A Year Straight (10 page)

I essentially sleep-worked through my day in my new pin-striped shirt until it was finally time to meet my brother. He was late, which was nothing new. We'd set a time to meet, I'd get there early, and he'd show up just shy of an hour late. You'd think I'd have learned to give him a fake time; seven when I really meant eight.

“Hey Al.” My brother scowled at me as he took his seat in the birch-wood booth. Al was his childhood nickname, assigned by my parents and short for “always late.” He hated it, so I made sure to use it often.

“I'm so sorry, Sis. This DJ came in right when we were closing up, and he wouldn't stop talking.” My brother worked at a DJ equipment and record shop. A chatterbox himself, I had a hard time imagining that he played a completely passive role in the conversation. But I wasn't mad. I was used to
his tardiness. One might even say it's part of his charm. But I wouldn't go so far.

“It's fine, Bro, but I ordered for you. I hope you're in the mood for veggie kombu with curry.” I asked my brother to catch me up on work and his latent crush on a girl who worked at a pastry shop up the street. He'd been talking about her for weeks. Little progress had been made toward a first date, but in the meantime, he was the lucky recipient of many free treats.

“Why don't you just go in there and ask her out?” I suggested.

“No, I don't want to act just like every other guy,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I slurped up my scalding noodles with chopsticks. “Of course, I have my own theories, but I want to hear it from you.”

“Well, for example, I don't know if the pastry girl is feeling me or not. She might be into the flirtation but not want anything more than that. Or she might be annoyed that I haven't asked her out yet. I have no idea. But of the two options, I'd rather err on the safe side than have this nice vibe between us turn sour because I ask her out and she's like, ‘Oh great, another dude who can't just come in and have a pleasant exchange with me without assuming that means I want to get with him.'”

“That's true,” I said, perusing the dessert menu.

“And besides, I don't get caught up in the quick strike
approach. If something is worth waiting for, I can be patient. It's more about subtly planting seeds—not the impregnating kind, more like smiles that may lead to something more. But if they don't, smiles aren't a bad thing to be spreading around, right ? Plus, you've had those éclairs. They're kind of off the chain. I don't want to burn that bridge!”

“Yeah, they are. In fact, can we go there now? None of the desserts on the menu sound appealing.”

“Oh hell no. I just went in there yesterday. I never go two days in a row.”

I sighed and closed my menu, as well as the topic of men. My brother wasn't going to be any help. He's more of a girl than I am.

I
t was perfect timing when I received an invitation to to an all-girl holiday party. A friend I had met at one of my brother's many DJ gigs had rented out a section of Flute, a champagne bar in the Gramercy area of Manhattan. That neighborhood normally got on my nerves, with its beautiful gated park accessible to residents only. I'd walk around the fence now and then hoping for an open door, feeling like a teenager trying to find an adult to buy me beer. But in the case of the all-girl holiday party, going to that part of town made me feel fancy. A bunch of girls getting dressed up for some dancing and celebrating of the holiday season without the distraction of men—just what the doctor ordered following my flurry of dating fiascos. And since all the girls were straight, there would be no temptations for Miss Lez either. I was looking forward to a night of jolly frolicking, free of the stresses of sexual tension.

I bought a new dress for the occasion—a layered black mesh fabric cut just above the knee, with lace trim running along the low neckline. I paired it with my favorite vintage leather boots, relieved to assemble the quirky combination without wondering if it was the “right” thing to wear. I'd become overly conscious of my ensembles, thinking way too much about what guys might or might not find attractive. I'd been doing some undercover research, asking the opinions of my male coworkers under the guise of proving men's inferiority to women. They were used to it.

“Noah, do men have a preference for long or medium-length hair on women?”

“Ah! I knew you'd come around.”

“You wish. I'm just curious. I may be batting for the other team, but we play the same game.” Noah leaned on the edge of my desk.

“Well, we probably notice three lengths: There is hair so short you look like a boy. Shoulder-length hair is good for pulling a bit. Then there is hair down to your ass, which will take too long to get ready and will undoubtedly get in the way. Everything in between is the same haircut just grown out.” It couldn't be possible that guys didn't notice the difference after a $200 trip to the hair salon. Over lunch one day, I decided to dig deeper. What other wisdom might Noah impart to me as he attacked his Chipotle burrito?

“Noah, today's topic: shoes. What do men really like?”
I was curious, because I mistrusted Megan's claim that men preferred heels. Instead I leaned toward the theory that the confidence I gained by being able to walk outweighed the sex appeal of an extra few inches.

“Shoes ?” Noah took a chug of his Coke. “They cover your feet. Like hair, they come in three types. There are flat shoes you can run in, heels that make your legs look hot, and boots for rain and snow. We may notice the difference between red, black, and white shoes, but there are no middle shades. Baubles, bells, and decorations, you can be certain we don't see.”

I took notes on my napkin.
Shoes: boots fine, colorblind

“Okay then, what about lingerie?” I asked, boldly crossing into suggestive territory.

“What, like what color should it be?”

“Yeah, I guess. And does it make a difference whether it's expensive or not?” I'd seen some decent-looking lingerie in the window of Joyce Leslie for only $14.99.

“Honestly, I think we couldn't care less what it looks like. I've had many women ask me what kind of lingerie I like most. It's like wrapping paper on a Christmas present, and men are like kids. We can't wait to rip it off and get to the fun part. So yeah, you look hot in it. Amazing in fact. But we notice that the package is wrapped, not the pattern on the paper.”

“And while we're on the topic,” Noah outlined my outfit with his finger in the air. “I can't stand the latest dress-over-jeans
fad. Don't put on jeans that flaunt your ass and make it look great and then cover it up with a tent. I mean, it's different for you because you're not trying to attract dudes, but this mix-and-match style drives men crazy. And another thing,” Noah continued (clearly I'd unleashed the dragon). “Don't yell at us for checking you out in spandex and running gear. You are actually naked save for a two-millimeter layer of clothing. What do you expect us to do? Men check out women as more of a pastime, perhaps the way women window-shop for shoes. We're thinking,
Oh, that looks nice,
and then it's out of our mind as we move on to the next person walking down the street. In no way does it mean we're not satisfied in our relationship. I look at women and cars the same way.”

“Alright then, what exactly are you guys looking for then? In a relationship?” I asked, perched on the edge of my seat.

“What dudes are really looking for is a girl that looks hot on Sunday morning in sweatpants and a hoodie. Anyone can put on makeup and nice clothes and look great. We want a girl who looks sexy while she is helping us paint the house. All we really want to do is eat, sleep, do a little work that makes us feel manly, have fun, and do it all over again. And we sure as hell don't need to fill silence with words. A ride with my guy friends to the beach equals loud music, an occasional funny story, and a grunt here and there. We give one-word answers, pound fast food, slurp down sodas, and arrive. A ride with my girlfriend is exhausting. I feel like we have to throw the
conversation ball back and forth from the time I start the car until I put it in park. You females are always criticizing men for being simple. The thing is, we never argued with you!”

“Noah?” I asked, leaning back, smiling and twirling my pen in my hand.

“Yeah?”

“Don't use the word
female
as a noun.”

 

 

SINCE I'D RECENTLY learned that women appreciate each other's outfits more than men do, I was excited to once again get decked out for the girls.

By the time I arrived at the party, the other women were already tipsy, refilling each other's flutes with Veuve before their glasses were even empty. Apparently, we were all overdue for a break from men. The gracious host walked around offering hush puppies to her guests, playfully serving them off the mound of cleavage pouring out of her dress. Our private party area was sectioned off from the rest of the bar by thick red velvet curtains. Since there were no men at the party, there was a relaxed, playful feeling in the room. It felt like I was in the dressing room at the strip club where my friend used to work. Hidden from the male gaze, the girls would compliment each other's outfits and fluff each other's hair in an air of camaraderie.

“Who makes your dress?” asked a voice with a thick accent, German I suspected. I turned to face a gorgeous girl
in a beautiful dress. She had a cast on her hand, which she'd attempted to cover with a matching silk wrap.

“Oh, it's Weston Wear,” I said, “my favorite designer from San Francisco. She was a dancer and therefore makes clothes you can actually move in.” I did a little wiggle to demonstrate.

“I like it,” she said, running her fingers through the fabric. “But this type of clinging fabric does not work so well on me.”

“I see you two have met,” the hostess said, bounding over with a bottle of bubbly. “Annika and Karoline are designers, and I think you'd really like their stuff. This is one of theirs,” she said, spinning around and bending over to showcase the open back of her dress.

“It's beautiful,” I said. Annika grabbed the bottle and filled my glass to the brim.

“I need someone to keep up with me,” she said. “I am trying to numb the pain.” She held up her arm with the cast and frowned.

“Yeah, what happened there?” I asked.

“Pole dancing incident.”

“Oh.” I drank a generous gulp from my glass.

“Karoline and I are taking classes, and I attempted some little stunts I should not have. I was trying to gracefully slide down the pole upside down and then lusciously drip myself into a chair. Let's just say I received many black and blues, and Karoline almost had a heart attack.”

Just then her friend walked up and joined the conversation.

“This is Karoline,” Annika said. Karoline reached out her hand to shake mine.

The three of us chatted about clothes, a topic I never grow tired of. I could add designer to the list of things I've wanted to be. Their inspiration: sixties hippie meets layperson pole dancer. The result: long, bodice-hugging blouses (or short dresses if you dared, which apparently Paris Hilton did) thrown over jeans and topped off with, you guessed it, tall vintage boots. We made a natural trio and posed as Charlie's Angels for the host's flashing camera.

As the night wore on, women started to forgo glasses altogether and instead drink champagne straight from the bottle. There was a charge of sexual energy in the room; the vortex the host, who pranced around snapping sexy photos. Women grabbed each other's waists and pressed their chests together, puckering up to make kissy faces for the camera. Annika and I talked and laughed at the perimeter of the party, taking turns to stock up on double helpings of hors d'oeuvres.

Suddenly there was a roar of cheering. I looked up to see two straight girls lip-locked under a piece of mistletoe someone was dangling above their heads. They were full on making out, French style (and not the bonjour kiss on each cheek). A circle formed around them, and the host's camera flashed continuously, creating a strobe light effect. Two other women replaced the first ones and after that two
more. It was a game of spin the bottle without the bother of the bottle (though there would have been plenty to choose from, based on the amount of champagne that had clearly been consumed).

“Kiss her, she's Miss Lez!” the host yelled, pointing at me and shoving a woman in my direction. I nearly spit my drink onto the floor. I laughed nervously and refused the tempting offer, holding my hand up and shaking my head. But I had little choice, as I was outnumbered. I was pulled into the circle with force. The next thing I knew I was kissing somebody. I couldn't see who it was in the craze of the worked-up crowd, but I knew it was a woman because her face was lusciously soft. After a few seconds, I tore myself away, giggling along with the rest of the girls, floating on their contagious high of rebellion.
What the heck is happening?
They fought over who got to kiss me next. As Miss Lez, I was a novelty. I retreated back to my place near Annika.

“Miss Lez?” Annika said.

I described the pageant and gave Annika the lowdown on my recent antics, but she was not very interested in my stories about men.

“What is it like, being with a woman?” Annika asked, linking her arm in mine. I stood there stunned, overcome with shyness in her presence. My state of ease had gone poof with the new notion that straight girls can go gay when drunk, like gremlins when fed after midnight (only good). I
had watched that terrifying movie during a slumber party with friends in fourth grade, and come to think of it, that party had unfolded quite like this one.