by K. B. Draper
“Oh, yeah. I saw her and Whitney loading camping equipment in their car last night. They said they were going on a road trip.”
My heart and libido sank.
Love is blind.
Apparently, so is like …
Lindsey October 1995–January 1996
Sheila nagged me for a week to go out with her to a bar. She’d been single for an entire month and had progressed to the fifth stage of the lesbian breakup grievance process. I was not nearly ready, nor did I have the energy to deal with drama at the lesbian bar, but I was relatively sure I could handle a beer somewhere besides my kitchen, my couch, my back porch, my front porch, or the neighbor’s bathtub (long story). Reluctantly, I agreed to go to a local dive bar and play pool. I’m not especially good at pool but it’s an activity that, at the level I play, is a mindless task. Exactly the type of task I desired at the time.
We were on our second game and third beer of the evening, which just so happens to be the exact amount of beer that decreases my pool skills from poor to pathetic, when Lindsey and her sidekick, Carmen, entered the bar. I’d never met Lindsey in person but her reputation had preceded her through the lesbian phone tree. I’d heard she was blond, attractive, feminine, new to the local lesbian chapter, and had been traveling the circuits with Carmen. Carmen, I knew. Carmen was an extremely nice, more-butch-than-not, lesbian type that all attractive lesbians attach themselves to and use for girlfriend-like duties; buying them dinner, driving, taking them to the bar, and putting up a tent. However, unfortunately for Carmen, that’s where, in most cases, the girlfriend-like duties ended.
Mildly distracted by their entrance, not that I would’ve made the shot otherwise, I missed an unobstructed straight shot four inches from the side pocket. I returned to my seat and took a long swig of my beer while watching Carmen and Lindsey order drinks at the bar. Carmen paid. Lindsey turned to do a visual sweep of the place. She turned toward me and our eyes caught for a second. I thought she was sweeping the bar for someone they were supposed to be meeting but she smiled directly at me. Without taking her eyes off me, she leaned over to Carmen and appeared to ask her a question. Carmen turned in my direction and nodded, handed Lindsey a beer, and they headed our way.
Sheila called my attention back to the game so I could watch her sink the eight ball in the far left pocket. I left my beer and my seat to begin the loser’s responsibilities of putting more quarters in the table and racking the balls. I have mastered these particular aspects of pool. I prolonged the racking process in an effort to avoid the inevitable meeting, since Carmen was now introducing Lindsey to Sheila. I knew as soon as I completed the pool game preparations I’d be next on the “hey, meet the single lesbian” list. I felt rather comfortable that I was the purpose of their across-the-bar trip. Not because Sheila wasn’t worth the trek, but because out of the corner of my eye Lindsey was looking at me while Carmen told Sheila all about her newest pseudo-girlfriend.
I released a resigned breath, figuring there were only so many ways to rack and re-rack fifteen balls within a wooden triangle. I walked over to the table and the company of Sheila, Carmen, Lindsey, and my much-needed beer. Carmen began her introduction, “This is Lindsey …” I quickly realized the lesbian gossip line had fallen short in listing Lindsey’s attributes. She was attractive and feminine, but what hadn’t been alluded to was the fact that Lindsey was very well endowed. Not in the triple D porno kind of way, but in a pleasant 100 percent womankind of way. I’ve never considered myself a “boob” girl, or for that matter a “leg” or a “butt” girl. I can appreciate all those aspects for sure, but I had recently acquired more of an attraction for sane, non-cheating lesbians who would actually use the words, “Good-bye, I’m leaving on a trip with my ex-girlfriend” when leaving for a trip with an ex-girlfriend.
After the introductions were complete, Sheila moved to perform her “winner” pool privilege of breaking. I was left to be sized up by Lindsey. In the time it took Sheila to have a three-ball shooting streak, Lindsey had successfully questioned me on my educational accomplishments, my place of employment, the position I held there, my current living situation, whether I owned or rented, and my current relationship status. I was about to give her my social security number and my last tax refund amount when I was saved by my turn at the pool table. I muttered a quick prayer to God, asking her to please let me make this shot so I wouldn’t look like a complete idiot in front of my new admirer. God was apparently busy at that particular moment and I missed the ball completely.
I’ve been embarrassed several times in my life. There was my high school senior trip to Washington, DC, where after several days on a bus, I’d celebrated being in a hotel room with an actual normal human-sized bathroom by making an unnaturally large deposit in the porcelain bank, which proceeded to stop up and then overflow on to the floor. I was rooming with three of my so-called “friends,” and they decided they would call all the guys over instead of calling housekeeping. So now in senior memory books everywhere, there are, along with photos of the Capitol, Arlington Cemetery, and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, photos of my infamous poop. Then there was the first night I was introduced to tequila; and everyone else in the bar was introduced to some nudity and an equally drunk fifty-something slapping my ass during my seventh “sexy” rendition of Boy George’s “Karma Chameleon.” So in relation to previous incidents, missing the cue ball entirely was a relatively minor embarrassing event. But at that particular moment, it was huge.
Lindsey had silently assessed my pool skills and innocently offered to assist me with my next shot. My embarrassment was quickly replaced by a little ping of sexual excitement. I got a quick flash of cheesy movie scenes that show the soon-to-be-lovers, where the guy moves in behind the athletically challenged woman to teach her the “proper way” to swing a golf club, or the follow-through of the tennis racket, or the proper hand positioning on a baseball bat. The movie ends with Lindsey moving in behind me and placing me in the correct pool stick position. I make the shot, causing her to want to have crazy hot sex with me, and then we have 2.5 kids and live happily ever after.
Fortunately, my missing the cue ball left Sheila with a difficult shot. She missed and I did an internal cheer. With pool stick in hand, I jumped off my bar stool a tad too eager to begin my fantasy pool lesson. Lindsey circled the table looking for the best shot. She selected the five ball in the far-left pocket. I lined up the shot in anticipation of her rounding the table and positioning herself behind me, when instead she just simply stood behind the hole and leaned over. It was then that I developed a new appreciation for low cut, V-neck sweaters. She ran her finger down between her breasts and smoothly said, “Now, just aim the ball right here.” And now I have a new appreciation for women’s breasts. I never truly realized how practical they could be—I mean other than for that whole breastfeeding thing.
Sheila put the quarters in the machine and racked the balls for the next game.
In typical lesbian style, from the pool night forward Lindsey and I were in full instant-lesbo relationship mode. I don’t remember rejecting, but I also don’t remember accepting; it just was. She slowly worked her way into my life, calling during work and asking about the evening’s plans, calling at night asking about the next day’s plans. All in all, it was working out okay. The just-add-a-lesbian relationship limited the time that I obsessed about the abrupt disappearance of Loren.
After a few weeks of going on this way, Lindsey called me before I left work, as was our routine. She invited me to a homemade dinner and asked me how my day was going. I gave her the details of the long day investigating mailbox vandals. Twenty-seven mailboxes had fallen victim to the bats of some bored teenagers. That day I’d been the victim of five very long conversations with five different sets of parents, who all said, “My son would never do that,” so Lindsey’s invitation sounded refreshing. I finished my twenty-seventh report and headed home to catch a shower. I realized this would be the first time Lindsey, me
, and a bed would be in the same immediate proximity and figured I’d, you know, just in case, better wear my good underwear.
After dinner I was sitting on the floor picking out a CD per Lindsey’s request when she slid behind me. Now I get a pool lesson? I felt her smooth legs wrap around my waist. Okay, probably nothing to do with pool. Sometime between the dishes and the current song selection, Lindsey had gone from jeans and shirt to red lingerie. I’d never seen a woman in lingerie before, other than my sneak peeks of the Playboy magazine my dad sometimes left in the bathroom when I was younger. I will straight out confess I wasn’t reading the Playboy articles. I was looking at the centerfolds and the cartoons. For some weird reason I liked the cartoons a lot. But what was even weirder was that I was thinking about cartoon porn while Lindsey was in lingerie and her legs were wrapped around my waist. Note to self: Consider therapy … tomorrow.
I discovered quickly that I find it very arousing to have a woman wrapped around me, head on my shoulder, and arms slowly caressing my stomach, my chest, and my breasts. My eyes closed involuntarily, allowing my other senses to enjoy the sound of her breathing, the smell of her perfume, and the feel of her body against my back.
After a long moment, Lindsey moved to my ear and whispered, “Let’s go to my bedroom.”
At that moment I found that I liked, really liked, a woman in lingerie whispering in my ear. We stood and she took me by the hand, leading me to her bedroom. I quickly discovered that I also liked following a woman in lingerie. Lindsey slid back on the bed. Second note to self: Centerfolds and cartoons DO NOT compare to “in the flesh” women in lingerie.
I had a suspicion that I was going to quickly develop a rather unhealthy obsession for women in lingerie. Lindsey moved, causing the lingerie to reveal more of her naked thigh. Could there even be such a thing as an unhealthy obsession for lingerie? I guess if you stole women’s lingerie, put it in your pillowcase, and randomly brought it out to sniff; especially if it was your great-aunt Marie’s lingerie or if you dressed your cat in it and called her Auntie M. That would be unhealthy. Quick sanity check—nope those options do not appeal to me and I don’t have an aunt, great or otherwise, named Marie so I think I’m still in the healthy obsession range.
I stood for a minute to admire her. She was attractive in a completely feminine way: long blond hair, long eyelashes, red lipstick-covered lips, soft skin, ample but perfect cleavage exposed from the red silk, smooth legs leading to perfectly matched painted toenails. I smiled at her, she smiled back, and I slowly slid my body up between her legs until my lips met hers. Our kisses were soon complemented with the rhythmic movement that bodies seem to naturally take on as passion builds between two lovers. I pulled my lips from hers, wanting to kiss and taste the rest of her, moving my mouth to her neck and kissing slowly from her ear to her neck and then down her shoulder. My hands discovered the curves of her breasts. She clenched and held onto my shirt so that as I moved down her body it was pulled over my head. A new wave of excitement and desire washed over me as my breasts met her silk-covered nipples. My only thought was that I wanted to be inside her. I fought my desire and took my time enjoying the feel of her as I moved slowly down her body. With my fingertips, I made a slow deliberate caress down her side, across her stomach, and from her hip to her bare thigh. I slid my hand under and moved the red silk to expose a matching red thong. Third note to self: Real-life women in lingerie are WAY better than centerfolds and cartoons.
I kissed her stomach as I ran my fingers underneath the silk straps at her hips. Lindsey’s breath quickened as she arched and moved her hips. I moved so my lips kissed her hips as I slowly slid her thong down her thighs. Oh my God! She had a blond chia pet in her thong; a CH-CH- CH-chia pussy. Okay, don’t panic. Stall. Tease. Go back up to the hip. Oh my God, it’s tickling my chest. Think of an excuse, think of an excuse! I can say my TMJ is acting up from all the chewing I did at dinner or the arthritis in my fingers is flaring up because it must be going to rain. Stupid. What am I going to do? I’d just found a major downfall of being a lesbian: Women can’t fake impotence! Okay, just don’t think about it. And by “it” I mean the blond 1970s afro hiding in her thong. Oh God, I’m evil. Stop it. It’s natural, ALL natural. Just do what you need to do. I summoned all my woman-pleasing skills, ensured a quick but satisfactory job, and lay back on the bed thinking I had just tactfully avoided a major disaster.
Now, how am I going to break up with her? “Lindsey, I need to talk to you …” I started.
“No talking,” she interrupted.
No talking? How can you break up with someone when there’s no talking? I wished I’d paid more attention in sign language class. About that time, I felt her slide on top of me. She began kissing my neck. Okay, maybe we could talk about breaking up tomorrow. I closed my eyes to enjoy the moment, only for them to shoot open a few seconds later. Whoooaaahhh! Wait. Nope. What was that? That better have been an accidental finger slip! I knew she hadn’t just touched my pooper. Oh God, she did … SHE WAS … Seriously! Oh God, what was I going to do? Abort! Abort! Pull her up! Pull her up!
The next morning, I went through my mental Rolodex to find a friend with whom I’d be comfortable sharing my traumatic experience. I selected my straight friend Stacy, not to be confused with ex-girlfriend Stacy, who I would absolutely not share my bunghole exploration drama with. I figured since Straight Stacy was married to a guy, she could totally relate to traumatic sexual experiences.
“Oh man, this is going to be good. What’s wrong?” Straight Stacy asked immediately upon seeing my face.
“Lindsey and I had sex last night.”
Eyes now alight with curiosity, Straight Stacy quickly questioned, “And? You’d think you would be happy about this new development.”
“Yeah, I was until Lindsey threw in a little surprise.”
“Lindsey has a penis! I knew she was a drag queen. I always thought there was something off with her.”
“No, she doesn’t have a penis!” I quickly snapped. Of course, I guess there could’ve been one hidden in there somewhere. “No! It’s worse!”
“Oh man, does she have one of those crazy big labias? I’ve seen some in magazines. They hang down-”
“No, she doesn’t have a big …” I guess there could’ve been one of those hidden in there somewhere too. “No, she doesn’t. She has …” I trailed off as I quickly realized I didn’t know the grooming habits of my friends. Deciding to chance it, I continued. “She’s well, she doesn’t …”
“Oh my God! What?” Straight Stacy yelled impatiently.
“Okay, well. I was you know, going there …” I said, adding a few directional hand gestures, “… and it all just jumped out at me like a Jack-in-the-Box … made of fuzzy blond hair.”
After a solid minute of laughing, Straight Stacy finally took a deep breath.
“I’m glad you find my suffering so amusing.”
“So she has a little trimming problem. Can you not give her a little hint or something?” she giggled.
“Oh, sure. I’ll go buy her a Lady Gillette and say I thought of you when I saw this.” I paused while I contemplated divulging any more of my disturbing sexcapades. Screw it. “But that’s not all that happened.”
“There’s something else?” she asked with just a little too much excitement in her voice.
I glared at her. “First, you have to stop laughing.”
“Sorry.” She took a deep laugh-suppressing breath, giggled, and then took another one. “Okay, I’m good. What happened?”
“She touched my pooper.”
Laughter trickling back into her voice, she snorted, doubled over, breathed, righted herself, and replied. “Well, that happens sometimes. Things can slip.
“Nooo … She touched it and swirled.”
I left Straight Stacy laughing at the table.
I’d successfully avoided being alone with Lindsey for the last several days but we’d previously made plans to go to a local bar to see an all-
girl band, so I picked her up at her apartment. We met two of my friends, Dawn and Carla, who I begged to go with me so I wouldn’t be alone with the butthole swirly machine. We were having a good time until the band took a break, and the guitar player, the very hot guitar player, made her way to our table. She looked at me and asked if I had a light. Damn it, why don’t I smoke? Oh yeah, the cancer thing. I really need to reconsider my priorities.
“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” I replied as Lindsey moved closer to me and put her hand on my thigh.
“That’s okay. You guys enjoying the show?” she asked as she made a quick review of the table and then looked back at me.
“It’s great,” I said as Lindsey dug her nails into my thigh. I turned to her. “What?”
She didn’t answer, but gave the table an innocent grin. The guitar player, sensing a little tension, nodded, smiled, and then exited stage left. Nice.
Lindsey interrupted my little daydream of what could’ve happened if I’d had a light and no date, by asking for the keys to my car.
“Why do you need my keys?”
“Can I just have your keys, PLEASE?” she demanded.
I handed her my keys, a bit frightened at the quick glimpse of crazy I’d just seen in her eyes. Maybe she just needed to go out and repaint her nails after leaving paint chips in my leg.
“Five dollars she takes your car,” Carla said.
“Oh yeah, she’s gone,” Dawn agreed. “You totally should’ve taken your house key off the ring first.”
At the end of the night, Lindsey hadn’t returned so I decided to pass by the folding table of band merch, wondering if a shirt or CD would be enough of a bribe to get my car back. I’d just paid for a CD and turned to find Dawn and Carla, who were my new ride home, when the guitar player stepped up beside me.