December 2006, Reseda, California

By Anna Vik

“Are you Mexican?” she asked.

“No,” I said. I wondered whether she only liked dark, ethnic chicks. I wondered whether I was too white to turn her on. She took my comment quietly, though. I bit my lip. I hoped the moment of silence didn’t mean she had lost interest in me. She said in an email that she was a soft butch. I didn’t know exactly what that was, but thought it sounded incredibly sexy.

“What are you looking for?” she said.

“I - I don’t know,” I said. “I just want to go on a date.”

“OK,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly sweet. She suggested that we meet that night at a local gay bar in Reseda. I spent the entire day shopping for clothes. I was going to go on a date with a woman. I started running out of time. I was going to go on a date with a woman.

I found a pair of contacts that were buried under remnants of make-up. I scraped off the congealed concealor and peeled the plastic off the top. I wondered what was scarier: going on a blind date or putting in contacts.

I stared at my pale face. I was not Persian. I was no Chicana. Therefore, I must not wear glasses. I hoped it would magically slip into place even though my terrified eye remained shut throughout the assault. I thought maybe I could jam it through my closed eyelid, but after several failed attempts, I realized I must do the unthinkable. I must open my eye.

I wanted her to have an unobstructed view of the dazzling eye make-up I would carefully apply. I hoped the enhanced sexiness of my gaze would enable her to overlook my less than erotic ethnicity. Between the contacts and the tears, my eyes glimmered with strange beauty, their ordinary blue polished into a strange and dreaming turquoise. I looked at the time on my cell phone and swore. I was supposed to meet Elaine in 10 minutes. I sprayed on too much perfume and ran out of the house wearing the same clothes I’d had on all day.

I slipped into my ‘93 Ford Escort and turned the key in the ignition. Except for the fact that I couldn’t see, I was ready to go. But by the time I got onto the 118 east, I was already 10 minutes late. I was nervous about calling her, but didn’t want to be rude and keep her waiting.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi,” I said. What did a lesbian sound like? I’d been on a lot of dates, but never with a woman. I’d been on a lot of dates with guys, trying to get drunk enough to want to have sex with them. Even though I’d pass out, I never did get that drunk. But in the mercifully blurred memories, I could imagine there had been passion and beauty. I could imagine that it had been sexy.

Her silence on the phone was expectant, like she was wondering why I’d called.

“I’m running a little bit late,” I said.

“That’s OK,” she said.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. I was not cool. Did I even deserve to be a lesbian?

“Really, it’s OK,” she said. She sounded like she meant it, and I calmed down.

“I’m wearing a flowered shirt,” she said, “and cowboy boots.”

I realized she was a real person. Up until that point she had existed as a surreal figment of my gay imagination. I suddenly understood that it was not an email who would be meeting me for drinks.

“I’m wearing a long skirt,” I offered shyly, “and a black tank top.”

“Oh, I’ll see you,” she said. Was she flirting with me? I swerved slightly into the lane next to me at the thought. We got off the phone. I concentrated on following the car in front of me. My eyes felt like they were full of jagged splinters. Whenever I touched my eyes everything became blurry.

I tried to imagine what she would look like. Her feminine voice made me imagine a petite woman. When she said she was wearing a flowered shirt, I pictured a middle aged woman vaguely resembling a housewife. Maybe she was as nervous and inexperienced as I. She hadn’t responded to my ad with an email containing pictures of her vagina. It freaked me out when they did that. I was intimidated by girls who included sexy shots of their arched backs or lacy black bras when they wrote. I was intimidated by girls period. I didn’t know how to be 22 and gay.

I reached the Reseda off ramp and exited right. I drove down the road that stretched like eternity. I panicked as I kept driving and no bar appeared on the left-hand side of the road. Finally, I saw it and parked around the corner. I’d never been so excited about seeing a bar before.

There was a small patio table outside with a lit candle. I stepped inside. The music pulsated like the bodies on the dance floor. The flashing lights and fog machine added a touch of riotous ambience. The gay men supplied the rest.

“Honey, you are too cute,” said a man walking by in tight black pants and a low cut shirt.

“Thank you,” I said. I wore my inexperience and long skirt awkwardly.

“Are you here by yourself?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Elaine,” I said. His eyes momentarily registered confusion, but I was too nervous to take much notice. He pointed to the bar and I saw Elaine. She was wearing a button up Hawaiian shirt, the kind stereotypically featured on tourists. Her baby fine hair was simple and short. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. She wasn’t thin. She looked like she was in her 50s. She looked butch.

For a moment she stared at me. Her motionless hand encircled the base of the drink she’d been about to pick up. She was as shocked by my appearance as I was by hers.

It was awkward.

“You must be Anna,” she said. It was hard to hear her above the music. I think I nodded. Maybe I said hello.

“Let me get you a drink,” she said, turning to the bartender. I ordered a glass of Merlot, and was secretly thrilled when she refused to let me pay. We went onto the patio, where mostly male groups were congregated around the tables.

“Who’s the hottie?” slender men murmured suggestively as we walked past.

“This is my friend Anna,” she would say. I was weirdly disappointed that she made it clear to other people that we weren’t on a date. We settled down onto a little bench on the back patio. We chatted with the people around us. She was animated, friendly, and I realized she was proud to be with me that evening. Everyone knew Elaine.

When she left to get us another drink everyone said how funny she was, and how much they liked her. She came back and sat down next to me. An entrancing smell twined past the reek of the cigarettes. Was it coming from flowers somewhere? I realized the interesting fragrance was coming from her. I took off my jacket. She watched me. I don’t know what happened to the people we had been talking to. They disappeared. She couldn’t stop looking at me. I could feel her devouring me with her eyes even though I was staring at her hand. I wanted to touch her hand.

I did. I saw her initial incredulity change into a look of consuming desire. I felt her entire body thrill. Having a woman look at me in pure lust was unlike any sensation I’d ever experienced. It was like being swallowed by a wave, knocked head over heels, helpless to resist the powerful surges pushing me upward until I surfaced, gasping for air.

Regardless of whether or not I deserved to be a lesbian, I knew at that moment I was one. We decided to get another drink. We ended up having several more.

She wouldn’t let me pay for any of them. I was intoxicated, but this time it wasn’t from the alcohol. I wandered onto the dance floor next to the bar. A beautiful black girl was dancing. She was wearing a white dress and no shoes. I was mesmerized by her grace. She was a poem dancing at a dive bar. She was there with a woman in her late 40s.

“I don’t know how to dance,” I said.

“It’s OK,” she said, “just move with the music.”

Was it OK for me to be dancing with another girl? I was afraid it would hurt Elaine’s feelings, even though we weren’t on a date, and I watched her from the corner of my eye, trying to detect any signs of jealously. Instead of seeming hurt, she looked dazzled. She was pointing me out to everyone. I hoped, just for the hell of it, she was telling people I was her date.

“Do you like older women?” the girl asked me with a sweet smile.

“Yes,” I said, and we danced.

Anna Vik resides in LA and is currently writing her first novel. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, April 2nd, 2007 | Email This Post

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