the night's events through my mind, wincing. Beth added, “You were drinking and dancing and kissing…that's a good time.”
“And after that stare-fest of an intervention my good friends ambushed me with, that's what I'm supposed to be doing, right? I guess that group grilling paid off. So maybe I did have a good time, until I behaved like a buffoon. They'll hang my photo in the restroom, captioned “Heterosexual puker, stay away!”
“It's just beginner's bad luck,” Beth offered.
“I kissed a girl and I threw up!” I replied despairingly.
“It happens to the best of us,” Beth replied kindly.
“No, it doesn't. Hetero puker, a new disaster film with girl-on-girl action where an ingénue blows chunks. What an Oscar-worthy crowd pleaser. My dating pool is getting so small; soon it will be a shot glass!”
Chapter 7
Back in the Game
The morning after “Dyke Bar Disaster” I checked my email. I received six Facebook notifications, including one from Derrick. I signed onto Facebook to see what he had to say. He'd sent me photos of his two pre-teen daughters and the tree house he built for them. I wrote to him: 'Pretty daughters, nice tree house. Sweet, idyllic life. Wife?'
Checked my regular email. Found one from Diana that read:
Hey, Sara, guess what happened over the weekend? I was fed up with life and so was my friend Karla, so we went to Brophy's on the pier in Santa Barbara. I met an Israeli man. He was bald, heavy, short, interesting, and very, very rich. He asked me out that night. He's called me twice since then. Maybe I'm back in the game...
I called Diana. “Male attention again? You, with a short Israeli?”
She laughed. “When he stands on his money, we're both the same height.”
“Do you like him?” I asked. “Was he a good date?”
“He's a bull in a china shop--gruff, uncultured, demanding. He took me to dinner and God knows what's next.”
“What do you want next?” I asked. “You've had more men lusting after you than any woman I know. Attention from men is the greatest high for you.”
“He didn't push me to sleep with him,” replied Diana, confident of her red-hot sexual energy. “He got a peck on the cheek and that was it—not that he didn't want to come home with me. I don't know what this is all about, but I'm getting fat.”
“I guess you won't want to do lunch with me tomorrow then?” I asked.
Diana said, “I'll meet you. Let's go to that Mexican place in Agoura Hills.”
Next day Diana arrived stylishly late. Dressed to flaunt her figure, she wore white cotton pants that hung on her tushless, boyish behind and billowed around her ice skater's legs. On top, she wore a slinky, black V-neck sweater, revealing her ample cleavage with proud assurance. Flaxen hair framed her welcoming face, giant eyes, and animated smile. The thing I liked most about her Diana-ism: we spent so much time talking about her life and problems that my own concerns seemed miniscule.
Before we ordered, Diana said, “The Israeli called last night. It was a long night of sex, wine, and worship. I didn't think he had it in him, but he sure had it in me!”
“You enjoy men, all men, don't you?” I asked purposefully.
“They light me up and make me feel alive…vibrant. The younger they are, the more alive I feel,” she said.
“I'm so tired of hearing men say that about women,” I replied.
“There's something about the electricity of a passionate man, Sara…”
“I feel so caught up in your dates. I get a vicarious thrill—you're going through it all, so I don't have to.”
Don't you miss the pleasure, lust, and the laughter?” Diana asked. “A man's skin and his heat on you? What about the adventure of a new man and all of his surprises?”
Chips and margaritas arrived at the table. I crunched hard at the thought of male heat and its surprises. I tried hard to picture myself in a happy, intimate moment with a man. No image came to mind. Instead, my body tensed, my blood
“And after that stare-fest of an intervention my good friends ambushed me with, that's what I'm supposed to be doing, right? I guess that group grilling paid off. So maybe I did have a good time, until I behaved like a buffoon. They'll hang my photo in the restroom, captioned “Heterosexual puker, stay away!”
“It's just beginner's bad luck,” Beth offered.
“I kissed a girl and I threw up!” I replied despairingly.
“It happens to the best of us,” Beth replied kindly.
“No, it doesn't. Hetero puker, a new disaster film with girl-on-girl action where an ingénue blows chunks. What an Oscar-worthy crowd pleaser. My dating pool is getting so small; soon it will be a shot glass!”
Chapter 7
Back in the Game
The morning after “Dyke Bar Disaster” I checked my email. I received six Facebook notifications, including one from Derrick. I signed onto Facebook to see what he had to say. He'd sent me photos of his two pre-teen daughters and the tree house he built for them. I wrote to him: 'Pretty daughters, nice tree house. Sweet, idyllic life. Wife?'
Checked my regular email. Found one from Diana that read:
Hey, Sara, guess what happened over the weekend? I was fed up with life and so was my friend Karla, so we went to Brophy's on the pier in Santa Barbara. I met an Israeli man. He was bald, heavy, short, interesting, and very, very rich. He asked me out that night. He's called me twice since then. Maybe I'm back in the game...
I called Diana. “Male attention again? You, with a short Israeli?”
She laughed. “When he stands on his money, we're both the same height.”
“Do you like him?” I asked. “Was he a good date?”
“He's a bull in a china shop--gruff, uncultured, demanding. He took me to dinner and God knows what's next.”
“What do you want next?” I asked. “You've had more men lusting after you than any woman I know. Attention from men is the greatest high for you.”
“He didn't push me to sleep with him,” replied Diana, confident of her red-hot sexual energy. “He got a peck on the cheek and that was it—not that he didn't want to come home with me. I don't know what this is all about, but I'm getting fat.”
“I guess you won't want to do lunch with me tomorrow then?” I asked.
Diana said, “I'll meet you. Let's go to that Mexican place in Agoura Hills.”
Next day Diana arrived stylishly late. Dressed to flaunt her figure, she wore white cotton pants that hung on her tushless, boyish behind and billowed around her ice skater's legs. On top, she wore a slinky, black V-neck sweater, revealing her ample cleavage with proud assurance. Flaxen hair framed her welcoming face, giant eyes, and animated smile. The thing I liked most about her Diana-ism: we spent so much time talking about her life and problems that my own concerns seemed miniscule.
Before we ordered, Diana said, “The Israeli called last night. It was a long night of sex, wine, and worship. I didn't think he had it in him, but he sure had it in me!”
“You enjoy men, all men, don't you?” I asked purposefully.
“They light me up and make me feel alive…vibrant. The younger they are, the more alive I feel,” she said.
“I'm so tired of hearing men say that about women,” I replied.
“There's something about the electricity of a passionate man, Sara…”
“I feel so caught up in your dates. I get a vicarious thrill—you're going through it all, so I don't have to.”
Don't you miss the pleasure, lust, and the laughter?” Diana asked. “A man's skin and his heat on you? What about the adventure of a new man and all of his surprises?”
Chips and margaritas arrived at the table. I crunched hard at the thought of male heat and its surprises. I tried hard to picture myself in a happy, intimate moment with a man. No image came to mind. Instead, my body tensed, my blood
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