of humor,” Lila said. “My boobs are racing so fast to my knees, my bra needs a speedometer.”

Chapter 6

Out-Night Girls

With less than a half century left, I wanted to cram a lot of living and loving in before I was in desperate need of a walker and/or my only companion was a home health aide.

Still recuperating from the Ack debacle and the close encounter with Molly the relationship counselor, I was having a restless, lazy Saturday, so I called Beth. She always had boundless energy—enough to lead a double life as a married bisexual, making it look effortless and highly desirable. I'd have to get one fully baked life before I could even consider a second.

Beth was free for dinner, so I threw on sneakers and a jacket and ran out the door to meet her at the Burbank mall. As soon as I parked near our designated spot by the muffler repair shop, I saw her dirty forest green minivan, fingerprinted windows and all. She honked and I ran for the passenger door.

Before I could buckle my seat belt, I blurted, “I have so much to tell you.”

Beth kissed my cheek and giggled, “Careful, we're not alone.”

I looked in the back of the van—and there sat Adam, Beth's teenaged son; his girlfriend Jane; Ricky, the drummer of their band; Fred, the guitarist; and all of their instruments. My eyes widened with surprise as everyone laughed.

“You forget I'm a mom,” Beth said, laughing, driving, drinking soda, and brushing the bangs out of her eyes. “I'm taking the band to their sound check for tonight's show. I thought we'd hang for a while, listen to a few songs, and then go off on our own.” She winked slyly.

“You're the mom. The mom with the most-est,” I said.

“She's a cool rock 'n' roll mom,” Jane exclaimed. The band nodded in agreement.

Beth and I helped the kids unload their instruments. We all marched into the dimly lit bar; the kids made a beeline for the stage. I watched the boys unwrap cords and connect guitars to amplifiers. As we watched the band set up, I reminisced, “Beth, I remember reading stories to Adam and we sang songs while he beat a pot with a wooden spoon.”

“Now he has a girlfriend who sleeps over,” Beth replied as she got us each a beer. “I'm a mom to teenagers. Sometimes I can't believe my life.”

“I know. Sometimes I can't believe your life either.”

We listened to the band rehearse two songs, finished our beers, said our goodbyes, and were back in the minivan.

“Now I'll take you to the kind of bar I like,” said Beth, switching on the ignition. As the sun set, we arrived at a small, boxy building that could have been anything. The parking lot was half full. Beth smiled as she locked the car and put her arm around me. We walked to the club, and Beth held the door open for me. “Welcome to my world!”

It looked like any bar I'd been to— loud music, people talking, laughing, and drinking. Only here, everywhere I looked, I saw women—just women, every age, shape, and size. Sure, a few had short hair and looked kind of unfeminine, but many were breathtakingly beautiful with long hair and centerfold-worthy bodies.

“Here, I got you a beer. Let me show you around.” Beth winked, taking my arm. I was a tourist in her side-life, and she was guiding me through her favorite sights. I could tell she relished the surprise on my face—and I must have looked like a visitor to a foreign country, marveling at the attractions. As much as I heard Beth talk about this part of her life, I'd never been to the places she hung out or met the women she knew, until now. “Here's the dance floor. There are the pool tables,” she pointed, sipping, smiling. “I love it here, my home away … from the boys.”

I'd never seen Beth so happy. Her eyes darted to every woman within her view. “Beth, this is definitely … something,” I said. We clinked bottles.

“You can't find the words, but you will,” she laughed. “I see someone I know. Come with me and say hello.”

I took a hard swallow of my beer and followed Beth. She hugged a woman named Theresa, an accountant at a construction company. I shook her hand. Theresa had a strong handshake—and a winning smile. The two began an animated conversation. I felt like a third wheel in a private moment, so I excused myself to the ladies room. In there, two women were kissing while another woman reapplied her lipstick and combed her hair. “There's every kind of woman here,” I thought to myself. “Maybe I'll see someone for me.”

The club was more crowded now, so it was difficult to get the bartender's attention. I leaned in between two women sitting at the bar, but I was still ignored.

“What are you drinking?” asked the woman on the stool to my right. She was dressed all in black, had waist-length blonde hair, and resembled Joni Mitchell in her
Ladies of the Canyon
days.

“Amstel Light.”

“Debra, two Amstel Lights,” she said, getting the bartender's attention immediately. Before I could say anything, Debra swiftly delivered the two beers. I reached for my pocket. “No, honey. This one's on me,” she told me, with a mere nod of her head to Debra indicating to put it on her tab.

“Wow, thank you,” I said, studying the woman's pretty face. “I'm Sara.” “I'm Corinne.” She clinked my bottle with hers. “I live three blocks away,” Corinne said, now studying my face. “And you?”

“I'm here with my friend Beth.” I broke her gaze to look around the room. I saw Beth dancing with Theresa. “Beth's over there,” I said, pointing to the dance floor.

“Wanna dance?” Corinne asked, standing and taking my hand. I tried to act as if this was something I always did. I took two hard swallows of beer and followed Corinne to the dance floor. Beth caught my eye and nodded approvingly. The music was easy dancing disco tunes, Michael Jackson from Off the Wall, then Donna Summer's Last Dance. I moved to the music, holding my beer—and Corinne's gaze. I gulped more beer between each song — not because I was thirsty; I needed to ease the heat in the room. I was a nervous stranger in a strange land. I stared at the bartender, wondering if she could tell I was a “newbie”, some woman otherwise out of her element. Would I be found out and asked to leave?

Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing—a slow song—began to play. Corinne took the bottle from my hand and placed it on a counter. With her other hand, she encircled my waist, gently placing her hand on my back. After about a minute of dancing, she slowly drew me closer. I fidgeted a bit, trying to keep rhythm with the music, anxious that a beautiful woman wanted to hold me tight and flirt with me. Corinne nuzzled my neck. I felt her heated breath near my ear and smelled her freshly shampooed hair. My heart pounded with excitement and uncertainty. My head and neck broke out in a sweat. The music now sounded like garbled voices underwater. Was I afraid or aroused? Or both? I didn't remember this song having such a drum beat —oh wait—that was my heart pounding. Could she feel it? Attraction or fear? Or fear of attraction?

When the song ended, I asked to go back to the bar for some ice water. Corinne got it for me in seconds, and two more beers as well. We talked and drank, sitting on side-by-side bar stools. This all seemed surreal, worlds away from any moment in my real life. It was a play, a theater piece in a dark bar, and I was a character, a nervous virgin far from home.

Corinne stroked my hair. My arms twitched like a marionette whose strings were pulled too quickly. Stroking her hair, I took a long breath and then complimented her long golden mane. The moment felt terrifyingly tense, weirdly unfamiliar, yet happy. It was warmer and more caring than recent dating experiences; I was eager and open to see where this would lead. I decided, if I copied everything she did, like a mirroring exercise in acting class, I'd be fine. She wouldn't know I'd never done this before.

I saw Beth at the other side of the bar with Theresa and another woman. Our eyes met. She toasted me with her bottle. Corinne ordered two more beers, still refusing to let me pay. By now, I'd had more beers than usual and had lost count. The room was getting hotter and more crowded as it filled to capacity, brimming with women. I wiped the sweat from my brow, embarrassed to be visibly heating up. I held the chilled beer bottle to my temple for some relief.

“I don't want you passing out. Let's go to the back garden,” said Corinne. She tilted her head, using the same gesture she used to get the bartender's attention. Fresh air in the breezy black night cooled me down immediately. There were women whispering, smoking, and getting cozy together. I cooled myself off more with the beer, first holding the bottle to my neck, then drinking it down like water.

She took her bottle and held it to the back of my neck, leaned in, and grazed my cheek with her lips. As electricity raced down my spine, the rest of me felt numb. In this moment, realizing I was drunk, she kissed my mouth. I kissed her in return. Corinne's passionate lips were now exploring my mouth and tongue as her breasts pressed up against mine. It was a first kiss that seemed intuitive and more thoughtful than a man's lips would feel.