“I thought that was from the movies,” I said, turning around. “What about all those great phone conversations you had?”
“She told me she didn’t feel that thing with me and didn’t want to waste my time.” Penny tried to seem matter-of-fact about it, but she looked heartbroken.
“Wow,” I sighed. “What a judgmental bitch. She’d be lucky to have you.”
That made Penny smile a little. But I could tell she was still in shock.
“Sydney,” Maddie began, “it’s either there or it isn’t.”
“You’ll never find anyone with your standards,” I replied. “What do you do? Take a measuring tape on your dates?”
“I told you. I’ve chosen not to date. I live vicariously through you losers.” Maddie laughed. She had an endearing quality that took some of the sting out of her comments. Like Barbra Streisand or Pink Floyd—people either got her or they didn’t.
“You know what you two need?” Maddie continued. “A night out.” She looked at me. “You need to get your mind off money for a minute.” Then she looked in the rearview mirror at Penny. “And you need to get to know women the old-fashioned way—meet an alcoholic in a bar.”
“I’m not ready,” I said firmly.
“I don’t know. It scares me.” Penny was whimpering softly.
“Of course it scares you,” Maddie said. “It requires meeting people face to face. You younger chicks are always texting and crap. You have no social skills.”
“That’s not fair,” I said softly, trying not to let Maddie push Penny over the edge. “Penny is social. I just can’t believe…” I drifted off.
“What can’t you believe?” Maddie persisted.
“Well, I…” I had to be careful. I didn’t want to hurt Penny any more. “I just can’t believe that woman had so much money she could afford to blow a plane ticket and not even stay a while!”
Maddie was right; lately all I thought about was money because I didn’t have any.
That night, Maddie rounded up the gang, myself and Penny included, and I’d be going to my first lesbian bar in twelve years. At forty, I didn’t know how to ask anyone out or even to dance. Women really aren’t socialized to pick each other up. It’s a wonder we get together at all.
In the car, Maddie drove, I complained about my hair in the passenger seat mirror, while Penny and Ariel sat in the backseat, reading a Gay Guide to Connecticut.
“It’s called Throb,” Penny said. “It’s men and women.”
“Most of ’em are,” Maddie muttered. “Not as many lesbian bars anymore.” She looked at me, and we said in unison, “Cookouts.” We all laughed.
“Am I missing something?” Ariel asked, confused.
We laughed harder.
Ariel slumped in the backseat, as always dressed in black from head to toe, with stringy hair and tattoos in places we weren’t allowed to see. She believed we’re all sexual beings, capable of feeling anything for anyone at any time. She was very different compared to many people I’d known and felt a little dangerous to me. I’m not sure why. Maybe I worried her influence would take me out of my comfort zone. And I wasn’t very spiritually inclined, so half the time I didn’t understand what she was talking about.
Maddie ejected the CD that was playing and threw it in the backseat. “Can we get something a little happier? Some gay guy music, dance stuff? We need some goddamn happy in here!”
I fumbled with some CDs until I landed on Jimmy Somerville’s Greatest Hits. It was just what we needed. Immediately the car came to life with his wailing falsetto over the best dance music I’d ever heard. I must have been a gay guy in another life. Suddenly anything felt possible—until we arrived at the front door of Throb.
We could hear pounding techno music from behind the walls. Then the four of us were greeted by a guy dressed in leather from head to toe, with a dog collar around his neck and sharp studs protruding from the sides of his leather pants. His head was completely shaved except for a shock of flaming red on top, which he should have shaved as well.
“I’m sorry, girls,” he said in a flamboyant, patronizing tone. “This is Men’s Leather Night.”
“It said in the guide that it’s men and women,” Maddie argued.
“Go to the website, dear,” he replied. “It has the calendar of events.”
“Any idea where we can find a lesbian bar?” Ariel asked. Her voice was thick and smoky from all of the clove cigarettes she puffed.
“You might try Flo’s,” he answered, already bored with us. “In Danbury. They’re lesbian on days with ‘n’s in them, and every other Friday of every other month.”
We headed back down the sidewalk, and it felt as though the angry techno music was shooing us away.
“See?” Penny whined. “This is why I go online.”
“We could try the city,” Ariel offered.
“And then get stuck seeing a New Yorker?” Maddie kicked at the ground. “Then one of you has to move, and it sure as hell won’t be her. You think she’ll give it all up to live in Connecticut?”
“Some people,” Ariel continued, “are sick of the city, believe it or not.”
“Really?” Maddie considered the possibility.
“Wait. Forget the city,” Ariel suddenly said. “I may have slept with all the bartenders down there.”
Chapter Five
“The Seven Species of Lesbians”
Flo’s was located in a dark alley with no sign from the street. It was the kind of place you only knew about because a friend of a friend told you.
The minute we came inside, I felt old. The music was too loud. Everyone was underdressed. And I had a sudden urge to either pee or go home.
“I’m too old for this!” I shouted to Maddie over drums that shook the walls.
“We all are,” she said and shoved me toward the bar.
I felt like a pubescent boy, staring at the bartender’s low-cut, ripped black T-shirt and ample cleavage. Catching myself, embarrassed, I looked away and ignored her when she yelled “What’ll it be?” at me. She was pretty for sure and very young—at least twenty years younger than I.
“Sam Adams, regular,” I replied.
I scanned the room and realized some things hadn’t changed in twenty years. The lesbians were not on the floor. Most of the dancing was left to the gay men, who cluttered the dance floor, lip-synching to Beyoncé.
I could immediately identify the various species of lesbians in the room.
Lesbius Action-Figurious. These women can only be found in bars after just coming in from a miles-long hike or bike marathon. They dress in Spandex and sip bottled water. They look with disdain upon meatier women, because they think they’re the only ones who take care of themselves. You glance at them and imagine their sex must be incredibly acrobatic with swings hanging from the ceiling and moves like a double lutz or a triple salchow. I couldn’t picture it exactly, but I imagined it must feel really good.
Granolas Birkenstockius. An older species of lesbian, these women can be found in coffeehouses more than bars. When they are spotted, they’re usually arguing over a cup of chai tea or something grown in the ground. Usually vegans, these women like berries, nuts and twigs and vegetables that don’t look too phallic like zucchini, and if they eat meat, they are shunned by the pack. Their hair hangs like stringy, unwashed gluten-free noodles.
Lesbius Lipstickius. A newly discovered species, this one is harder to spot out in the wild concrete jungle because they wear more makeup, especially lipstick. They look like models and, who are we kidding, they probably are models. They walk into the bar like they’re on a runway with nine-inch stilettos and skirts so short they can’t sit down without showing as much as a stripper. They communicate through raised eyebrows and often look too bored to be wherever they are.
Lesbius Studious. These women often wear eyeglasses to identify themselves to others of their kind. Dressed in black, they are usually found sitting at corner tables, leaning in to each other, havi
ng intense conversations about the subversive plot in any movie or books by Gertrude Stein and poetry by Sylvia Plath. Some can be very dark, like the Sylvia Plath fans, and are always super-intellectual. An opening line to break the ice with one of these women must include a reference to an obscure author or film director. Otherwise, they’d rather go home to Gertrude.
Years ago I was in this category, taking myself way too seriously and always dressing in black. It’s the easiest color to match to the rest of your outfit, and the less time I could take getting ready, the better. Today, I’m usually not found wearing anything that isn’t in the Lands’ End catalog. Jeans and fleecy shirts have been the key to my survival in the cold when I wasn’t in a work suit. As I’d gotten older, simplicity became the priority. I have two pairs of glasses, black-rimmed and brown-rimmed, in case one pair gets scratched. And I mostly wear sneakers or those earth-tone shoes that you can just slip your foot into, no fussing with shoelaces or Velcro. Just slide your foot into soft gushy comfort. That’s why I immediately recognized this group, because one day, they too would continue their quest for simplicity and trade their boots for comfy shoes. They’ll even crave a stupid movie every now and then that doesn’t make a comment on the human condition. Oh yes, ladies, you will…
Lesbius Varietious. Some cute, some not, these women dress like all-American girls. Their camouflage enables them to blend in to straight society, whether it be a shopping mall or other public place. When threatened, they avoid predators by telling them they just want to be friends. I’ll admit I had been a part of this group as well.
Stubbornius Mulletious. These women are creatures of habit, stuck in their ways, never to change. They either haven’t yet gotten word that the mullet is dead or just don’t want to believe it. But believe it, ladies. It’s never coming back.
Butchus Aromaticus. Last but not least are the chunky butches who smell like men’s cologne and wear boxers. This type can be found abundantly in their most comfortable habitats—playing darts or pool—but usually not on the dance floor.
Of course most women were a mix of these or couldn’t be put into any type of box. But I liked to invent categories for each in my head to hide the fact that I was nervous just being there at all.
Chapter Six
“A Blog is Born”
The strobe lights spun, the first beer didn’t give me a buzz and I checked my watch. Then, like a scene from a movie, she emerged from the fog, dancing with a group of women. Were they her friends? Was there a girlfriend in the group? Lesbians needed nametags or color-coded bracelets to indicate single, recently split up and on the rebound, coupled off, etc. It was all so confusing.
“She so looked at you.” Penny bumped my arm.
Me? Really? There it was again—a quick glance and a shy smile in my direction. She was the incarnation of Vivien Leigh, with flowing black hair, deep brown flashing eyes and a brooding stare that gave her mystery and intrigue and all those special little somethings that had me wrapped around her finger before I even knew her name. It had been a long time since the butterflies danced in my stomach. It felt good just to know I wasn’t dead.
All this excitement made me so nervous I had to pee.
So I stood in a long line with Maddie, waiting for the ladies’ room.
“What’s taking so long?” I shouted, crossing my legs.
“You’re gonna have to start shavin’ again,” Penny informed me.
“What?”
“The younger women don’t like ya unless you’re shaved.” Penny was so certain. “I read it on a lesbian blog.”
“They’re stupid,” Maddie said. “More infections are caused from shaving. I can’t tell you how many I see in the hospital for some bacterial thing just because their boyfriend or girlfriend wanted a silly Mohawk.”
My head spun. Was this what it was going to be like? I almost missed the comfort of Val and me growing old together. I didn’t want to be with some young chick who was going to guilt me into shaving parts of my body that didn’t like razors. My legs could barely stand it.
The restroom door finally opened and two men came out. Maddie was outraged.
“Hey, use your own bathroom!” she hollered.
“It was full,” one of the men spat.
“See that door?” Maddie pointed to the WOMEN sign. “Unless you’ve had the change, that’s ours. Just because we’re not in here as much as you doesn’t give you the right to have a quick fuck!”
“Is she drunk?” a woman in line asked.
“No,” I replied. “She’s always like that.”
One of the guys came toward her, and a bystander had to jump between them. “Break it up! Okay! Enough!”
“Are you the owner?” Maddie demanded.
“No,” the bystander responded.
“Well, someone should do something,” Maddie continued.
Other women who were in line murmured in agreement. But nobody wanted to make a scene. As the line moved up, we could hear the next woman say, “Eew! The seat’s still up.”
I liked how Maddie said what everyone was thinking but was too afraid to say. Sometimes it got her into trouble, but sometimes it was worth it.
I was especially grateful not to be the next one in the bathroom. That had happened to me once a long time ago. Some things hadn’t changed.
When I was back at the bar with a fresh drink, I watched the gorgeous creature continue to dance.
“You should go over there,” Maddie said.
“And say what?” I shouted. “I don’t know how to pick someone up. I’m not a picker-upper.”
“What are you, a paper towel? Just start dancing and smile. If she’s interested, she’ll pay attention. If not, you’ll get the hint.”
“Oh, that simple.” I downed the rest of my fizzy courage. “From the woman who doesn’t date.”
But Maddie was right. I meandered over to the dance floor and pretended to be dancing with no one in particular. The woman smiled at me and danced a little closer. In the distance, Penny gave me an embarrassingly obvious thumbs-up.
“Wish they’d play some better music!” I shouted over some Miley-Katy-Britney song.
“I know! Right?” She had a great smile. Even closer, I decided her eyes were more of a steel gray.
Feeling more confident, I added, “Where’s Cher? Or Annie Lennox?”
“Yeah!” she yelled back over the music. “My girlfriend has every Cher CD!”
“Right.” I donned my most natural fake smile and danced my way off the floor, pretending the whole time to be having a good time. My painted-on smile was absurd, aimed at no one in particular, as I returned to my friends, all of whom had question marks on their faces.
I ran past them and outside, toward the parking lot, shivering in the chilly, unspringlike air. Maddie, Penny and Ariel could hardly keep up. I felt so stupid, so deeply out of touch with the new lesbian dating world.
“What kind of woman goes out clubbing without her girlfriend!” I shouted.
“The kind that’s looking to cheat,” Maddie replied.
“Or,” Penny offered, “that was a nice way of saying she wasn’t interested. I’ve heard that one before.”
“Great,” I snapped. “That’s just great. But she was looking at me!”
“Maybe she wanted a threesome,” Ariel said.
I stopped walking. “How does that work?” I asked. “I mean, really? I can only focus on one body at a time.”
“You should try it,” Ariel responded, her eyes shifty. “It will release all this tension you’ve got.”
“And give her a disease!” Maddie added. “Come on.” She put her arm around my shoulders. “It’s your first time out since when? Since dinosaurs walked the earth? So you struck out. Big deal. Next time you won’t.”
“Oh, suddenly you’re positive?” I shook my head, walking faster. “No.” Then and there I decided never to date again. I’d be one of those old lesbians who lived alone and planted vegetables. Never mind that I
hated gardening. I’d find a way to like it. Sometimes I could appreciate an attractive tomato.
“There needs to be some kind of handbook,” Penny said. “A guide to lesbian dating. ’Cause let’s face it. Some gay women are just plain weird.”
A lightbulb went off in my head. That was it.
“You’re right,” I muttered.
Maddie was irritated with Penny. “Gay women are weird? You’d better be including yourself. You go to the airport so much you should get a job with the TSA. That way you could frisk all kinds of women, and they’d know right away if you had chemistry.”
“That’s so wrong!” Penny cried, half laughing.
“Penny!” I exclaimed. “You’re brilliant!”
Maddie said quietly, “That’s not something you hear every day.”
“That’s it!” I kept repeating it over and over. I knew what I was going to do. I had a new purpose, a new calling. It was like the skies had parted and a ray of sun descended upon me. Never mind that it was nighttime.
When I got back to the apartment, I started a new blog: The Comfortable Shoe Diaries. There I would pour my heart out, kind of like therapy but with fewer tissues, talking about everything strange and horrifying in this new, mysterious world of dating when you’re suddenly partnerless in a partnered-off world.
Chapter Seven
“Cat on a Hot Laptop”
I began writing. And writing. I went out to the bars, bookstores and coffeehouses. I wrote about every experience I had.
On one of these nights, I met Carrie, a pretty girl-next-door-type at the bar. She had brown hair with streaks of blond and almond-shaped, intelligent eyes. She seemed distracted or restless. I couldn’t tell if she was looking for someone more interesting to talk to.
“Are you from Connecticut?” I asked.
“Yeah, Glastonbury. There’s no place to go there, so I come here.” Her eyes darted around as she chugged a beer.
“I’m from Florida,” I volunteered. She wasn’t interested.
“You’re cute,” she said. Okay, maybe she was interested.
The Comfortable Shoe Diaries Page 4