her brow slightly. “Will it be arguments about butch/femme, pro or con—that sort of thing, you think? Maybe fights about whether bisexuality is a betrayal or is it political to use a dildo? Insider gossip about celebrity girl-on-girl action? Give me something to work with here.”
“Lucia, I just need to send one e-mail.” I spoke firmly in a tone my mother used. I put extra emphasis on her name. “I can get you some real information about this and pitch it again.”
“Yeah, fine.” She put the cigarette down and switched from 50 Cent to the Dixie Chicks. Clearly, I was dismissed.
Chapter 4
From: [email protected]
Subject: sex conference?
CC:
BCC:
Attached:
Caitlin: I met you the other day at New Amsterdam. I hope you remember me. I’d like to find out more about your sex conference. Sincerely, Angela Wright
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: sex conference
CC:
BCC:
Attached:
How could I forget? Call me Cait. Let’s get together tomorrow at Cookie’s. Does 7 P.M. work? I have a break between classes and meetings.–C
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: re: sex conference
CC:
BCC:
Attached:
Yes, good. I look forward to seeing you. Angela
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: re: re: sex conference
CC:
BCC:
Attached:
P.S. Don’t bring your fiancé.
Chapter 5
I walked up to the front of Cookie’s at about 6:45, horrified to be arriving early. That seemed so utterly eager and desperate. But maybe it was better to have Cait walk in and see me sitting back, relaxed and cute, than for her to spot me pacing up and down Columbus Avenue looking anxious, disheveled and crazy. I wanted to seem cool—not too excited—but my real feelings were betraying me.
Cookie’s was a funky dive uptown not far from that other university. It served small vegetarian meals, herb tea, wine and beer, and sometimes featured folky live music. It had a definite lesbian vibe, which was why I usually avoided it. I had been dragged there a few years ago with Oz, a friend from college. He lived on the Upper West Side and had been on a health kick and had stopped eating meat altogether. Over seiten stir-fry, mashed sweet potatoes and two glasses of syrah, Oz confessed that he thought it would be very hot to do it with two women. I’d been secretly wondering what it would be like to do it with one woman. He had giggled and looked at me expectantly.
“Oz, you need to pick up two women here then, because I’m not going to be one of them.” I had laughed nervously. He’d always felt more like a brother than anything else. I’d hoped he wasn’t flirting with me. “You see anyone or any two you like?”
We had both looked around. No good prospects for him. Or for me if I had been seriously looking, not just playing this secret, silly little game with myself. This was not exactly the L-Word crowd. Oz had shrugged sheepishly and we’d both laughed.
Oz wasn’t with me tonight, though. I was alone in a lesbian-centric restaurant. Was everybody staring at me? I walked quickly through the small restaurant hoping not to attract attention. When I lifted my head and looked around briefly, I realized how well it was working: No one was paying me any mind. A group of college-age men and women were crowded onto a paisley couch in front of a tableful of books. They were drinking coffee and quizzing each other for an exam of some sort. Next to them, two women sat in thick, dark wood chairs, sharing a sandwich and staring lovingly at a baby in a bouncy seat on top of their table. Nearby a group of women, a sports team I guessed judging from their bloody knees and mud-smeared faces, was drinking beer, jabbing each other and talking loudly.
I made my way to the back, which was dimly lit by a small antique lamp. I sank down into a puffy sofa, and tried to look natural as I waited for Cait. I pulled out a magazine—oops, my own—then shoved it back into my bag. I didn’t want her to see me reading that. Or any magazine. Cait and her crew didn’t seem too keen on the “press.” It was a little dark for reading anyway.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long. Cait strode in, a few minutes early, looking as fresh as first thing in the morning. She was wearing a light blue sweater, low-cut jeans, her hair slightly damp. Walking through Cookie’s, Cait’s stride was comfortable and confident as she looked around for me. She stopped briefly to touch the shoulder of one of the girl jocks, probably a student of hers. Then she spotted me in the back. She smiled big, her face genuinely joyful. As she hugged me tightly, I devoured her scent—Ivory soap and hand-washed laundry hung outside to dry.
“You are beautiful,” she said, looking me up and down, in a way that was appreciative rather than lascivious. There it was, “beautiful.” For a moment I felt just that. “I’m glad to see you.” I was surprised, because she meant it. She was stripped of pretense—no air kisses or sarcasm or prideful holding back.
Her directness was startling and refreshing. I wasn’t used to that, even from men, who tended to use tired pickup lines cribbed from R Kelly. Before Keith, the kind of men I had dated pursued their attraction in some circuitous, careful way. Keith had been mannerly and cautious, taking correct baby steps into our relationship. Before him, I had used an intermediary, a yenta of sorts. “Find out if he likes me before I like him.” After that, I had fallen into one or two relationships almost by default or by accident with a couple of men in college. We had been too polite to admit that sex should’ve been a one-night stand, rather than drunken, accelerated intimacy turned into ill-fitting, three-month couplings. Nothing was wrong with any of these men, but nothing was exactly right either. It’s not you, I wish I could have told each of them at the awkward end of the affairs; it’s your gender.
“Thanks.” I felt shy, giddy and goofy all at the same time.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Cait asked, looking at me with the directness that seemed her trademark. I noticed the suggestion of her British accent again.
“Uh, yes, I’ll have…” and then I stopped. I couldn’t think of what to say. This should’ve been the easy part, the drink. Not THE DRINK. But the decision seemed suddenly weighted. A few seconds passed. Cait tilted her head to the side, staring at me with amusement.
“Um, yes, I’ll have a scotch. On the rocks. With a twist of…lime.” At least I had said something, but why that? I didn’t even like scotch. Did people drink it with lime? Why was I ordering some old man’s brown drink? I sounded like my own grandfather.
“Well, they don’t serve hard liquor here, but they have this great homemade beer.” Cait spoke smoothly, helping me through the uncomfortable moment. “I’m having one; I’ll get you one, too, if that’s okay.”
“Sounds good.”
As Cait went up to the bar to get the drinks, I was starting to feel much more nervous. My forehead and underarms were damp with sweat, and I seemed to have developed a slight tic in my right eyebrow. I felt the hiccoughs coming on. Get it together, girlfriend. Girlfriend? Calm down and don’t call yourself girlfriend. This does not mean you’re a lesbian. This means nothing. You are doing research. With a woman you are attracted to. For