the open closet

We want to read about, you know...lesbian escapades!

Maybe I'm just a sad excuse for a lesbian. I suck at recruiting. This apparently holds true even when a woman expresses unbridled interest in me to begin with. You have to admit that, in a twisted way, I have a certain talent.

Long ago, when I was doing social work in Denver, I went out on the town with my workmates. I think that was the only time we all went out as a group, come to think of it. Amongst this august company was a stunning young woman named Alicia. She was about 5'1", about 105 lbs, with a perfect smile and complexion and long, luxurious dark brown hair.

As this was social work, we had more than our allotted 10% of gays, as you might imagine (we had so many that even the straight people felt marginalized). Alicia was quite straight, as far as any of us knew. She was nonetheless the object of many clandestine fantasies, both male and female. Fantasy doesn't care what your sexual preference is.

We went to a nearby bar for a couple of drinks, then we all moseyed over to a dance club. I can't say that I was dressed to kill, either. I was on my motorcycle and was thus outfitted in jeans, boots, teeshirt, and leather jacket, which probably had some level of rugged appeal. We all went out to the floor to dance as a group (as these things go). Alicia was dancing next to me. She pulled me toward her and spoke softly into my ear, "I love the way you move."

While I can normally be unspeakably cool, I'm occasionally taken by surprise and lose control of my tongue, my wit, and my bladder.* This overture came winging out of the blue like a sliced golf ball. I think I tried to be cool and keep the beat, but felt as awkward as my brother looks when he rollerskates with his legs two feet apart: decidedly undebonair.

* But I'd never admit it.

We finished the dance and walked off the floor. Alicia hung around near me, and spake a couple of other unmistakeably flirty things. After another beer or so, Alicia said she had to leave, and would I walk her to her truck?* I said sure. I'm a...well, a gentleman that way.**

* Her husband's truck, actually. Or maybe it was the ex-hubby. Anyway.

* Please excuse the stereotype. I'm really not butch. Really.

On the way out, she took my hand and asked if I was seeing anyone. I told the truth. I said no, of course not, pulled her to me, and did her up against the side of her husband's truc.... OK. No. Not really. I said I was in a relationship, yes.

She asked if I was happy. I said yes--very much so. We walked in silence for a few long moments. I said, "I thought you were straight."

She said, "I'm...undecided," then she smiled at me. My knees went weak. But...I said goodbye, saw her off, and went back to the club.

In my experience, which is admittedly limited, she was throwing herself at me, and I walked away. Her interest, or at least her effort, waned with time, probably because I didn't reciprocate her attraction. (Which isn't quite true. The attraction I had for her was undeniable. I just didn't do anything which would admit this to her.)

I seem to have managed to do this again. At the time Jess came onto me (I think?), River and I had no arrangement, so I did not respond to Jess's hints. I wish I could tell you that she flirts with me shamelessly, and that I've taken the initiative and pushed our relationship to the next level, but no. I'm shy and retiring, really. I can flirt--and flirt well--except when I'm truly interested. Then suddenly, my flirting takes on meaning and...well, it's like if you think about breathing, right? You suddenly forget how to breathe. That happens to me.

Pathetic, really. Your daughters are only in danger of being turned to the dark side with me if they're already there.

I've said enough. If the wrong people read this, they'll take away my lesbian card.

vi