by K. B. Draper
We found Stacy and OCSG making out in the middle of the dance floor. Puke. I turned to the bar to get my five bucks worth of beer and rinse the bile taste from my mouth. The space was packed. I weaved my way to the bar trying to strategically avoid contact, eye or otherwise, with any women. With my plastic cup filled, I headed back to where I left my friends and OCSG. OCSG and Stacy were doing that slow, grinding, interpretive dance that said they were still in the first stage of their relationship, the stage where they still like each other and are having a lot of sex. Puke again. I downed my beer and headed back to the bar. This was going to be a long night. To avoid the freak show that Stacy and OCSG were providing, I focused my attention on the stage.
I watched Tina, Cher, Celine, and someone who looked a lot like Sylvester Stallone in a dress than any singer I could identify. They danced, swirled, and made moves supposed to be identified as feminine even though I, a female, have never performed them. Which okay doesn’t mean a whole lot. Honestly, I’ve never seen any biological woman throw her head, flip her hair, or move her hands in the same manner. I watched, transfixed, fighting a growing attraction to Sylvester. A voice from next to me took me out of my trance and potentially saved me from hundreds of dollars of therapy.
“Hey,” is all the much-cuter-than-Sylvester blonde said.
I looked around to see who she was addressing. No one responded to her. I turned back to her and she was looking straight at me.
“Hey.”
She stood an inch or so taller than me, with blue eyes that seemed “up to something.” Her blond hair was styled in a cool, spiky, yet feminine cut that mine would never agree to do. I gauged that she was younger than me, mid-twenties. She smirked rather than smiled. Yep, definitely up to something. Ahhh … Damn.
A happy dark-haired woman bounced up next to my new attractive neighbor with the biggest, friendliest smile I’d ever seen. I liked her immediately. She handed the blonde a plastic cup. Obviously, it had been her turn to get the refills. Girlfriend?
“I’m Abby. This is Jamie but I call her Dupee,” she said.
Nope, not a girlfriend. No girl would ever call her girlfriend Dupee. That’s definitely a best friend name. Damn again.
“Hey,” I said as I watched my willpower dance off with my vow of solitude to “I’m Every Woman.”
What was I doing? I couldn’t just abandon my vow of solitude, my hiatus from women, my healing time, my period of reflection for the first cute blonde I meet in a men’s gay bar.
We—as in Abby, Jamie, and I—talked, joked, and danced the rest of the evening. At the end of the night Abby gave me her phone number and told me to call her. I slipped it in my pocket figuring I probably wouldn’t call, but reveled in the fact that there’s nothing like a five-dollar beer bust and a younger woman hitting on you to bring one out of a funk.
Two days later I stepped into my closet, and a rancid smell invaded my nose. Holding my breath, I began searching for the culprit. I kicked a pile of clothes as I took a quick life-sustaining breath, which unfortunately sent a second wave of stink attack up my nostrils. The assault’s toxic scent did, however, afford me enough of a whiff to identify the smells of cheap keg beer, stale cigarette smoke, and dirty funk ... BAR CLOTHES! Feverishly I dug through the pile of dirty clothes to find the shirt and jeans I wore to the beer bust. Once identified, I grabbed them and sprinted downstairs. Someone should really invent a line of one-time wear-and-dispose bar clothes. I threw the contaminated clothes in the washing machine, then grabbed the jeans back out to check the back pockets for that elusive twenty-dollar bill you never seem to find, even though you’d swear “you didn’t spend that much” during your drunken night out. There was no twenty, which I found really suspicious since it was a five-dollar-all-you-can-drink beer bust. I eyed a salsa stain on the leg of my jeans. Late-night Taco Bell run, a necessary evil after cheap keg beer. I checked the front pockets out of habit and pulled out a bar napkin with Abby’s name and number on it. Ahhh … yes, Abby, the young, cute blonde. I threw the jeans back in the washer and poured in double the recommended amount of detergent.
I considered calling the phone number on the napkin. I checked my heart. Well, it was still beating and seemingly strong enough to pump blood throughout my body so what could a little date really do to it? I called her. After a short conversation, we decided to grab lunch and agreed on a time and place for the next day.
I arrived, parked, and crawled out of my car. I saw Abby sitting in the passenger seat of the neighboring vehicle. Odd, I thought. I was under the influence of cheap alcohol when I met her and had recognized she was young, but I felt relatively sure she was old enough for a driver’s license. Jamie leaned forward from the driver’s seat with a big wave and smile. So Abby’s young, she can’t drive, and it appears her parents won’t let her go out without a chaperone. But what I found the most odd was that I didn’t mind. I liked Jamie and actually figured that Jamie and I would have more in common. But sadly my physical attraction was for the blonde. So I found myself glad to see Jamie and glad she had accompanied Abby on our first little mini-date.
It was fun. We talked about nothing and laughed about everything. I didn’t know if an intimate relationship would develop between Abby and me, but I did believe she’d be fun to be around. On the other hand, I was sure I wanted to hang out with Jamie. From the second she bounced up to me at the bar I’d found her amusing and big-hearted and I couldn’t help but smile when I was around her.
The next weekend either Abby’s parents were out of town or she had gained approval to go out with me without a chaperone because we made plans to go out, just the two of us, to dinner and a movie. I was actually a little nervous to go on a date with Abby without Jamie. I was worried that Abby and I would just stare at each other over dinner because Jamie added a significant amount of cohesion between us. Nevertheless, I arrived at Abby’s apartment in the neighboring town where she attended college. Unless she was some Doogie Howser type, I was reassured she was of legal age.
I knocked on her door and she answered immediately. She was flippin’ cute. She invited me in for a pre-date beer. Her living room was decorated in the standard college motif of beer signs, a well-worn couch, and mismatched furniture holding up a lamp, a TV, and a mound of textbooks. A style I didn’t want to admit I’d left behind nearly TEN years earlier. I took a long swig of my beer while I quickly tried to calculate our age difference. I was guessing that when Abby was wearing diapers I was wearing knickers. And sadly I’m not talking about the cute English term for girl’s underwear. In fifth grade I’d shamelessly conformed to the brief fad of wearing knee-length pants with argyle socks pulled up over my kneecaps like I was in an elementary school for Scottish golfers. Abby was still sucking on a bottle when I was wearing a training bra, not out of need but because all my friends were wearing them. Abby was teething and I was already falling victim to peer pressure, hence the bra and the knickers. Abby started eating solid food and I had devoted my love to Tim by writing TIM = TLA (True Love Always) on my Evel Knievel notebook. I had also joined band class to be with my TLA, who played the trombone, only to find out that I hated it, that I had no musical ability, and that all the brass instrument players cleared their built-up spit onto the band room floor. So TLA should have been more accurately TLUYFOHSAL (True Love Until You Find Out He Salivates A Lot!).
With an age difference that significant, there was no way this was going to work out. I turned to tell her so, but she was smiling at me. Okay, maybe it could. I leaned over to give her a kiss and then eyed a guitar in the corner.
“You don’t happen to play the trombone too, do you?” I asked quickly while scanning her floor. It appeared dry.
“No. Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“Just curious. You ready to go eat?” I asked.
For the next several weeks, Abby, Jamie, and I went to little bars, grabbed dinner, and just hung out, often finding ourselves out on my porch with Abby and her guitar. She was a self
-taught musician with an amazing ability to hear a song and play it with little to no trouble and with little to no saliva. She was amazing, cute, intelligent, feisty, and strong-willed with an “I’m not going to let you in” demeanor. But I didn’t mind because I happened to like all those characteristics in a person and I had my own self-protecting devices in play.
Abby and I quickly found a relationship that worked for both of us. She gave me shit about being old; I smiled and ignored her. She’d want some Abby time and I’d give it to her. She’d want to go out and have fun and I would accompany her. She’d want to have sex and I would oblige.
After one particular drunken escapade, we decided to go through the drive-thru of Taco Bell. After we ordered, she decided to turn the discussion from bean burritos and Nachos Supremes to sex. I wasn’t particularly surprised by this transition because Abby often jumped from normal topics to conversations meant to throw you off.
“Do you think you know where my G-spot is?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said confidently and without hesitation.
“I think you might know the general area but sometimes you take a while to find it.”
“That’s what one would call foreplay,” I replied, taking a nacho.
“Hmmm …”
I raised an eyebrow at her. I am physically unable to ignore a challenge, a bet, or a dare especially a double dog one. This was evident at an early age when my mother, standing in her garden, bet me I couldn’t outrun a rotten tomato. I accepted her challenge for two reasons—I had to and my mom throws like a girl. Turns out, I can’t outrun rotten tomatoes, despite my mom’s limp wrist throwing technique. Also turns out that I can’t outrun rotten eggs either, but that’s an Easter story for another day. I had a lot more interesting challenge in front of me now.
“I can give you an orgasm in under five minutes and that’s including the time it takes me to take your clothes off,” I replied.
“Whatever,” she laughed.
Exactly four minutes and twenty-seven seconds after she took her last bite of bean burrito, she was convinced I was very proficient in vaginal navigation and G-spot location.
A week after I submitted my “give your girlfriend an orgasm time” to the Guinness Book of World Records, I decided that Abby and I needed to have a romantic weekend together. Romantic wasn’t really Abby’s and my thing (it was more like a hangout and have sex thing), but I thought we should give it a try. I found a cute bed-and-breakfast-type place with little individual cabins that were advertised as intimate and cozy, with a Jacuzzi in every room. Thoughts of being intimate and cozy in the Jacuzzi played through my mind so I booked us a room.
We walked the quaint, quiet little town until we came across a scooter rental place. Both our eyes lit up, and for the next hour we chased each other through the winding streets of the once peaceful town. We then found a place to have a beer and some lunch. As we walked out of the restaurant, I was eager to get back to the Jacuzzi, but Abby noticed a billboard with photos pasted all over it. We walked closer. The photos were of dogs and cats that were current residents of the Humane Society. We scanned the photos, giving the appropriate “Aww,” “She’s cute,” and “poor puppy,” comments as we glanced at each one, until Abby gave the very inappropriate “Uhh, I WANT HIM” comment when we reached the photo labeled “Very Cute, three-legged black kitten.” I took one look at her and knew my dreams and hopes for the intimate, cozy Jacuzzi soiree were a thing of the past.
Two hours later, we were spending our romantic getaway in the pet aisle of Wal-Mart picking up bowls, food, a collar, fuzzy cat toys, and a litter box. An hour after that, I sat in the Jacuzzi and sipped on my glass of wine while Abby and the kitten sat on the floor playing chase the toy ball.
“What should I name him?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Mood Killer? “I don’t know. It’ll come to you.”
The kitten climbed, ran, and darted right and left all over the room. Missing a leg didn’t seem to hinder his playing, jumping, or running abilities in the least. He was cute and Abby was even cuter playing with him. Romantic weekend or not, she was happy so I continued to sit in the Jacuzzi, sip my wine, and watch Abby as she played with her new three-legged companion, appropriately named Ziggy.
Abby went home for a week over Christmas break. During that week I realized I was dating a girl who still went home over Christmas break. I also began weighing the pros and cons of dating a younger person. Cons: You couldn’t talk about the original Charlie’s Angels because they thought that was Cameron, Drew, and Lucy. At the bar the doorman doesn’t give you a second glance, but cards your date. They don’t take naps or go to bed before one a.m. And they change your radio station every time they get into your car.
The Pros: Sex and … then there’s sex.
When Abby returned from break, she came over to see me. As soon as we made eye contact, we both knew it was over. There was no big drawn-out “how could you do this to me?” conversation. No blame. We both knew it had just run its course.
“Want to exchange Christmas gifts?” I asked.
“Definitely!” she replied with a big smile.
She got me a video game and a hummingbird feeder. Pros of dating a younger person: Fun random gifts.
After two hours of playing the video game, she stood to leave. We hugged and she walked out of my door and my life. Con to dating someone younger: They will always thoroughly and mercilessly beat you at video games.
Love makes you crazy.
Or sometimes it’s just them …
Kellie May 2003–February 2005
I glanced around the coffee shop looking for something small, solid, and sharp to stab into my ears. God, where was a knitting club when you need them? Misty, or as I called her in my internal voice The Grinder, was preaching again. “The Grinder” was the nickname I’d given her not because of her coffee-making skills, or that she spent every waking minute in a coffee shop, or because she made me want to grind sharp metal stakes into my ear drums, but because in the short week we’d been hanging out we were on our fourteenth conversation about the negative social economic impact of Wal-Mart on small town America.
I’d selected “The Grinder” nickname because two nights ago, while watching some lame documentary, she had climbed on top of me and begun grinding. And grinding. And grinding. Since that had done nothing for me sexually and because I have a slight case of ADD, by the hundred and twelfth gyration I’d mentally checked out and moved on to something more engaging like making up nicknames. The Grinder prevailed over The Gyrotron, The Swirl-n-ator, and The Les-bo-circle, being that the last three sounded like fun carnival rides and there had been nothing fun associated with the aforementioned activity.
I was debating the kindest way to tell The Grinder about the negative social impact she was having on my life, when a tall, attractive girl bounced into the coffee shop and sat down at our table.
“Hey, Kellie,” The Grinder said as my social impact was beginning to immensely improve its current state of being. “This is Kellie. Kellie and I went to college together.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, reaching over the table to shake her hand, happy that the Wal-Mart conversation was interrupted, and especially happy that it was interrupted by such an attractive diversion.
The Grinder and Kellie obviously hadn’t remained close after college because for the next hour Kellie talked about all she’d been doing the last few years. I think The Grinder might have talked about some things too, but I hadn’t paid attention because I was completely and totally hypnotized by Kellie and her animated stories, complete with face and hand reenactments. She was funny, full of energy, and free-spirited. I found myself envious of the life she’d been living. Where I had bought a house and started a career immediately after college, she talked about moving to Louisiana for a theater school, traveling, seeing New York shows, and taking a migrant job husking corn for a whole summer, where she lived in a tent. She had stories upon stories, a
nd I was drawn to her instantly.
When Kellie left the coffee shop, I knew I wanted to see her again. I wanted to hear all her stories and live vicariously through the telling of her adventures.
“How do we know this is actually a chair?” The Grinder said interrupting my thoughts. What the hell was she talking about? “I mean this is only a chair because someone told us it was a chair. What if it’s really an apple or a dog, and we only think that it’s a chair because someone wanted to make us believe it was a chair?”
Oh yes, that is quite the conspiracy, the Chair Conspiracy, right up there with Roswell, Area 51, and the Philadelphia Experiment.
I had two choices. I could rise from my chair, or my apple, or my dog, or whatever it’s called and walk immediately out the door and leave The Grinder behind, effectively eliminating this stupid conversation. However, that would significantly lower my chances of ever seeing Kellie again. Or I could nod my head slowly and squint my eyes, as if I were truly contemplating her very stimulating topic. After an appropriate amount of contemplation time, I’d reply “Deeeep,” taking the risk of the conversation continuing, me needing therapy, possibly taking memory-blocking medication, and being locked in a padded cell without my shoestrings but potentially have an opportunity to see Kellie again.
“Deeeep,” I replied.