1993, Seattle, Washington

By Susan D. Hyde

Before I became the mortgage-toting, middle-aged lesbian now known as Christopher’s mommy, Suzanne’s spouse of 11 years, and the baker of chocolate chip cookies for just any little occasion, I was a slut.

Pre- The L Word’s Shane (and, mind you, never as successful), I would seek out a babe with beautiful breasts and see if I could bed her.

Karen who lived in Solano Beach, met over a pool table and whom I’d visit by moped in the moonlight.

Al the Chinese-language student who discovered my lustful, wandering urges when I visited her in Taipei and who — as I was conked out post-flight — rustled through my carry-on to find a farewell Hallmark musical card from my current bang. (I woke drunk with exhaustion to the tinkling of the music as she held it close to my ear.).

The other Karen, who taught bilingual classes down in National City, drank in her off hours, and swore like a Tijuana hairdresser’s husband. (Lord, how she scared the elderly neighbors that night I told her to get out of my life, and she showed up to bellow at my apartment window.)

The third Karen, the coke freak assistant pizza stand manager with the constant boy pal who swore by the hidden life of numbers.

And all the 18-plus others whose names I forget or never really knew and the ones whose names I don’t want to use because I really did love them. I seduced them all, or on the very rare occasion, was seduced.

But the great game climaxed the night in 1993 when my housemate and I checked out the bath scene in Seattle. If you’re reading this, Ellie, do you remember? As a dyke in the ‘80s and ‘90s, I had certainly heard of the men’s baths: skanky places where guys did whatever to get themselves off. But those places really only existed for me in the pages of The Advocate, where the debate raged: Should the community close its bathhouses to rescue the next generation from the plague?

There wasn’t such a venture directed to lesbians, bis, transgenders, or curious straight women. That is, not until some enterprising soul thought to advertise a Girls’ Night Out in the Seattle Gay News. It was to take place at one of the men’s venues down in Pioneer Square, probably on a traditionally slow night. I don’t remember what the ad said, but it persuaded us that we needed to check out the scene. And I seem to recall a casual bet with Ellie: that I would find and fuck a stranger there. She always tended to dismiss my butch tendencies as being too locked into the sexual spectrum for my own good, but I knew in this type of situation, they’d be a boon.

We paid our entry fee (an outrageous $30 or $35) at the basement door and entered a confusing, ill-lit set of black-painted hallways and tiny rooms. These were crammed with women in various states of undress or outrageous outfits, eyeballing each other like stranded passengers. I dumped my shirt and bra into a locker and stomped around in black boots and jeans.

Each room had a purpose: Here was the hangout lounge; there the drinking and dancing lounge; this, the I-want-to-screw room; these the private liaison spaces; and way back in the very back the spa where naked women soaked. Ellie and I split up after she wished me luck. Ever social, she had already found friends to hang with.

I ambled around, my eyes finally adjusting to the light, excited, silent, wondering how the system worked. I was sure there was a system, some set of clues or signals that communicated from one person to another, “Yes, you. I want you.”

I found a wall to hang near (not against) and studied the rules of safe sex on a poster. They were slightly different, of course, for women; our tools of the trade were disposable gloves or sheets of latex, even better, plastic wrap, because it left no residue of chemicals on the tongue.

My eyes clicked back and forth among the subjects of my potential lust. The possibilities were limited. Most of them were too skinny or too tall or too drop-dead stunning to interest me or to be interested. I was waiting for the one. Better that she be alone, so I wouldn’t have to face humiliation-by-social-group were she to turn my invitation down.

I rehearsed lines: “Come here often?” “Want to fuck?” “Can I buy you a drink?” Lamer than a carpet layer. I tried them out on a couple of women who appeared to be alone. Easy targets, so I thought. Both rejected me, one with a smile and a, “No thanks,” and the other with a quick departure from my presence. Maybe she was meeting a friend? I debated the merits of lying to Ellie about my prowess.

Then I saw her. A big-haired redhead two inches shorter than I with bazoombas flowing from her corset. Here was my prey. And like a predator, I followed her around the maze to study her patterns of behavior. No, alas, she wasn’t alone. There with a small group. Younger than I, perhaps by a decade.

I paused. My general state of sobriety held me suspended between acting and imagining. I could leave, then lie. I could follow for another 20 minutes.

This place was cheesy and smelly. We were all actors performing our parts as sexual creatures without moral or memory. I was the proud butch. And like a quick plunge into cold water, I made my move. Sidled up to her and whispered, “I like what I see, and I’d like to see more.” Her eyes widened.

I took her hand and led her down the hall of private rooms, knocked on one slightly ajar, opened it and undressed her. It wasn’t making love. It was a one-act play of physical choreography into which I poured all the lessons I’d gained from the Karens and the others about pleasing a woman. Very little was said.

And when it was over, I took her hand again and led her back out to her friends, kissed her hand, and bade her farewell. Then I headed back to the spa to find Ellie and report back.

Victory tasted sweet, but it also was the end of the great game for me. I came home alone that night. The next day, and the one after that and after that, deliberately led me to the place where I am now: home payments, preschooler, and all of it.

I love my wife. I love my family. I love the steady beat of the treadmill as I walk on it, writing these words, remembering this story from my past. I used to make those seven-layer cookie bars, where you put in nuts and coconut and M&Ms and whatever else is around. The flavor can surprise with each bite. Now it’s just the chocolate chip variety. And because Christopher doesn’t eat nuts, there’s not even that complexity.

My pure and simple days now flow along like maidens in little boats.

Susan D. Hyde manages the content of two Web sites on business transformation and writes mysteries on the side. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, March 30th, 2007 | Email This Post

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