Men have a fascination, perhaps even an obsession. It's a buzz word, a Pavlovian placebo used to get the beer drinking men folk all riled up. There's an entire lucrative subsection of online entertainment dedicated to this Shangri La, this forbidden dream. You can even pay extra for it at the appropriate gentlemen's establishment.
What is it about twenty somethings and testosterone sapped married men, and the love of lesbians? They don't want to have sex with you. They don't want to have sex for your voyeuristic pleasure. Yet still, the mere mention of the word sends men into a frenzy of erotic waking wet dreams. I mean, the porno threesome with two smoking hot chicks seems like a swell night out. But that's rarely the reality, and I don't think those girls generally count as genuine lesbians. Then again, I never got my rule book in the mail, so what do I know, right? So let me debunk the lesbian fantasy myth once and for all, because Charlie Valentine has gone where few men have been privileged enough to travel.
After doing a quick inventory of my #SingleAfter30 relationships, I've come to a realization. Every lady I've dated has been very 'something'. There's something distinguishing, some characteristic you might even be able to define her by. Whether she's very smart, or very beautiful, or very talented, or very cruel, or very boring, or very psychotic. There was the figure skater, the attorney, the politician, the artist, the habitually unemployed, the functioning alcoholic. In other words, I tend not to date your typical girl next door type. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that you can add a doctor to that list. If only that were the most interesting part of her bio.
My job was in the court systems when I met Dr. Strangelove. The good doctor was working for the state, which often brought her into the courthouse to testify and provide her expertise. To be honest, I wasn't even attracted to her, at least not physically. Not that she wasn't an attractive woman, or somehow asymmetrical, but she obviously gave very little thought to her appearance. Never a hint of even faded makeup, short boyish hair that I never once saw groomed, and her clothing was so devoid of color or coordination it made her appear to be somehow devoid of life, if only judging by appearance. But we really got along, not even in a flirtatious way. I respected her, admired her as a person and as a professional. Perhaps professional relationships should remain that way.
A particular case she was involved in dragged out through the system for a couple of months, so we had the opportunity to chat almost every day. I don't recall why, again I wasn't attracted to her and it's not like I'm lacking willing company, but after one particularly explosive and stressful day in the courtroom I decided to ask her to join me for a drink; just a couple of pros talking shop and unwinding after a stressful day.
I should have known something was off about this night when she showed up to the lounge with her dog. This wasn't one of these pet friendly joints, it was a fairly upscale place you often run into the types of people whose faces you become familiar with from the local news. So I found that to be a bit presumptuous. Luckily, I talked the manager into letting the little mutt stay. It turned out to be a very pleasant time, she was an amazing conversationalist, and though we had very little in common, I was disappointed when she was ready to say goodnight. Time to take the dog for a walk. But hey, she's got a fine bottle of wine she wants to break open, and relax on her patio by the pool. Sounds like fun!
After the dog was walked and the wine poured, we continued our evening poolside by candlelight. She had obviously done well for herself; for a lady with no regard for her own appearance, she kept a very impressive, almost gaudy, home. She didn't flash her wealth in public, but she certainly enjoyed the comforts it provided her in her own privacy. We talked for hours, into the early morning dawn. Other than one awkward moment, this date was going absolutely perfect. Word of advice: If you run a BCI or other type of background check on a man, and it comes back clean, he doesn't need to know. He might be offended. By the time the glasses had emptied and the morning sky began to glow, she had pounced into my lap and shoved her tongue into my mouth.
Look, I'm no romance novelist. I wouldn't know how to describe a sexual experience in any kind of way that anyone is going to enjoy reading. Luckily, I don't have to. Because it was bad. The worst. Awkward. Like 15 year old fumbling around with a bra awkward. When it was over, she dropped the six scariest words you could hear while laying naked in a stranger's bed...
"I have a confession to make..."
Oh Jesus, this can't be good! She can't be pregnant already. Oh no, I hope she didn't used to be a man! Please not that, please not that. Why is she pausing? Does she have AIDS? Do I have AIDS now?! At least that would mean she's not a man. Then again I guess the two aren't mutually exclusive. Oh God, she used to be a man...
"I'm in the middle of a divorce. I've been married for the last 15 years..."
Ohthankchrist!! Oh sweet Jesus, thank you! That's not so bad. I've slept with married women, this is hardly a jaw dropper...
"...to a woman. You're the first man I've been with in 18 years."
And then she cried. A lot. Well, it certainly explained the awkwardness: it's like a convict spending two decades in prison, then asking him to operate the new fangled heavy equipment without reading a manual first. I suppose lesbians may not understand, either, that men don't get the same sensation in the nipple area as women. I was lactating blood for a week. But to be fair, Dr. Strangelove was much more, uh, generous than you might expect a lesbian to be. Yet equally inept.
It didn't take long before Dr. Strangelove was calling me every day. Several times a day. Sending flowers, even. She was obviously new to this. I knew it wouldn't be long before she was opening car doors for me and cutting my steak. I began to see the trap I had unwittingly fallen into: I was her straight man fantasy.
I knew I was being backed into a corner. I knew I had to squirm out of this as delicately as possible, lest I risk damaging this poor confused woman any further.
"Why don't you come over tonight?"
"Yeah, so about that..."
"My bed feels so empty."
"Riiight. So I was thinking..."
"Do you think your wife would be down for a little three way action?"
Thank you, goodnight! Remember to turn off the lights when you leave!
So my first lesbian experience may have been the exact opposite of every male fantasy you've seen play out on the internet. But I'm nothing if not persistent. And if at first you don't succeed, try try again...
#SingleAfter30: HLF Part 2!!!