The Last Place She'd Look (11 page)

With April orchestrating the romantic overtures, all I had to do was follow along—like waltzing backwards with a really graceful dance partner. As participant and voyeur, my hands stroked the sides of April's centerfold-perfect form. Any man would desire her. But she was eager to be here with me. I felt brave kissing her shoulder and caressing her breasts, first with my hand, then my mouth. She arched back, delighted. I moved my hand between her legs, nervous, anxious, and apprehensive, and then I glided my fingers up deep inside her, marveling that she felt so much like me.

Hesitant that I wouldn't know how to please her, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and touched her as if I were touching myself. Hot water rained down on us. As she climaxed, strangling my fingers, I felt my earlier orgasm re-tingling through me. We clung to one another, a wilted heap against the shower wall.

April took both of my hands in hers, squeezed them tight, and then held them to her mouth for a kiss. Looking in my eyes, she playfully announced, “Cocktail time.”

Wrapped in towels, we uncorked a bottle of chilled chardonnay. She poured two glasses, handing me one. Grabbing the bottle and my free hand, we scampered into the bedroom. The décor was jungle safari. The night tables and dresser were an ornate black and gold, with tusk-like handles on the drawers. I was surprised to see animal prints everywhere—tiger-striped curtains and leopard-print sheets on the giant bed.

April set the glasses and bottle down on the table. She ushered me to the bed, removing my towel, then hers. We fell back on a dozen pillows of all different sizes and animal prints. I wanted to laugh, thinking I was in Cher's lair. April handed me my wine. We clinked glasses and sipped. She dipped her index finger into her goblet and stirred the wine. She traced a droplet of wine down my breast bone to my waist with her finger, then followed the line with her tongue. I did the same to her. When I got to her waist, I saw a scar.

“Scars are a body's history. They make us interesting,” I said.

“That's my Caesarian, from the birth of my son.”

“Where is he?” I bolted up, thinking he could walk in at any moment.

“Don't worry, he's 30,” she said, laughing.

“And?”

“And what?” She stroked my wet hair, adoringly.

“Husband? Other kids?”

“My husband left me for a younger woman. At first, I was devastated. Then I met a woman
younger
than his. She made the pain go away.” April turned on her side, away from me, finishing her sentence and glass of wine. She poured more.

I knew she had just revealed something exceedingly intimate and important, but I wasn't sure what to make of it. As I studied her spine and fading tan lines, I felt fascinated by her outlook, her candor, and life experiences—volumes worth. Most men weren't this deep and open—or as cool and intriguing. Why did I think about men whenever I found myself getting close to a woman? Was it the writer in me observing, comparing, and contrasting—or the heterosexual trying to justify being here?

Operation “just enjoy yourself” was moving along smoothly. I leaned back into the safari of pillows, feeling that my afternoon's delight was like being hit by a tidal wave. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I realized we'd both fallen asleep, pretzeled together for an hour or two. I stirred, waking April. She ravenously kissed me, climbed on top of me, and devoured every inch of me like the cobra woman befitting the jungle land surroundings.

I'd never felt so relaxed or free before, safe to share all of my nakedness without judgment. I didn't have to think about contraception, or lubrication, or ejaculation. We both liked to go shopping and we wore the same size. So far, in my first day of sex with a woman, I was seeing lots of advantages—and I was liking it! Did I ever think I could be with a woman? I could be with
this
woman

I sat at my desk on Monday morning, drinking a double espresso iced coffee, wondering how I could parlay my new discoveries and experiences into articles for the women's magazines I wrote for. Truth was, the entire women's magazine market was hetero-centric. Every ad, from mascara to Mustangs, sells things to help women entice men. All the articles, too. No one wants to read
Sex Tips With Other Girls
—at least, no one wants to admit it.

I called Beth to tell her about my explorations, knowing she would delight in my discoveries. Beth was away for the weekend with her husband Jeff on a “Tantra for Couples” weekend. When they returned, she and I met for coffee.

“I'm confused,” I mused. “I need a flow chart for your sexuality. I thought you were mad for the muff.”

“I am,” she said giggling. “Muff is still my mission, my passion. But I am trying to make my marriage work. I have kids.”

“I think I have a girlfriend,” I smiled.

“Dish!” Beth listened eagerly.

“She's older, wiser, and undergoing hormone replacement therapy, which gives her the libido of a teenage boy.”

“I'm jealous. I want that, too.” Beth replied. “Lucky you.”

“Exhausted me.” I said, raising the cup to my lips, hoping for a caffeine jolt.

“Are you happy?” Beth asked.

“The thrill of the new is exciting. I'm not quite sure what to make of it. I feel more lust and adventure than anything else. I can't tell the others. You're my guide in the lesbian labyrinth.”

“You'll be fine,” Beth assured me. “Will there be a repeat performance?”

“I hope so,” I said, smiling.

Chapter 15

Lavender Visions

I had four more dates with April. They were all pretty similar: dinner, wine, and bed. Each time, I felt more comfortable kissing and touching her—and responding to her exploration of my body. Without fail, though, whenever we were intimate, her stroking some part of me, stirring my pleasure, I thought about what this moment would be like if a man were touching me, feeling his hairy chest rubbing up against my nipples or his hard cock inside me instead of April's skillful fingers.

The night I made dinner for April at my place, she arrived bearing flowers, smile brimming with enthusiasm, rimmed with boysenberry lip gloss. When she kissed me at the door I was glad I'd turned everything off on the stove and oven. As the lip lock leaned into one another, we were pelvis-to-pelvis too, as she pressed me against the wall, her mouth devouring my neck and ears, a passionate hungering that made me want to postpone the planned meal while I relished being her main course. April's passion and devotion brightened my spirits and soothed my inner sadness. I glowed. Finally, I was free to uncork the wine and serve the dinner I'd cooked.

While sipping, April surveyed my living room, intrigued to see all of the books I'd collected. She wanted to know the names of everyone in the photos on the mantle, and anecdotes about them: mother, father, grandfather. She especially liked hearing about my quirky grandfather, who always slept with socks on, afraid he'd catch a head cold in his exposed big toes. After telling of Grandpa, I said, “Tell me about your grandparents.”

Hoping she'd serve up a slice of her own history, instead, she spied a wooden box next to the photos, “This is lovely. Tell me about this.” She sipped again, skirting her own reveal.

“I bought that on a trip to Italy,” I explained. “Ten days with three friends: museums, wine, and shoes. I was able to write off the trip thanks to an article about Italian wines, another one on
“What to pack for 10 days in Europe,”
and
“Everything you always wanted to know about olive oil.”

April laughed, slow, throaty, and sexy. I wanted to drink her in like an intoxicating cocktail. “See my bracelet?” she pointed to a thin turquoise bangle dangling on her delicate wrist. “This is from Italy too. It would be so delicious if we could go there together…and drink in the beauty.” She raised her glass to me, then to her lips for a big swallow. “You are my glorious beauty,” she raised her glass to me again.

And for the first time, I felt beautiful in her eyes. Dessert was chocolate mousse. I served it in long-stemmed wine glasses with parfait spoons. We sat on the couch together, entwined, feeding each other, immersed in the sweetness of the evening. On this night I thought of no one else, just the magic we created together.

“Wouldn't it be nice if we could do this all the time…you know, live together?” she said, all girlish and idealistic.

I sat up and disengaged from our cozy, mellow entwinement, “Do you really think we know each other well enough or long enough to think about that?” I said, serious about the question.

“I was being wishful, and idealistic. I've been seduced by your mousse!” She leaned into me for a passionate kiss. I melted into her sensuality, lost in time, place, novelty, and sensibility, drenched in desirability. After so many dates with men who had now become nameless and faceless to me for their indifference or rejection of me—here and now I was a hot commodity! I slurped up every self-esteem-quenching moment of passion without a thought for next week or next year—just gorging on the heat of the moment and how it filled my hungry heart and heated my uber-rejected, underappreciated self.

By the end of that evening I did not learn anything new about April's past or family. She avoided my questions about them. In the morning I woke up with three hickeys near my navel and bite marks on my left thigh. Overall, I felt contented.

Then there was the night April invited me to her client's wedding at a mansion in Malibu. When she arrived to pick me up, April was wearing form-fitting silk pants and a tight turquoise wrap top that oozed cleavage and sexuality. If I didn't know better I'd think she was dressed purposefully provocatively to pick up new hot prospects. I was surprised, since I was certain it was going to be an all-female lesbian wedding.

When we walked into the wedding, I saw a living room with French doors that opened to a well-appointed backyard. It was half filled with attractive straight men our age, dressed in tuxedoes. They all smiled warmly and leeringly at April and her eye-catching breasts. She nodded knowingly at their admiring glances. The more that men noticed and smiled at her, the tighter she held to me as if to say, “You want me? See who I'm with? I don't need a dick. I don't need men.”

April drank lots of champagne that night, hardly speaking to any of the women in the room. Instead she flirted with the handsomest of men, rubbing up against them in conversation, touching and fingering the studs on their crisp tuxedo shirts, as if she wanted more from them. But why here and now, and why if she was with me?

One man started to follow her around the room, first with his eyes, then striding to be just a few feet away from her wherever she was. As soon as she became aware of his pursuit, she grabbed my arm and dragged me upstairs to the master bedroom, and then into the room's gigantic walk-in closet.

Bothered by April's behavior, I was glad she took me away from the party to give me a tour of the house. I liked her best when we were alone together. Venturing into the off-limits part of the house was exhilarating. After turning on a tiny light in the closet, I saw a beige suede settee with animal print pillows. The rack behind it held Chanel suits, evening gowns, and other finery. Before I could examine the garments, April grabbed my arm and kissed me hard on the mouth, then roughly squeezed my breasts, while her hand speedily raced up my skirt, tugging at my panties.

“Where's the fire?” I whispered, laughing.

We both giggled, and then paused as we heard footsteps climbing the stairs. This didn't stop her. Instead, it fueled her ravenous behavior as she practically ripped my panties off, tongue diving deep inside me. The footsteps got faster, louder, closer. The room was hotter and so were we, heaving and moaning.

Then I felt a heavy breathing at the closet doorway, followed by a gasp. April turned for a second, glancing at the shadowy male figure lurking in the doorway.

“Go away. I'm with my girlfriend. We don't need a man. Go back downstairs.”

She resumed pleasuring me. I'd never had someone else watching me while I was being made love to. The moment heightened my excitement. April was on fire too, her tongue darting to new places in unique ways. I felt her heart pounding on my thigh.

The man in the shadows stared at us another minute, then spun on his heel and left. As soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, so did April's passion. I was on the edge of orgasm—then, I no longer felt her tongue, or her touch. I was confused.

“Let's go back to the wedding,” she whispered. “The music and dancing should be starting soon.”

“A few more minutes. I'm almost done,” I said, stroking her hand, hoping my big O moment was forthcoming.

“Let's finish later,” she insisted. “Dance now, make love all night long.”

I wondered if her performance was part of the evening's entertainment for her. Was it to tease him? A dare for me? Excitement for herself? A perverse game of cat and mouse and who gets the pussy? Or was she just drunk?

This exhibitionist behavior was scintillating, disturbing, exhausting, and might somehow bite me in the ass someday. But until then, it could be a joyous jungle-printed merry-go-round. As the champagne went to my head, I tossed off those thoughts. We spent the rest of the evening on the dance floor. Maybe this was the prom night I'd always wanted.

In the car on the way home I was outwardly silent. But inside, I rehearsed the conversation I was afraid to speak, filled with anger, frustration, and feelings of powerlessness. As the car sped along the coast highway, I looked out at the water, the waves, and how it reminded me of our first night together —crashing waves and sultry breezes on the sand—never dull, always on the edge of rocky.

April broke the silence, inquiring, “How are you, dear?”

“What happened in the closet?” I blurted. “Power? Exhibitionism? Control?”

April laughed her throaty laugh again. This time it wasn't sexy, but menacing instead. We clearly lusted after one another. But could I trust her?

I was conflicted. I knew I didn't want to be alone, but did I really want April? Was our time together a budding relationship? Was it a celebration of my newly awakened sexuality? Or was it my consolation prize for not being with a man? Stop thinking and just enjoy yourself, was the last thing my inner voice said before zoning out on the view from the car window.