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I need to get laid. Badly. It’s been nearly four months, and I’m horny as fuck.
I don’t usually mind the winter dry spell, that time between the holidays and the first sunny days of spring when it’s too cold and wet and gray here in Seattle to go out at night. It’s a chance to focus on myself, a little enforced me time. Curling up with a good book and a glass of wine is just right.
This year, though, I can’t wait to see the sun again. After a gorgeous, extended fall, the weather turned nasty in November, and it’s rained pretty much every day since. The sun finally came out this morning, and I intend to take full advantage.
I’m Kate. You may have met me reading about my friends Meaghan and Jenna and how they fell in love, and now I finally get a story of my own. Two, actually, but I don’t really know yet how the second one goes.
Jenna, Meaghan, and I are having dinner together at our favorite Mexican place on Cap Hill. Meaghan’s wife Sarah and Jenna’s probably future wife Sumita are both at some software conference, so it’s just the three of us tonight, like it used to be before the two of them were wounded by Cupid’s arrow.
“So, anybody up for drinks?” I ask once we’ve paid the bill.
“Gotta get home to the kid,” Meaghan replies. I didn’t expect her to come, but there’s no harm in asking.
I have more hope for Jenna, but she turns me down too. “I have two more paintings to finish for my show, and I’m running out of time.”
“That’s all right,” I tell them, all smiles. For what I’m doing tonight, I don’t need a wing-woman.
We say our goodbyes with hugs, and I watch them go. They both really are very happy, in their own ways, and it makes my heart glad to see it, but I don’t want what they have. I’m quite happy to be single. It’s not like I lack for sex when I want it.
I’m wearing my slinkiest going-out dress tonight, my makeup is just this side of slutty, and my hair is teased out to the limits of gravity and good taste. I look fabulous.
Under my dress, I’m also wearing a pair of heavy winter tights, because it’s way too cold to go out bare-legged. I may be vain, but I’m not stupid.
I don’t go to the usual club, which advertises itself as a Lesbian Bar, though it’s loud and colorful and there’s plenty of dancing. It used to be a great crowd, almost all women, most of them gay. That’s where I first met Sarah – Meaghan brought her along one night, back when we all still thought she was straight. Quite the shocker when it turned out she wasn’t!
Nowadays, though, the crowd is more dudes, so definitely not my thing. Gay guys, you know I love you, but do you have to take over every space on Cap Hill? You have like six different bars you can go to; we only have two, and Wildrose is really not my scene.
Instead, I walk down a few blocks to this narrow cocktail bar on Pike Street called the Pink Martini.
Fergal, the guy who owns the place, opened it looking to attract the rich, hip (or rich and wanting to be hip) crowd that spends way too much on booze. He makes artisanal cocktails from sustainable, organic, locally-sourced, small-batch ingredients, all words perfectly calibrated to set lefty, yuppie hearts like mine atwitter. I stopped in once despite the hype (or maybe because of it) just to see what the place was like. I came back often for the drinks, which are really good – like, fight your way through rush hour traffic just for a single martini type good.
So Fergal may not have started the place out as a Lesbian Bar, but with a name like the Pink Martini, what did he really expect to happen? In fairness, he’s been a good sport about it, hanging rainbow flags in the windows and advertising in all the right places.
About half the crowd on any given night is Fergal’s target demo, and the other half is a cross-section of the Seattle lesbian scene. Young, old, butch, femme, any type you can imagine. Not always a lot of single women looking for love (or at least lust), but there’s usually a few, and where else am I going to go?
I spot Fergal by his long, bushy red beard and give him a wave. He’s in jeans and plaid flannel, his standard bartending uniform. He’s actually kind of cute, with a thin, androgynous build and a slicked-over Ryan Gosling haircut. Very Seattle hip, but in a chill, friendly way. Except for that lush, ridiculous beard, he looks a lot like some of his best customers.
He waves back, and his eyes ask, the usual? I nod, knowing a perfectly mixed Pink Martini will show up at my table in a few minutes.
I survey the room. The polished wood and brass bar stretches most of the length of the place, with leather-clad stools that look about sixty years old. At the far end of the bar, there are maybe seven tables, and all but one are occupied. Couples, mostly, some mixed and some just women.
Three flannel dykes sit together at the near end of the bar, and one of them is kinda cute, at least from the back – lustrous black hair, shaved close on the sides; strong, lean frame with just casino oyna enough curves to grab onto. She looks sort of familiar, and when she turns her head, I recognize her. Shelby. My ex.
I step back into the shadows by the front door and scoot my way toward the empty table in the back corner. Maybe she won’t notice me. I don’t bear her any ill will, but she tends toward bitchy when we run into each other.
“Hey Katie,” I hear a snarky voice saying. Shelby’s voice. Shit.
“Hey Shelby,” I reply, walking over and giving her a big, friendly, carefree smile. Snarking back at her won’t help, and I’m not that kind of person anyway.
“Out all by yourself tonight?” Shelby asks.
“Just here for a drink,” I say, which is sort-of true.
“So who’re you going home with?” she asks, even snarkier. I can tell she’s in a mood by the way her lip curls, halfway between a smirk and a snarl.
“Don’t know yet – it’s still early,” I reply, unbothered. “Probably just myself.”
“You could always come home with us,” she says, taking the hand of the woman sitting next to her. “Dana doesn’t mind.”
I can tell by the look on her face that Dana does mind, very much.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I say, smiling and sunny. “It was nice to meet you, Dana, and you…” I look to the third woman, a tall, burly brunette who’s sitting a little apart from the other two.
“Alice,” she says, her dark eyes dancing with amusement.
As I walk away, I hear an angry hiss and a suppressed laugh. I don’t turn around.
In other circumstances, I might have taken Shelby up on her offer – as long as everybody’s willing, a threeway can be fun on occasion. As it is, I’m not going anywhere near that emotional minefield, no matter how good the sex might be.
My martini arrives at the little two-top just as I do, and I take a sip. Delicious, as always. Behind the (quite potent) slug of alcohol, there’s something floral, summery, and entirely irresistible. The color comes from a few drops of concentrated elderberry syrup, which add a bright tartness on top of everything else. I set my glass back down on the table before I gulp the whole thing down. I want to savor it.
No real possibilities so far, but it’s early yet. I decide that I like Alice, and I may seek her out if I can find her apart from Shelby and Dana, but I don’t have high expectations.
So I sit at my little table, nurse my yummy martini, and wait.
The early crowd filters out, and a steady stream of new arrivals filters in. More singles and more women, so more potential. I recognize a few and wave a pleasant hello. Nobody I’d like to take home, though. I see a few lanyards around necks, with bright yellow plastic badges from that TechZoom conference that’s taken Sarah and Sumita for the evening. Most of them will be out-of-towners, and that’s appealing. Plus, I like brainy, awkward types.
I sit back and watch, looking for the signs. A few, though none of the TechZoom badges, are here for the same reason as I am, but they’re more obvious about it. A short, slightly plump redhead is a possibility – she seems sweet, like she’s just looking for some innocent fun.
More interesting are the ones without an obvious agenda, out for a drink and maybe open to something more. Three or four catch my eye, and I make a mental note of each. I decide to start with the redhead, but then she walks in.
Tall, thin, Asian, TechZoom badge, though it’s half-hidden in her bag rather than hanging around her neck. Long black hair framing the most amazing face I’ve ever seen. She’s beautiful, obviously, but that’s not the main draw. There’s something I can’t identify about her eyes, about the way she moves, about the weight of her presence, that hints at hidden depths. I know, without knowing how I know, that she is somebody worth diving into.
Her eye catches mine, and for a moment the world stops turning. I am dizzy, my mouth is dry, and my heart is pounding in my ears. This is why I came here tonight.
And then the woman who walked in beside her says something in Chinese, and she replies in kind. Her voice is thin and nasal, almost whiny.
Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit! That voice is an instant turn-off, and her English is probably terrible on top of that. I’m not interested a night of miscommunication. Call me shallow if you like, but it’s just not worth the effort.
I sigh in disappointment and go looking for the redhead.
An hour later, I’ve struck out. The redhead was cute and sweet and willing, but she was drunk enough that I’d be taking advantage, and I have rules about that. Two other women seemed interested, but I couldn’t get myself past meh, and that’s not enough, even when I’m desperately horny. I even chatted up Alice, who was good for a laugh but nothing more.
So I sit back down at my little table, still free, and I notice that she is still here, sitting at the table next to me. Alone. Maybe that voice won’t be so bad – once I get her into bed, I don’t plan on either slot oyna of us talking much.
She’s dressed well, in a gray pantsuit and a lilac silk blouse. She must be from somewhere back east – no self-respecting west coast techie would dress like that for a conference, even a stuffy business IT type.
She doesn’t look particularly friendly, but I know I can change that, at least if she’s gay. At this point I have no idea. If she’s made her way up here from the convention center, she’s probably done her research, but she could just as easily be here for Fergal’s amazing Pink Martini. This isn’t really a Lesbian Bar, after all.
“In town for the conference?” I ask, casually wandering past her. She mumbles something affirmative.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask, pouring on the charm. Her pink martini is almost gone, so my timing is perfect.
“Look, I don’t want to be rude,” she says, “but I came up here to get away from the conference crowd. So if you don’t mind…”
Speaking English, her voice is dark and honeyed and her accent somewhere south of the Mason Dixon line. I go a little weak in the knees. That voice is the single sexiest thing I’ve ever heard, even brushing me off. I’m dying to hear what it sounds like in bed.
“Oh, no, I’m not a techie,” I reply, smiling my biggest, most innocent smile. Not many can resist it. “I teach kindergarten. I just noticed that badge peeking out of your purse.”
Her brows inch upward and her eyes brighten, and I know I have her attention.
“Another martini?” I ask, leaning in close.
“No, I couldn’t. They’re so strong I’d fall off my bar stool.”
I giggle in spite of myself. She’s adorable.
“A dusky rose then? They’re non-alcoholic, and they’re delicious.”
Her eyes dance with amusement, and her brows scrunch together and then relax. “Sure,” she says. “Why not?” Then she smiles, bright as the sun. At this point, I’m pretty sure she’s gay, or at least curious.
I get Fergal’s attention, order our drinks, and sit, close enough across the little table that our hands touch. It’s electric.
“I’m Kate.”
“Amy.”
We chat for a while, just easy small talk. Amy sips her dusky rose and swoons. “With drinks this good, you don’t even need the booze,” she says. I’ve switched to a Beverly, a gin concoction that’s green and secret.
She tells me she’s the IT director for a chemicals company in Charleston, South Carolina. “It’s a lot less impressive than it sounds,” she says after my eyebrows arch in mild surprise. “I only have a staff of four, and they’re mostly part time.”
I tell her about my school and my kids. The school serves parts of downtown along with the downscale Rainier valley, so I teach the whole rainbow, from kids of tech millionaires to kids on free school lunches. It’s quite an experience, and I’m glad I have the little ones, who mostly haven’t noticed yet how the world wants to put them in a box based on their skin color, or their parents’ income, or whatever.
She tells me some more about her town, her family, and her life, but not any more about her work, and that’s fine. She’s been at the conference all day, and I can see how much she wants to get away from that world, if only for the evening. We order another round of drinks, and her phone bings in her purse.
“That’s my boyfriend,” she says, pulling it out and typing up a response. “He gets worried if I don’t text him back.”
Well that’s just spiffy. She’s got a boyfriend. Apparently I’ve been reading all the signals completely wrong. I’m here, though, and I’m happy sitting and talking to her, even if it’s not going to get me laid.
The boyfriend’s text reminds Amy of a story from college, and soon she’s back to telling me about her life. She has the most expressive eyebrows, and I find myself transfixed. Everything she says – every emotional state – registers in those dark arches, from delighted amazement at my stories of the wacky side of Seattle to amused indulgence for her young nephews. I imagine she’s terrible at poker, or lying.
At first I think her brows must be penciled in because they’re so perfect, but then I realize they really can’t be. She’s not wearing much makeup – just the bare minimum required to look professional. Not that she really needs any.
I’m so distracted watching her face that I don’t always hear what she’s saying. I feel my own face warm up when I realize she’s asked me, twice, about my family. I tell her my parents died when I was younger and don’t elaborate. She doesn’t press.
When she brings up her nephews again, she shows me pictures on her phone, and they’re adorable. The older boy is starting kindergarten in the fall, and I can tell just from the pictures that he’s going to be trouble. The younger boy looks nice and mellow. Her phone bings again while I’m scrolling through the photos, and a text pops up from someone named Marcus, so I hand it back.
“He’s not really my boyfriend, you know,” she says after typing out another reply. canlı casino siteleri “That’s just what my friends call him.”
“Oh, really?” I ask. She smiles.
“He’s super gay,” she says, “but the older folks in his family still thinks he’s just a Southern Gentleman.” On the last two words, her accent thickens into an imitation of Lindsey Graham, South Carolina’s dandyish, unmarried-but-definitely-not-gay Republican Senator. I laugh.
“I go to family things as his date sometimes,” she says, “to put off any unwanted questions.”
I smile. I’ve done the same once or twice.
“And he does the same for me,” she adds after a brief, shy pause, avoiding my eye.
“Is that so?” I reply. She smiles. Looks like I wasn’t wrong after all.
She takes my hand in hers, small and delicate, with long, nimble fingers. For a brief moment, I can’t help imagining those fingers touching me, opening me up, inside me. I shudder at the thought.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I reply, but she can see through me. The corners of her mouth curl into a smile, and her eyes dance with mischief.
We sit a long time that way, my hand in hers, sipping our drinks and talking, or not talking. I flirt – I always flirt – and she flirts back, but I don’t push, don’t try to seduce her. Something inside me won’t let me. If we’re going to bed together, she has to make the first move, and I don’t think she’s type for a one night stand.
I realize now that I’m probably not getting laid tonight, and I also realize that I don’t really mind. The hour I’ve spent talking and just being with Amy has meant much more to me than any three nights of mediocre sex.
Finally she lets my hand go and pulls her phone back out of her purse to check the time.
“Sorry,” she says. “Breakfast meeting, so I can’t stay out too much later.”
“It’s okay. I have to be at school pretty early too.”
Fergal walks by and asks if we want another round. Amy shakes her head no, and so do I. Amy goes quiet for a while, staring into the remains of her drink, and I wonder if I’ve done something to offend her. I shift on my barstool, ready to call it a night, but she catches my hand.
“Do you, um…” she begins. “Do you want to come back to my hotel room?” The words tumble out on top of each other, like she’s trying to get them out before she can change her mind.
“I’d love to,” I say, giving her my warmest, most encouraging smile. I can see how much courage it took for her to ask. I squeeze her hand for some extra reassurance.
Fergal waves in our direction as we get to our feet, and I give him the signal to put it on my tab. We collect our coats to leave.
“You do realize this is just for tonight?” I ask as I help her into her coat.
“Honey, I’m not dumb,” she replies with some acid in her voice. “If I were looking for a relationship, I’d be doing it closer to home.”
“Just trying to be clear,” I say, “so there’s no misunderstanding later.”
As we walk out the door, I hear a familiar voice on the street outside. Shelby. Why can’t she calm the fuck down and get over herself?
“Be careful with that one,” she snarls at Amy. “She’ll cheat on you first chance she gets.”
Amy stops and turns to look Shelby in the face, her own expression a mask of innocence. “Oh, no, we’re not dating,” she says, bright and calm and stunningly beautiful. “We’re just having a one night stand.”
Shelby’s mouth drops open, and Dana grabs her arm and pulls her away. Amy takes my hand and we walk down the street, with Dana’s attempts to calm Shelby receding into the distance behind us.
“That was … amazing,” I say.
“Thanks,” Amy replies with a rueful smile. “I can’t believe I actually said that. But she looked so mean, and I just wanted her to leave us alone. The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.”
I squeeze her hand tighter.
“Your ex?” she asks. I nod.
“Did you really cheat on her?”
“It’s not cheating if you’re already broken up,” I reply. Amy laughs.
“Still want to take me back to your hotel room?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, giving me a peck on the cheek. I feel a little flushed.
We walk quietly down the block, and then she says, “I’ve never done this before.”
“What?” I ask, keeping my voice light and teasing. “Gone to bed with a woman?”
“No, I’ve done that,” she replies, blushing, “but I’ve never slept with somebody I’ve just met.”
“It’ll be all right,” I tell her. “I’ll take good care of you.”
We cross Pike Street at a pedestrian signal and continue on down the hill. After a while, she says, shyly, “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask.
“First I say, ‘I’ve never done this before,’ and you don’t believe me, and then you say, ‘I’ve never done this before either,’ and I don’t believe you…”
“I totally believe you,” I reply. “When you asked if I wanted to spend the night with you, you were as nervous as a high school girl at her first prom.”
She smiles, and she looks so sweet I want to gobble her up right there on the street.
“And, yes, I have done this before,” I add. “I won’t lie to you about that, or about anything else.” She circles her arm around my waist and pulls me close.
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