“He’s not good enough for you,” Kate leans forward. “You don’t want to get involved with an actor. They’re all nuts.”
I refill my iced tea from the pitcher on the table, shaking my head. I do love these women, but they’re crazy. Dory, quiet on her side of the table, looks at me.
“What do you think, hon?” I smile towards her. “Where do you side on this argument? Is he the one for me?”
“Or me!” Penelope bursts out.
“Or for Penelope,” I nod towards her, then towards Kate. “Or is he just not good enough for either of us?”
Dory looks at me, those slate grey eyes seeing so much more than I want her to. It’s terrifying, this power of hers. To see through all my bullshit.
She opens her mouth and we all lean forward. When Dory speaks, we always listen. “A better question is why you consider this to be such an impossibility.”
“Uh…” I’m taken aback by the seriousness of her question. “Because of who he is?”
“And who is he?” she asks, and she’s doing that thing she does. The thing I do, when I’m trying to get a student to figure out the answer for herself. Dory is so much better at it than I am.
“Didn’t we just go over this?” I laugh and point to Penelope. “Didn’t she just describe the world-saving robot guy?”
“Cyborg-human super spy,” Jessica offers. Penelope nods in agreement.
Dory shrugs. “I mean, who is he? That’s a character he played, as part of a job. You don’t even know the man and you’re already writing him off. Maybe he could be good for you.”
“Yeah,” I laugh and put my napkin on the table. “I’m sure hot movie stars are super interested in women like me.”
“Beautiful, brilliant, self-made women? He’s not interested in someone like that?” There are those damn eyes again, Dory’s quiet certainty. She’s wasted at the cafe. Her real skills are interrogation.
Christine smiles, that gentle smile I’ve seen her give to patients in hospitals and to pet owners in the veterinary clinic, or wherever else she goes to spread her pixie mix of goodness and light. “You never want to see yourself as beautiful or brilliant or interesting. So, it doesn’t matter who the man is. You’d still never believe he’d be interested.”
Before I can say anything, Jessica interrupts. “It’s true, you know. I don’t say anything, because it’s not my business, but you view yourself as some kind of spinster hobbit and no one else does.”
“Look,” now Kate, ever the strategist, joins in. “It’s not about the guy. It’s about the attitude. This whole ‘I’m too ugly to date’ vibe you’ve got going on is a buzz kill. And, frankly, none of us knows where it’s coming from.”
“I do not consider myself ‘too ugly to date!’” I feel cornered and wonder if my back will instinctively arch like a cat’s.
“Whatever,” Kate waves her hand in the air. “Too ugly. Too boring. Too plain. I don’t know what you’re telling yourself, but you’ve definitely got a story running through that giant brain of yours and no one else agrees with it except you.”
“You are immensely dateable,” Jessica adds. Everyone at the table nods.
I open my mouth, a smart remark, maybe a pun, about to spill forth when I see the look in my friends’ eyes. Interest. Seriousness. Even a hint of sadness. The air feels heavy, as if our joking has slipped away from us, leaving something raw and vulnerable in its wake.
Even though she isn’t here, I hear my mother’s voice.
Women like us.
I laugh loudly, the sound a bit forced, and raise both my arms, “You’re right. He won’t be able to help himself. Let’s plan on a June wedding.”
Christine laughs and raises her glass. Everyone cheers and I saw my asparagus in half, the knife grating against the plate.
By the time my friends leave, I know I need to think. Hugging them goodbye, reminding Jessica it’s her turn to host next week, I shut the door and close my eyes. Dory’s question, her remark rather, about my assumption that an attractive man could never find me attractive lingers in the air, the way uncomfortable truths often do.
Why do I find it so hard to believe? Not David Jacobs, obviously. He’s way out of my league. But any man.
In the past, whenever they showed attention to me I laughed it off.
He’s just a friend.
He’s just horny.
Even when I was dating someone, I always felt like they were with me for my personality, for my brain and my friendship, and just had to accept my body as the package everything else came in.
God.
Have I…felt bad for every man who’s ever dated me? Do I actually think that if they want my clever wit then they have to put up with my face?
It’s a depressing thought.
But wait a minute. I push myself away from my door and walk across the room to my balcony. Kate and Jessica have cleared the table. Christine brought the plates to the sink. Dory washed them. Penelope folded my dish towel into a swan. There is nothing more for me to do, except stare out over the woods behind my house and brood.
I’ve had sex. At the ripe old age of 36, I have slept with several men. Enough to know where everything goes. Enough to know what works and what doesn’t.
And it’s fine.
It’s fine.
It’s…ok.
It could be better.
Lights off help. Trust helps. Vibrators help. But honestly? I have more fun by myself.
Nothing against men. They’re great.
But they can be…distracting.
Let’s be real. Orgasms are a lot of work. You have to focus! I can’t focus on him and on me and on whether or not the neighbors can hear us and still think about ridiculously sexy movie stars and find my clitoris all while he’s got me bent in half like a pretzel, shifting between porn poses.
And keeping my stomach sucked in the whole time? Forget it!
I like sex. It’s fun.
But to climax I need
