A woman, I'll call her Wendy, meets me for lunch at a diner across the street from my work. I don't know her well, she's the recently added girlfriend of a male friend, part of a larger social group. I was surprised by her invitation. We order sandwiches - turkey club for me, tuna melt for her - and pints of alcohol.
"I've always wanted to have sex with another woman, " she says, after a brief discussion of the weather and state of gardening in her yard. Not, she continues, because she thinks she is gay, but because she just wants to know if it's really any different than with a man. Wendy's green eyes hold my gaze, steady. Short auburn hair, not even a hint of color on her pale Irish complexion.
We're alone in the back room of the restaurant. I lay Wendy down on the table which is covered with a crisp white tablecloth, matching topsheet, and red satin pillows. I crawl across the table toward her, on my hands and knees, knocking the salt and pepper and cutlery on the floor.
Her clothes melt under my breath like they are being burned from her skin. I focus, as per her request, on the obvious, which results to both of our surprise in a body part that has ballooned to the size of a medium-sized red banana.
She looks as surprised as I feel. I suck on it and feel her breath/pulse skyrocket. She thanks me fervently three times in rapid succession, then sits up and looks me in the eye. "Please?" I know what she wants and I'm on board, really. but I've never done exactly that before. I hesitate, wondering if it's safe, should I use protection, what are the rules here.
Before I can proceed, the back room begins to fill up with lunch crowd and we put our clothes back on, remove the sheet from the table. Some of the other members of the social group we belong to join us. Wendy and I discuss the sexual experience clinically.
Her boyfriend is there, a longstanding group member. He is doing his level best to contribute to the discussion with nonchalance. His eyes are fever-bright, though, and his cheeks flush as he asks who was topping whom.
"I was in charge, the whole time," Wendy says.
"Of course," I reply, with a no-you-weren't smile. Further discussion and defining of terms. We agree on one thing: we both enjoy an encounter where the give and take is rapid and mutual. "But really, it's only in a BDSM scene that there is usually a clear role like that," I say. For the first time I see the ears of people at a nearby table perk up. It's time to go. I'm not modest but I don't really want to be the talking-on-your-cell-on-a-crowded-bus girl.
As we leave the diner, I pass a man posted up at the bar with a girl. By "man", I mean a guy wearing a giant fruit fly costume with a large red-lettered sign around his neck: "Verbal abuse: it's no secret." He's seated across from a gorgeous blonde in a toga, presumably playing the role of beaten-down wife. I hear a muffled male voice complaining he's too hot and wants to use the restroom. Through the costume's open mouth, I see a short asian man in his 40s.
I wait outside the bathroom for Wendy, cleaning my hands with the pump-it-yourself sanitizer. My sandwich is sitting poorly in my stomach.
Back at work, I pass my old boss in the hallway. We haven't talked since I transferred to another research group nearby. I've had a secret fear she's angry and avoiding me. We chit chat for a minute as we walk down the hall toward her office. I relax. I'm just being paranoid after all. At her office she turns, as if about to say "see ya later" or "nice running into you".
"Just one thing. I'm so busy. In future, I need you to just talk to Christine." She's the tech, already a good friend. I can feel shame and tears spring up and race ahead of them to put a pleasant smile on my face, matching hers.
"Of course," I say, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
"It's just that I don't have time for this kind of thing," she continues. She is still smiling, a facial expression so devoid of emotion I know it's a mask. I know I'm not paranoid. I know I shouldn't care. I walk away, tears sliding down the inside of my mind, the everything's-totally-fine smile intact.
I wake. It's Sunday. I have to go to work. I texted friends last night to see if they'd like to meet today for lunch. Time to find my phone, check email, make breakfast.
