Read The Last Place She'd Look Online
Authors: Arlene Schindler
Around sunset, I checked my email. I now had 266 friends on
Facebook
. That was two less than before. Dos amigos had unfriended me. Who were they? I searched through the thumbnail smiles of my “friends.” I wasn't exactly sure who left my page. But I was glad it wasn't Derrick or Jessica. I ended the day watching the last half of
Casablanca
, identifying with Ingrid Bergman's Ilsa, having feelings for Rick and Victor. She had a choice between romance and excitement, or sanity and consistency. She chose the latter but pined for the former. Is it wrong to be seeing two people at once? I've never really been in that situation before. It's not like Derrick lives here. He'll get tired of me soon, and the scenario will fizzle out. I fell asleep as the end credits rolled.
Morning: rolled out of bed, made coffee, checked email. Derrick will be spending this next weekend with his daughters attending their swim meets. I was relieved. But he thinks his feelings for me are growing warmer than the bubble bath we shared. That's not good. I hope spending more time with his daughters will help him see that they are his true priority. An editor at
Marie Claire
said she loved reading my clips/previous articles. So I sent her the following:
Recently I submitted some clips that were well-received, so I'm submitting the following story ideas for your consideration:
12 MEN TELL WHY THEY NEVER CALLED BACK. The date was great, he said he'd call again, and the phone never rang. Millions of women wonder and worry as to the reasons why. These men explain all the different reasons that keep them from picking up the phone. Some will surprise you. Many reasons don't even have anything to do with the date itself.
IS HE CHEATING ON YOU? — Ten Telltale Signs. Ways to figure out if your man is seeing other women would be followed by what you can do to remedy the situation.
Your body and mind are in the best shape they've ever been in. But between your busy schedule, and just not meeting anyone new, sleeping alone has become your state of affairs. STAYING SANE WHILE CELIBATE would be anecdotes and advice from women and men who have been celibate for months and years, as well as doctors, psychologists, and psychotherapists.
THE BEST BREAK-UP I EVER HAD would be a roundup of healthy experiences and ways to achieve relationship closure that help you heal and move on. This would include real-life anecdotes and advice from psychologists and therapists.
Anyone could see what was on my mind by the story ideas I was pitching. I pressed send and took a shower. After drying my hair and putting on a new pair of yoga pants, I went back to my computer. Email from Jessica:
Today's a new caravan for open houses. Love for you to join me.
Hmm, what do you learn on caravans for open houses? The downturn in the economy created an abundance of short sales. How could my readers of women's magazines benefit from that? If I learned more about real estate, staging homes for sale, décor, mortgages, short sales, and foreclosures, I could expand the subject matter I was also growing tired of writing about, as well as pitch to a new group of well-paying publications. I called Jessica, and agreed to join her.
Changing my clothes to look more like a broker going on a caravan, I took my larger purse and grabbed a notebook so I could learn more and increase my knowledge of home-selling, buying, and everything in between.
Jessica and I spent the afternoon driving from house to house. I learned about flooring, inset lighting, bonus rooms, and school districts. And, I got to see Jessica in action—confident, detail-oriented, and poised to immediately find the key selling points of every home we explored. Loving her smarts, we ended the day at
El Coyote.
Over margaritas and burritos, we recapped the day's events and how this fit in with the week's activities of being a successful real estate broker, especially in this difficult market. I was feeling giddy with knowledge, and not ready for the day to end.
“Jess, do you have anywhere to be?” I asked, not sure what I was up for. “I was thinking about taking a walk through the Beverly Center, maybe some retail therapy. I've learned so much today. The best way for me to process information is to digest it at a makeup counter. Maybe Bloomingdale's or Sephora?” I inquired.
“Sure, why not?” she responded eagerly.
Next, we giggled through
Sephora
, trying on lipsticks, eye shadows, rubbing skin lotions on each other's hands with the zeal of high school girls. The ease and comfort I felt being near her, able to touch and laugh unselfconsciously filled me with joy.
“I never did anything like this with my last girlfriend,” Jessica remarked, while inspecting under-eye concealers.
“What did you two enjoy together?” I asked, hoping to learn more about her.
“We spent a lot of time visiting each other's parents. Dinner on Friday nights with hers, Sunday brunches with mine. I guess she really wanted a domesticated life. I didn't realize how straight she wanted to be.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired.
“She left me for a man. Saw him behind my back while we lived together.”Yow, that smarted. I wiped lipstick number five from my mouth and tried to change the subject. “Seen anything here you want?” I said, pointing to the lipsticks.
“Just you, babe.” She nuzzled me, made her selection, and walked to the register.
After we each bought a lipstick (mine was mad mauve, hers was peaches n' cream) we went back to the car. As soon as we'd each closed our door, we looked at one another. Before we could buckle into our seatbelts, we started making out.
Twenty minutes later, when the lip-lock cooled down, Jessica said, “Want to go somewhere else?”
“Sure!” I said, bubbling with anticipation, not even caring where it was, as long as it was with her, feeling deliriously happy and joyfully sane. Then Jessica drove to our next destination…
Feeling revitalized, I relished being with Jessica; she was quite intriguing, sexually and otherwise, because she kept so much inside, revealing her secrets slowly and discreetly like a Renaissance courtesan or geisha. I assumed she was a wise, knowledgeable lover who after ending her last relationship was looking to have her love life jump-started, like a car with a bad battery. I longed to tease out and provoke her inner vixen.
I was surprised and pleased when she drove to The Pleasure Chest, a store that sold erotic paraphernalia. Located on Santa Monica Boulevard, between Boys Town in West Hollywood and the newly immigrated Ukrainian community, the parking lot was almost full. There was one spot near the door. Jessica's car slid into the spot.
The store was as packed as a mall two days before Christmas. None of the patrons paid attention to us, two old broads strolling through the aisles of the sexual supermarket. We passed dildos, cock rings, spikes, and leather gear. We each discreetly pointed at items we found ridiculous or horrifying, like electronic-powered penis pumps or dildos longer than umbilical cords.
“With stuff like this, guys need us like they need a third testicle,” said Jessica. “Pierced, tattooed, or otherwise.”
We turned a corner and faced a floor-to-ceiling wall of vibrators. We stopped and carefully touched and explored each cylindrical pleasure toy, reading the promises on the packages: ribbed, waterproof, soft, pliable, powerful.
“Are you buying anything?” I asked, eager to learn her dildo preferences, thinking this would give me a clue about her sexual preferences.
“Oh, of course,” she said.
“Which call out to you?” I asked.
“Simple and uncomplicated is always best,” she said, suddenly cool and certain.
Most of the vibrators had a scary, space-age, intimidating mystique. About eight models of waterproof, exotic novelties, all endorsed by a television sexpert from the show
Talk Sex with Sue Johnson
, were at eye level on the wall. We'd both seen Sue's show on the Oxygen network. She was a retired nurse— and about 70 years old. On her call-in show, she spoke about sex with the same delight and matter-of-factness as Martha Stewart preparing a pie crust. So, counting on her expertise, we narrowed our sights to Sue-approved toys.
I took one off the wall, showed it to Jessica, and asked, “What do you think?”
“Good width, not pliable enough. It'll be too hard,” she replied authoritatively.
I felt like Goldilocks in the dildo store: too big, too little, or just right? I put it back and reached for another. “What about this one?”
Jessica shook her head. “No, I had one like that. It set off the metal detector in the airport. I was detained and searched,” she stated matter-of-factly as she reached for a package containing a sea green item with a purposefully rounded head. It was a cross between the inside of a tube of toothpaste and the sea creature, Cecil, from the cartoon of my childhood,
Beany and Cecil
. It was called
Royal Servant
and the shape resembled the penis of my college boyfriend.
I took the package from Jessica, inspected further, and read the box. It was a keeper. She took another
Royal Servant
from the wall.
“We're buying identical vibrators?” I asked her, intrigued by her dildo confidence and familiarity.
Jessica shrugged. “Years ago, I worked in a store like this in Miami. The police busted the store. I got arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior,” Jessica said, laughing, as we each held our purchases and walked to the cash register.
I paused, looked her up and down, and said, “How come I never knew this?”
“I was a different woman in another life. Once your free bird tastes fear, you never fly the way you used to.” When Jessica was profound and off-handed, I knew it meant, 'Don't ask any more questions.'
The checkout girl opened each package and inserted batteries to make sure that “he” worked. Then she asked if we wanted to buy the batteries. We each said
“No,”
confident that we had a stash in our respective junk drawers at home. Then the girl asked us, “Please test that the texture and movement is agreeable to you.” She was like a sommelier in a restaurant uncorking a bottle of wine.
“He” passed the test and we grabbed our respective black plastic bags containing our
Royal Servant
and drove to my house. Because we each had challenging work days the following day, we shared a friendly hug goodnight before Jessica drove home.
I went upstairs, unlocked my door, and rushed straight to my battery stash. There were batteries there: C batteries, D batteries, and AAA batteries—but no AAs for my new vibrator. Oh, no. I bolted into the bedroom and pirated my television remote. More AAAs. Even now, when I thought my orgasm was within my battery-operated control, self-pleasure was fraught with frustration. The moment was laughably disappointing, like most of my sex life.
The following day, I bought new batteries, brought them home, and tried my new
Royal Servant
. As I rubbed it against my pleasure zones, I felt myself tingling in harmony with the vibrator's hum. I looked at the shape and thought again of my college boyfriend. I laughed because I was experiencing greater pleasure than I did years ago in his twin-size dorm bed, fumbling and sneaking around. I was reminded again that orgasms with men could be over-rated. I could feel this any time I wanted—all this pleasure—at my control—and no one had to buy anyone dinner. Could it get any better?
There must be other women out in the world going through sexual confusion and identity awakenings as I was, but where would I find them? I searched the Internet and found a group called the Community of Older Lesbians (COOL) that met near my house. The website stated that the group was for lesbian women age 50 and older. Well, I'd been 50 for five minutes and a lesbian for four, so I guessed I qualified.
Jessica, in support of my sexual evolution, agreed to accompany me, so we entered the room at the community center on the grounds of Plummer Park, off Santa Monica Boulevard. We were faced with a dozen lesbians closer to my mother's age than our own. Some looked like they'd entered a Gertrude Stein look-alike contest. Others had feisty, ageless personalities. One white-haired woman attended with her home health aide. I wondered, “Was her aide a lesbian, too?”
Mary, the meeting leader, 64 and overweight, had a girlish, vibrant spirit and beamed as she told the story of her 10-year anniversary with her partner, Aida. Aida was the 72-year-old braless, grey-haired woman sitting next to me. She gushed about the secluded cabin in Napa Valley where they hot-tubbed, sipped Cabernet, and celebrated their life together.
Hearing Mary talk about her contentment and happiness, I reflected on my mother's last 15 years of life. She was alone, reading books, seldom going out, waiting for something or someone while remaining removed and closed off. How much fuller her life could have been if she'd embraced a Mary or an Aida.
Looking around the room at my possible future, most of the women seemed engaging and happy. The meeting evolved into a discussion about the aging process.
“I don't take long walks the way I used to,” said Doris from the back of the room.
Another woman, Gloria, chimed in, “I've had grab bars installed in the showers of my home.”
Carmen, an older Latina lesbian, said, “I remember a lecture on aging last month. Someone stood, held their hand up, pointed their index finger in the air, and slowly showed it curling downward, saying, 'This is aging.'” Everyone laughed. My first thought was that Carmen's finger simulated an old man's dwindling, impotent penis.
She said, “Everything just curls up, shrinks, and gets slower.”
Everyone nodded sadly. I continued thinking about an old man's penis.
“If you lose something, try to focus and retrace your steps. If you still can't find it, look in the fridge. That's where I find my keys or eyeglasses,” said Aida.