Really, no one flinched when I told them I was going on a date with a lesbian.
Sure, I got several memos reminding me that I wasn’t gay, but that didn’t deter me.
Because the fact was, I just wasn’t meeting any cool guys. Not that I was looking for any, really, but more that I was addicted to the thrill of blind dates. My personal ad even said, in large font, that I was just looking for casual encounters, something to bud into a friendship. And then I would go on for a paragraph swearing that I wasn’t a whore. And I wasn’t. I never went home with any of those dates. I just honestly lived for the opportunity to meet new people.
My friend Brian, upon perusing my ad (which actually started as a joke), deadpanned, “Oh yeah, you won’t get KILLED or anything.
Have fun with that, weirdo.”
But the guys I was meeting were all vapid, bore me with football talk, and wanted to get into my pants. (Well, I was shocked!) So I decided it was time to switch things up and try my hand at a girl date.
And that’s how I found myself meeting Wendy and her friend Ron at Eat n’ Park.
Wendy was vapid, wore an offensively large Dallas Cowboys belt buckle and wanted to get into my pants.
I found myself in a silent prayer, thanking God for sending Ron with her.
During our meal (I had grilled cheese, that much I know), Wendy sat across from me and failed in her attempt to seduce me with her eyes. Instead, she just looked drowsy from psych meds. I was a bit let down that Wendy didn’t seem much involved in the conversation, or in getting to know me. At all. Unless it involved the exchanging of bra sizes and saliva. I was content chatting casually and comfortably with Ron while demolishing my grilled cheese (which he paid for and I can’t remember if I said thanks) and ignoring the salacious stares and ribald posturings belching from the Wendy Zone.
Toward the end of the meal, Wendy had been silently dragging her spoon across her sundae, presumably bored with the conversation topics which did not include:
- belt buckles and where to buy them the biggest
- ecru work shirts and the women who wear them
- the perils of dating outside of your sexual orientation
But suddenly, she looked up at me, and with those weird drowsy eyes, drawled, “I like whipped cream…and cherries.”
And then she licked her lips. And her eyes flittered down a little and I found myself hugging my boobs protectively, trying not to pee.
That night, while retelling the details to my friends, I felt so violated. So objectified!
“Well, was she hot?” I was undoubtedly asked.
“No!” I yelled.
“If she were, would you have—?”
“Maybe! But she wasn’t. It’s OK, I gave her no inclination that we’d be seeing each other again. Plus, she lives an hour away.”
Until the next day, when the phone calls began. Oh, the phone calls! Her primary job became calling me. In fact, I’m pretty sure she quit her actual job to make this so.
“So, I’m thinking of moving back to Pittsburgh,” was what I was presented with one day, with all the pleasure and joy of getting slapped in the face with a dead fish. “Ron said I could move in with him again.” And then, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
“Ron’s cool,” I said, at a loss for how to address her proclamation, and feeling a strong urge to peek out the blinds and make sure she wasn’t squatting behind a tree.
“Hey, what’s that song you have in your email?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s ‘Question of Lust’ by Depeche Mode,” I offered reluctantly. Why did she want to know? Was she going to give it to the DJ she already hired to play at our wedding reception, oh my God what I have done?
“I love it,” she slurred in her own warped version of sexiness. ” I play it all the time and I made my whole family listen to it.” When I said nothing, she went on to add the AWESOME admittance of, “They know all about you.”
I went on to handle Wendy the same way I handle the gas men: ignore the assholes until they go away. She called me for months. Hands down she was the toughest blind date to shake. Probably she’s forgotten about me by now, but I’m still cursed with her memory every time I hear that damn Depeche Mode song (which used to be my favorite!).
I’m not even sure Wendy was her name. I had written “Ron and the lesbian” beneath their picture in my photo album.
Now that I think about it, maybe it was Michelle.