It didn’t make any sense but I suddenly felt incredibly . . . guilty. There was nothing adulterous about my relationship with Jim. Colin and I had been apart for nearly five months! I was allowed to date other men, to move on. It was completely normal and healthy. So, why did I feel like I’d just left a pregnant cat by the side of the road? “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Colin was speechless. He stood, staring at me, his eyes full of hurt. I scrambled for words that would assuage his pain. “It’s only been a few weeks. It’s still quite casual. I mean, we haven’t even . . .” I trailed off. What the hell was going on here? I had come seeking positive closure, and here I was, practically begging Colin to forgive me for getting over him! Our breakup was his fault in the first place! I wasn’t the one with commitment-phobia! I heaved a defeated sigh. “It’s time for both of us to move on, Colin.”
He was silent for another long moment, before he said softly, “Okay.” He held the letter up and gave it a little shake. “Good luck.” He turned on his heel and began walking back into his building.
Well, it was closure, all right, but was it positive enough to remedy Jim’s boner problems? Judging by the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, the answer was no. “Colin!” I called after him. “I want our fond memories of the time we shared together to guide us to a place of positive closure!” But he was already inside, stalking through the lobby.
Twenty-two
SO, HOW WAS your weekend on Bainbridge Island?” Martin asked. We were occupying his leather living room set, our knitting paraphernalia spread around us. Earlier this morning, Sophie had sent an email to the female members of our group, suggesting we take this opportunity in Martin’s apartment to do a little snooping. She hadn’t used the term snooping, of course. I think she’d said: Let’s take this opportunity to dig for information that might pertain to his sexuality. This had a slightly less invasive connotation, but the message was the same. She had gone on to suggest we dig in his:
Fridge
• baby arugula and Ketel One vodka = gay
• beer and leftover pizza = straight
Medicine Cabinet
• green clay facial mask and eyelash curler = gay
• Tylenol and ear-hair trimmer = straight
And, if at all possible, one of us was to sneak into his bedroom to rummage through his bedside table and underwear drawer:
• thong underwear and extra-large tube of lubricant = gay
• boxers and a smaller tube of strawberry-flavoured lubricant = straight
I had already decided I would not be the one to snoop through his underwear drawer.
I took a fortifying sip of wine before answering Martin’s query. “Oh, it was really nice,” I said brightly, purling a stitch on my cream-coloured scarf. “We had a great time.”
“They finally slept together,” Angie added.
“Angie!” I snapped, angrily.
“What?” she cried back. “They were all wondering.”
Nicola said sweetly, “We don’t mean to invade your privacy.”
“But how was it?” Sophie asked gleefully, knitting comfortably with her circular needle. After completing Flynn’s hat, she had moved on to a rather daunting-looking yellow seed-stitch baby blanket that she planned to send to a pregnant friend in Spokane.
I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I should continue with my ambiguous answers. It would be easy enough to say something vague like: It was really nice. I felt very close to him. That wouldn’t be an outright lie. In fact, sleeping with Jim had been nice and I had felt close to him—physically, anyway. But as I glanced around at my friends’ eager faces, I had the overwhelming urge to confess all. Maybe it was the wine, but I couldn’t help but feel that sharing the fiasco with Jim might allow me to gain some perspective. They had all been so incredibly supportive when I’d opened up about my breakup with Colin.
“Well...” I began, hesitantly. “We did sleep together, but we didn’t actually sleep together.”
“What?” Angie shrieked.
“Good for you,” Nicola said. “It’s never a good idea to rush into a physical relationship.”
“But you said you slept with him and it was great! You said you had a fabulous time!” Angie continued.
“I did. It was. I mean, you can have a fabulous time without sex.”
“Hear! Hear!” Nicola seconded, gesturing in the air with her knitting needle. “Neil and I always have a fabulous time together. I think when sex is out of the picture it allows you to focus more on other things.”
“But...” Sophie said tentatively, “I thought the last time we saw you that you sounded, sort of... ready to . . . you know?”
I sighed heavily and reached for my wine. “I was,” I said, pausing to take a deep sip . . . more of a gulp, really. “It just didn’t quite work out this time.”
“What happened?” Martin prompted gently. His nimble fingers were almost a blur as he added stitches to the back of his dark sweater.
“Uh . . . well . . .” One more giant gulp of Merlot to muster my courage, and I began. “We fooled around a bit, and it was really hot and exciting. But then we went upstairs and... I don’t really know what happened. We’d had quite a bit of wine . . .”
“You didn’t pass out again, did you?” Angie asked.
“No! No, nothing like that. Jim just didn’t . . . umm . . . he sort of couldn’t...” I cleared my throat loudly. Maybe if I used the proper term, the words would come more easily? “He had some erectile difficulty.”
A spray of red wine erupted from Angie’s mouth. (Luckily, Martin’s leather furniture could be easily wiped with a cloth.) Sophie let out some kind of involuntary high-pitched squeak, as did Martin, which, in my opinion, sounded rather gay. Nicola, her face turning a brilliant pink, began to intently count the mauve stitches on her needle.
“It’s . . . it’s not really that uncommon,” I said, my own cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“No, of course it’s not, hon,” Sophie said, trying mightily to compose herself before she collapsed into giggles. “I’ve heard that it happens quite . . . frequently.”
Martin cleared his throat loudly. “I’m sure at a certain age it becomes a little more likely.”
“He was putting a lot of pressure on himself,” I said, rather desperately. “He wanted it to be a really special night.”
Angie, dabbing red wine from her lap with a napkin, said, “Jesus Christ. I don’t believe he can’t get it up. What are you going to do?” Of course, to Angie, erectile dysfunction was on par with having the Ebola virus.
“It’s not like he can’t get it up,” I cried. “He just couldn’t get it up that one time.”
“These things happen,” Nicola said. She sounded quite authoritative, despite the fact that she obviously had no first-hand knowledge of these things happening. “There has been a lot of medical advancement in the field.”
“Like Viagra,” Sophie said, helpfully.
“Oh, I don’t think he needs Viagra!” I said, cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink. “That’s for old guys, isn’t it? Jim’s only forty-eight.”
“Erection problems are not all about age,” Sophie stated, knowledgeably. “Weight, fitness, smoking...” All eyes darted to Martin.
“I quit!” he cried, defensively.
Angie said, “I dated a guy who used to take Viagra just for fun. One time, he had a boner for, like, thirty-six hours.”
“Oh my god!” I gasped. Of course I wanted Jim to be able to achieve an erection, but for an hour or so, tops! I couldn’t deal with a thirty-six-hour boner! I had articles to write! Knitting projects to finish!
“I heard it can make you go blind,” Martin said, consulting his knitting guide. Apparently, even Martin found decreasing for armholes a little challenging when purling.
Angie sniffed. “It’s a risk he should be willing to take if he really wants to keep a young woman like Beth satisfied.”
“He doesn’t need Viagra,” I i
nsisted. “He’s fit, he’s a non-smoker, and he’s not even fifty. It was just that one time. He put a lot of pressure on himself, and we’d had quite a bit of wine.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Sophie said sweetly, returning her focus to her blanket project. “It’ll be great the next time you try.”
Nicola added, “And there’s more to a great relationship than sex. Did you have interesting conversations? Did you feel comfortable in his environment?”
“I really did.” I smiled with remembrance. “I felt really close to him and really at home with him.”
“See?” Nicola beamed at me. “That’s more important than sex.”
Angie snorted but remained silent.
“It’s true,” Martin said. “If you don’t have compatibility, you have nothing. You can always work on the physical relationship.”
“Thanks, you guys,” I said, feeling infinitely better. They were right. Jim and I were good together, and the sex would improve. Colin and I had had great sex, but we wanted different things out of life. I felt more strongly than ever that Jim was my future and Colin my past. Once again, I felt so lucky to have this supportive group of friends to open up to. They always knew the right thing to say... once they got over their shock and hysteria, anyway.
“So,” Sophie said, by way of changing the subject, “how are the wedding plans coming along, Nic?” She smiled broadly to show that she really cared to know, and wasn’t just forcing herself to be polite.
“They’re great,” Nicola replied, smiling back at Sophie. She turned to the rest of us. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you all.”
“Yes?” Angie said, encouragingly. For the first time it occurred to me that the glass of red wine she was drinking was probably a no-no on her milk thistle cleanse.
“You know how important my wedding day is to me,” Nicola said. We all murmured our affirmation. “And, I hope you know that I’ve really come to value you all as friends.”
Awwwww! Nicola was going to invite us to her wedding! That was so sweet. I’d have to get a new dress and probably some shoes. I’d ask Jim to escort me, of course. He’d be so dashing and sophisticated in a formal setting, and I was excited to introduce him to my friends. Although, I now sort of wished I hadn’t told everyone about his little problem.
“Well,” Nicola was continuing, “I’d really like for you all to be a part of the most special day of my life. In fact, I’d be honoured if the stitch ’n bitch club would play a small but important role during the reception.”
I glanced around the circle. Sophie and Angie looked eager, but Martin shared my wary expression. A role in the wedding could mean anything: manning the coat-check booth, serving drinks, scraping the plates after dinner... Oh no. She wasn’t going to ask us to pester all the attendees to sign the guest book, was she?
“Neil and I have a poem that is very near and dear to our hearts. It’s called ‘Eternal Love’ and really exemplifies everything we feel for each other. I was wondering...” She paused as emotion threatened her voice. “I was wondering if you would each read a verse of it at the reception?”
“Oh my god!” Angie gasped, clasping her hand to her heart. “It’s such an honour!”
“We’d love to,” Sophie echoed, swiping at a tear in the corner of her eye.
“Sure,” Martin said, sounding a little less thrilled. “Thanks for thinking of us.”
“Of course,” I said, mustering all the enthusiasm I could. Unfortunately, my stomach did the nervous flip it always did when I was faced with the prospect of addressing a crowd. It was completely irrational, but I had a debilitating fear of public speaking, eclipsed only by my debilitating fear of public poetry reading. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel honoured by Nicola’s gesture: It was just that presenting to strangers always invoked in me a mild panic attack followed by a rather serious case of diarrhea.
Angie, of course, had no such phobia. Her small strip of periwinkle knitting sat ignored on her lap as she immediately began to make plans. “We’ll have to get together to rehearse! I’ll email everyone with possible times, and we’ll set a schedule.” It made sense that Angie would adore public poetry reading. She adored anything that put her in front of a crowd.
Martin chuckled a little uncomfortably. “The wedding’s not until mid-April. That’s over a month away.”
I wondered about the reason behind Martin’s reluctance. I’d seen him present at an industry function a year or so ago, and there had been absolutely no signs of a panic attack or diarrhea. So, why was he as unenthused about our role in Nicola’s big day as I was? Could it be that he felt reading a poem called “Eternal Love” wasn’t very... manly? Even a bit . . . fruity? Despite his high-pitched squeal when I’d revealed Jim’s sexual difficulties, could Martin actually be too butch to read sappy love poetry in front of three hundred strangers?
Sophie seemed to be wondering the same thing. “Well, that’s really exciting,” she said to Nicola, then turned to our host. “Martin, I’m just dying for a cold glass of milk. Would you mind if I just helped myself?”
“Go ahead. The glasses are in the cupboard above the sink.”
This acted as a cue to Angie, who said, “I’ll just use your bathroom before we leave.”
My eyes darted to meet Nicola’s, and in them, I saw my own panic reflected. There was no way either one of us was going to sneak into his bedroom to rummage through his underwear drawer! Instead, I yawned loudly. “I’d better get going. I’ve got this big article to write and the editor’s a real slave-driver.” I winked at Martin, who mimed whipping me, mercilessly.
When Sophie and Angie returned from digging through Martin’s fridge and medicine cabinet, we gathered our knitting projects and stuffed them into their bags. I was pleased to note that Nicola’s mauve scarf appeared to be nearing completion, and Sophie seemed to be having little trouble with her advanced beginner blanket pattern. Of course, Martin’s black sweater was coming along at some kind of world record pace, and even my cream scarf was progressing, slowly but surely. We weren’t really as domestically challenged as I’d once feared—except for Angie. It was evident that she never touched the blue shell between meetings. And even at the stitch ’n bitch club, her knitting needles were mostly used for emphasizing a point.
Finally, we all filed out the door, each giving Martin a hug and kissing his cheek in thanks. I glanced back as Sophie nervously approached him. What would she do? Accidentally miss his cheek and plant one on his lips? Flirtatiously play with the buttons of his shirt as she murmured her goodbyes? Reach around and give his butt a squeeze as she leaned in close to him? But she gave him a quick, almost perfunctory peck on the cheek before hurrying to join us in the hall.
When we were safely outside the building, Sophie whispered, “Oh god. I’m a mess. All week I’ve been dreaming about kissing him, and then, to actually get so close to him, and to touch his cheek with my lips... It was too much!”
“Any clues in the fridge or medicine cabinet?” I asked.
“Nothing but toothpaste and Q-tips,” Angie reported.
“Whitening or regular toothpaste?” Sophie queried.
Nicola snorted. “Come on! Surely you don’t think using a whitening toothpaste makes you gay? Neil uses a whitening toothpaste and he’s obviously straight.”
Of course, it wasn’t really that obvious. We had never met Neil and knew virtually nothing about him except that he was a doctor, didn’t have sex with his fiancée, and wanted whiter teeth. But I wasn’t about to comment. Instead, I said, “What was in his fridge?”
Sophie sighed heavily. “Ketchup, mustard, pickles . . . practically all condiments.”
“Sounds like a straight guy’s fridge,” Angie commented.
I countered. “Gay people use condiments too.”
Nicola sounded frustrated. “We’re relying too much on stereotypes here. There’s only one way to find out if Martin’s gay or straight.”
“I know,” Sophie agreed,
softly. That’s when I realized all eyes had fallen on me.
“No!” I shrieked. “For the thousandth time, I’m not going to ask him!”
“Fine,” Angie said. “We’ve tried spying and snooping. There’s only one method left.” She paused before her big announcement. “We’re going to have to profile him.”
“Profile him?” Nicola spat, as if Angie had just suggested we sodomize him.
“We need to gather more information about him,” Angie explained, unfazed. “What are his favourite activities? What’s his favourite colour? What kind of music does he listen to, what movies does he go to?”
“Isn’t that a bit intrusive?” I asked.
“It’s not as intrusive as asking him point-blank if he sleeps with men or women!” Angie snapped. “When we have his answers, we’ll put together a file containing all the information we’ve collected: the contents of his fridge and medicine cabinet, the decor in his apartment... Then, we create a profile: gay man, or straight man.”
“Okay,” Sophie said gamely, “if it’s the only way.” Without even looking, I felt the weight of their gazes fall up on me.
“It is,” I said, with finality.
Twenty-three
JIM RESPONDED TO my thank-you note with an equally brief:
It was wonderful having you. I’ll be in touch when I return from Chicago.
xo
Jim
Unfortunately, he didn’t say when he’d be returning from Chicago, so I waited each day with bated breath, hoping to hear from him. The trajectory of our relationship confounded me. We seemed to spend bouts of intense, concentrated time together followed by long periods of incommunicado. Just when I felt sure we were getting closer, I wouldn’t hear from him for several days. While I respected his workaholic Capricorn nature, it wouldn’t have killed him to send me a quick “thinking of you” email! It wasn’t what I was used to from Colin and previous boyfriends, but then none of them was a top-of-his-field architect who lived on an island a thirty-five-minute ferry ride away. A relationship with an older, established man could not be compared with the juvenile ones I’d had previously.
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