"Where are you going?" Amy asked.
"Um…" Edison said. "Um…"
Jordan jumped in with: "She likes to eat alone.”
“I do?” Edison said. She quickly changed her question to a statement, “Yes, I do.”
“I’ll tell our waitress to send your crème brulee French toast up to the lounge," Jordan said.
"Why?" Amy asked.
"She has an eating disorder. That’s why she having breakfast instead of lunch at lunch time," Jordan said.
"Oh no, but lots of people order breakfast food for lunch," Amy said, concerned.
"Not an eating disorder per se," Edison said. "More like an eating… phobia."
"You're afraid to eat?" Amy asked.
"With other people," Jordan answered for her.
"It's called masticaphobia," Edison said.
"Never heard of it, but I’m not a psychologist," Amy said. "If it would make you more comfortable we can leave. I don't want you to feel like – "
Jordan interrupted, "Stay, Ed. Sit down and eat with us." She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. "Please."
"Okay, I’ll try to overcome my fear of sandwiches and people eating sandwiches." Edison smiled tightly and sat back down.
Jordan sighed. It was obvious Amy wanted Edison to stay. A horrible thought struck her. What if Amy discovered that she liked Edison better? Ed was cute and very approachable. Jordan tuned back in to their conversation just in time to hear Amy ask Edison, "So what do you do for a living?"
Edison put her chin in her hand, looked at Amy and asked, "Well… Do you like toys?"
Jordan cleared her throat and kicked Edison under the table. "Ow!" Edison said and promptly kicked Jordan back, but Amy dove into her answer without missing a beat.
"Well, depends on the toy, I guess. I loved Barbies when I was a kid. I had maybe twenty Barbies and a dream house and a pink convertible. Tons of clothes for them and a cute little pink suitcase to carry them in. The problem was I had this puppy, his name was Humphrey, and he liked to chew on my Barbies whenever I left them on the floor which was most of the time. So all my Barbies ended up with chewed off hands, gnawed feet, missing hair, teeth marks all over them. That's when I got the idea to be a doctor. I know that sounds stupid, but I turned the dream house into an operating room and surgically removed the chewed parts of the Barbies with steak knives. I made prosthetic devices for their missing limbs."
"Then we have a lot in common," Edison said. "I make prosthetic devices, too."
Jordan coughed loudly. Amy looked at her quizzically, then asked Edison, "What kind of prosthetics do you make?"
Edison smiled. "Well… Do you like adult toys?"
"You mean like chess?" Amy asked.
"I love chess!" Jordan said much too quickly and way too loudly.
Edison ignored her and continued, "I mean like sex toys."
"Oh," Amy said. She took a sip of water, and said “Oh,” a second time.
Jordan interrupted, "Ed, that's not appropriate lunch conversation."
"She asked what I did for a living," Edison said. "I’m giving her an honest answer." She turned back to Amy and said bluntly, "I make sex toys."
"Oh," Amy said.
"I'm an inventor," Edison explained. "That's why they call me Edison."
Jordan explained further, "She invents sex toys. She has several patents on file."
Edison sat up straighter and said proudly, "Dildoes are my specialty. I've invented The Corndog, The Muffin Mucker, and The Plunger. Just to name a few."
"Oh, I see you’ve chosen very descriptive names," Amy said.
After a long silence where they all looked at their menus even though they'd already placed their order, Amy said, "I need to go to the rest room. I'll be right back."
Jordan watched Amy walk into the ladies room before she turned and whapped Edison on top of the head with her menu.
"Ow!"
The Ice Queen Cometh
Jordan whispered harshly, "What's with the sex toys talk? Are you trying to scare her off?"
Edison crossed her arms. "Wouldn't you like to know right off the bat if she's squeamish about lesbians? That way you don't waste your time?"
"Sex toys are personal. Not all lesbians use them, you know."
"Oh yeah? Name five who don't."
Jordan's eyes flickered to the front of the diner. "Oh, shit," she mumbled.
"Sex toys are a way of life –"
Jordan interrupted, "Not that. Oh shit, Petronella's here."
Edison immediately went into body guard mode. "Quick, hide."
Jordan looked around. "Where?"
"Under the table."
Jordan slid out of her chair and onto her knees. The tablecloth hid her from view. She scrunched herself into a little ball, knees under her chin, and watched in horror as Petronella's white heels clacked toward their table.
Meet Dr. Petronella Bleeker, the lesbian Dutch Poet. She had gained a modicum of success for publishing a thin volume of poetry ten years ago. She won a few awards, made little to no money, and now much to her chagrin and humiliation was a professor at Portland State University. Petronella felt she was working below her status. A poet of her caliber should be teaching at Yale or Harvard or not even teaching at all. She carried a chip on her shoulder everywhere she went and never missed a chance to beat people over the head with it.
Petronella was revered by the lesbian community because she was the only poet who had ever successfully rhymed the word vagina. Petronella always dressed in all white. Even her hair was bleached white. It was her signature color because it was the absence of color. She was also fashionably thin -- all gristle, no white meat.
To Be Continued.
Jordan and Petronella’s Story
Jordan and Petronella had been lovers for one year, twenty seven days and three hours. At the beginning Petronella was everything Jordan had ever fantasized about. Petronella was smart, educated, creative, attentive, an excellent lover. She was beautiful in a Queen Frostine kind of way. But like all ice sculptures, she had melted over time and left Jordan standing in a puddle of cold water that turned her toes blue.
Jordan should have known Petronella was too good to be true. But how can somebody know something like that? You don't really know somebody until you're living with them. Then their façade cracks and you get glimpses of who they truly are. That's where Jordan went wrong. She ignored the glimpses of the real Petronella that she saw between the cracks. She wanted to be loved so badly that she pretended.
The first time she had crossed paths with Petronella had been on campus. Jordan had been hired to teach a semester seminar on girls as protagonists in children's lit. The class was the Dean's brainchild – a liaison between women's studies and the Education Department's Early Childhood Development. Jordan had been recruited and hired because she was famous and local. She was more the latter than the former. She also worked for peanuts.
Jordan had been invited to the Women’s Studies bi-annual potluck. She had felt out of place. Her contribution had been a bag of nacho cheese flavored Doritos and a can of bean dip. She put the dip in the center of the table and realized that once again, she didn't fit in. Everyone else had brought typical lesbian dishes: tabouli, humus, salad, stinky cheeses made out of milk that wasn't cow’s milk and gluten-free desserts.
Jordan sat alone in a corner of the room munching Doritos when Petronella approached. Petronella stared. Jordan looked into Petronella's glacial eyes and a shiver ran down her spine. At the time she thought it was lust that made her tremble. She didn't realize until much later it was actually fear.
She held out the bag of chips to Petronella. Petronella only smiled. It reminded Jordan of the wolf's smile in the story of Little Red Riding Hood.
"Come," Petronella ordered.
Jordan obediently followed Petronella out the door and to her car. “Where are we going?”
“You will see and you will like it,” Petronella said with auth
ority.
Petronella drove four blocks from campus and parked in front of a beautiful house. She showed Jordan into the foyer, up the marble staircase, through the immaculate white bedroom filled with mirrors and out onto a terrace.
"You wanted me to see your house?" Jordan asked.
Petronella laughed. "No," she said. "I want to show you the only thing of beauty that even begins to compare to you."
Jordan laughed nervously. Petronella gracefully lifted her palm above her head and gestured to the moon. "Behold, the moon," she said dramatically. Everything Petronella did was with great flair as if she knew she was going to shape it into a poem later.
Jordan beheld the moon. It was orange, round and full. When she looked back at Petronella, she was shocked to see that she was disrobing. Petronella let her silk blouse slide off her shoulders to the tile floor. Her breasts glistened in the moonlight. She had large nipples like eyes opened wide and staring.
Petronella stepped out of her white wedge shoes, unbuttoned her linen slacks and kicked them aside. She was ghostly pale in the moonlight. She had no pubic hair. Her entire body was smooth and white like a marble statue.
"I want to make love to you," Petronella said. "From the moment I saw you, I wanted nothing more than to hold you in my hands, suck you into my mouth, to feel your heat against my tongue, to make you writhe in orgasmic ecstasy."
"Wow," Jordan said. "You don't beat around the bush." She thought, but didn't say, "If there were a bush, which there isn't."
Petronella slinked up to her and boldly kissed Jordan’s neck. Her shoulders. Her cheeks. Her lips. She lightly brushed Jordan's nipples and stroked her butt. Jordan felt her insides tighten, then release. Her body was betraying her.
Petronella knelt before her, took her into her mouth, and devoured her greedily.
Jordan stared up at the moon. When she came, she opened her mouth and swallowed the moon. It filled her belly and lit her up from the inside as if she were a Jack O'Lantern. Jordan knew this happened because the next day Petronella detailed their sexual liaison in her newest poem, "The Woman Who Swallowed the Moon."
When Jordan looked back at the sky, the moon was gone and she was in love.
Petronella led her through the sliding glass doors and into her bed where she made love to Jordan three more times.
"You are my muse," Petronella said while she cradled Jordan in her arms. "I shall write beautiful poems about you. I will never let you go. Never, ever let you go."
It wasn't until months later, Jordan realized she meant exactly what she said
Jordan had been living with Petronella a full month before she noticed the control issues. Petronella told her what to wear, what to eat, what to read, what kind of coffee she should drink. Jordan noticed as time went on that she didn’t even have to talk. Petronella took it upon herself to singlehandedly run Jordan’s life. One day Jordan woke up and discovered that she no longer had a life. And to make matters worse, Petronella became possessive to the point that no one could look at Jordan without Petronella going ballistic. She swore that Jordan encouraged these looks. According to Petronella, Jordan was a vixen that needed watching.
It exhausted Jordan. And when she complained and said maybe she would rather live in her own house, maybe they should break up, Petronella had responded by throwing the Anthology of Feminist Poetry as It Concerns the Vulva at her. Jordan had been too surprised to duck and ended up with a black eye. Petronella cried. She promised things would change. She wrote her a poem. And afterwards, she made passionate love to Jordan.
The second time she tried to leave, Jordan was sneaky. She packed her clothes when Petronella was at work. She was in the driveway, putting the clothes in her back seat when Petronella came home early and tried to run her over with her car. She took a sledgehammer to the lights, the engine and the windows and then ran into the back end twelve times. Jordan's insurance didn't cover crazy girlfriends demolishing her car. Petronella cried. She promised things would change. She wrote her a poem. And afterward, she made passionate love to Jordan.
The third time Jordan tried to end the relationship was when she caught Petronella on her moonlit balcony devouring one of her graduate students. Petronella managed to turn the tables and make the whole thing Jordan’s fault. That had to be the master manipulation of the century. She accused Jordan of being frigid, unemotional and unresponsive to lovemaking, consequently Petronella was forced into cheating on Jordan. All these insults were hurled at her along with books, picture frames, frozen fish, chopsticks, bowls and the microwave.
The graduate student had cowered in the corner until there was a lull in the fighting and then she ran out of the house. She called 911 and the police came and escorted Jordan home. Jordan didn't press charges. She was just happy to be away from her.
That was a mere six months ago. And since that time, Petronella had a knack of showing up anywhere Jordan was. Jordan was beginning to think Petronella had secretly installed a lo-jack up her ass.
The Ice Queen Cometh, Continued
From the safety of under the table, Jordan stared at the pointy toes of Petronella's high heels and listened to the conversation between her and Edison.
Petronella: Hello, Jordan’s little friend.
Edison: Hello, Dr. Bleeker. You look like an ice sculpture today and I mean that in the nicest way possible.
Petronella: Where is Jordan?
Edison: I'm fine, thank you for asking. How are you?
Petronella's right toe tapped three times.
Petronella: I have no fooling-around time. Where is Jordan?
Edison: Okay, I give up, where is she?
Petronella: I need to speak with her. It is urgent. There is an upcoming event that she must be part of.
(Petronella did not speak in contractions. As an admitted member of the bourgeois, she considered contractions too lower class.)
Edison: I'll be happy to give her the message. Will there be anything else?
Petronella: No.
Petronella's shoes walked away.
Edison: You have a nice day, too. And by 'have a nice day' I mean go fuck yourself.
Suddenly, Petronella stopped.
"Oh, shit, oh, no," Edison said in a whisper to Jordan. "The Ice Queen is talking to Amy."
Jordan peeked over the top of the table and watched helplessly as Petronella blocked Amy's path and said something to her. Amy tilted her head. Petronella spoke again and pointed at Amy's feet.
After Petronella walked away, Amy looked down at her feet. She raised a shoe. There was toilet paper stuck to her heel. She tried to step it off with her other shoe. It got caught on that shoe. She tried to kick it off. Finally after several electric slide dance moves, Amy succeeded in ridding herself of both the toilet paper and her dignity.
Edison lifted the edge of the table cloth and looked down at Jordan. "You can come out now."
Jordan shook her head. "Huh uh. It could be a trick. Go follow Petronella and make sure she got in her car and drove away."
Edison nodded. "Good idea."
"And make sure she isn't just driving around the block either."
Just as Edison was about to walk away, Amy's feet appeared. “Where’s Jordan?”
“She’s under the table. I’ll be right back,” Edison said.
Amy squatted down and looked at Jordan under the table. "Are you hiding?"
Jordan fake-laughed. "Hiding? Me, hiding? Don't be ridiculous."
"Then what are you doing under the table?"
About a billion answers to that question flitted through Jordan's mind: She was looking for a lost contact. Retrieving a dropped forked. Checking the cleanliness of the floor. Looking for gum under the table. Doing a study on the shoes of people in Portland cafes. Jordan reached into her grab-bag of answers and pulled one out at random, and it just so happened to be partly true. "I was, uh, scared."
Amy's face softened. She crawled on all fours under the table and sat next to Jordan. "What are you scare
d of?"
Jordan said in a tiny voice, "I'm scared you don't know this a date. You know a date-date. With me."
"I know it's a date-date," Amy said.
"Really?"
Amy nodded.
Jordan asked, "And you're not weirded out or anything? You know, being on a date with a real live lesbian?"
Amy shrugged. "I'd be more weirded out if you weren't real or alive."
Jordan smiled. "How do you think it's going so far? For a first date, I mean."
"I think…"Amy said, "I think I want you to kiss me."
Jordan held her breath, closed her eyes and leaned in to kiss her. Her lips were only a fraction from Amy's when a waitress holding a basket of sandwich, chips and pickles in each hand, peeked under the table. "Who had the extra mayo?"
Kissi interruptus.
Edison’s Story
Edison drove her VW Bug two times over the posted speed limit and careened around a corner. Jordan gripped the strap and pumped her foot against an imaginary brake pedal. Jordan ascertained that Edison was upset about the whole Amy thing and it was sending her over the deep end. Edison didn’t want Jordan getting hurt. Jordan knew that. Although her affair with Edison had been brief, a matter of hours really, Jordan knew Edison was infatuated with her. Jordan sensed that Edison found unrequited love blissfully painful. However it was easier to tolerate when Jordan was not dating. Even when Edison was suffering through Jordan’s relationship with Petronella it was easier because she knew that Jordan didn’t love Petronella, but this Amy thing was different and Jordan knew that Edison knew that.
“You know, I’m really sorry that your lunch date with Amy didn’t work out,” Edison said. Before Jordan could answer, she went on, “I had an unrequited love once, too.”
That was news to Jordan. Edison had never talked about her past before. Even when Jordan tried to draw her out, Edison would clam up like a… well, like a clam.
“I pined after the minister’s daughter,” Edison said, wheeling the car around a sharp curve.
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