I ran into my ex-girlfriend at the grocery store last night. Not my Princess Angel
. The drummer. So you know what that means. Yes, that’s right. A trip in the “WABAC (way back) Machine, Mr. Peabody
.” (50 Cool Points for that if you catch the reference without clicking the link.)
While my Angel was my first girl love, the drummer was my first girl relationship. It started with a bang and ended with one, too, albeit of a different sort.
In my late 20’s I decided to abstain from men for a period that ultimately lasted about 4 years. I hadn’t permanently sworn off men, or even meant for it to go that long. I just figured out that I had been dating the wrong sorts of men for me. I realized that I needed to get away from the “bad boys” I was meeting. I promised myself I wouldn’t date another guy until I was back in school. My theory that meeting a guy in school would: A. be reasonably intelligent, B. have some sort of goals and/or ambition, and/or C. share some common interests with me if I met him in one of my classes.
I decided to spend time pursuing women to see if I fared better with them. While I had learned that it was possible to truly love another woman, I didn’t yet know that I would be able to actually have a relationship with one. I thought that it might feel as if something was missing. I went on a few dates, but none of them went any further than the first date.
Bea and I were introduced by a lesbian couple with whom we were mutual friends. She was invited over to hang out with us one night at my brother’s house and she and I hit it off right from the start. She had such a bright smile, a booming laugh, and twinkly, mischievous eyes. Not to mention hips and an ass that made my mouth water, nice and wide!
I don’t remember where we went on our first date a week later, but it was probably Olive Garden because that was one of her favorite restaurants. I do remember that I wore my first-ever “little black dress” and a pair of very hot, strappy black wedge heels. We met for our date at a local music store, and she walked right past me because she didn’t recognize me. I watched her look around for a minute or two, completely looking past me once again before she saw me. “Daaaaaaamn!” was all she could say.
|I still have this dress in the back of my closet.
One day I’ll wear it again. After I lose 50lbs.
After dinner we went to hang out with some of her other musician friends. We had a few drinks and got high while we were there, but didn’t really get to talk much. What I remember most about that night was one of the things I did to impress her: I held a live Mexican red-kneed tarantula
and let it crawl up my bare arm, although I was at the time extremely arachnophobic. It’s amazing the things we do to impress those we like. (Once I also jumped off a bridge once into a rushing river to impress a guy.)
At the end of the night she walked me out to my car. Once we were there she told me that she really liked me and had a fantastic time, but that her ex-girlfriend had just asked her if they could give it another chance. She explained that this had been back and forth for a couple years now, but that she loved her ex and had to give it one last shot. Then she kissed me in a way that sent electricity through my body and brought tears to my eyes.
Unsurprisingly things didn’t work out with her ex, but we were kept apart again when she was offered and opportunity to play drums for an up-and-coming band. In Orlando.
One night while she was living in Orlando, she and I were having some seriously steamy phone sex when I decided on a spur of the moment to shower and drive down to visit her. At 2am. Wearing only a black nighty, those strappy heels, and a black trench coat. I didn’t even think to pack an overnight bag. The look on her face when she opened the door was priceless. The what-ifs of the situation didn’t occur to me until later: What if I’d gotten an flat tire? What if I’d been pulled over? What if my car broke down?
It was the wee hours of July 4th and I didn’t have to be back to work until the 6th. We fucked until the sun came up before we finally feel asleep. It was when we woke up later in the afternoon that I realized I didn’t even have anything to wear. I borrowed some clothes and shoes from her, then we went to partake of the Independence Day festivities at Universal City Walk. To this day, that ranks as the most dazzling fireworks display I have ever seen.
A few months later she moved back from Orlando and that’s when she and I began to see each other in earnest. Translation: we would go out for a dinner/movie/show/drinks/whatever and then go back to her parents’ house where she was living and try to fuck as quietly as possible. Her parents were elderly, in their 60’s (she was a love child, the only child her parents had together when her mom was 40) so we did our best to keep it down, but it was very difficult. One night we got a motel room just so we could be as loud as we wanted.
I was renting a room from my sister and her fiance at the time, but spent most nights with her. I don’t recall her ever coming to my place. Finally after about two months we decided to get an apartment together, beginning a very tumultuous year and a half.
As was the story with most of my relationships for the first decade and a half of my adulthood, it was centered mostly on sex. Once the sex slowed down, as it will tend to do in most relationships after the “honeymoon period,” the problems arose. I’m not even going to begin to get into any of those issues, because there were many, and that’s not what this post is about.
Those first few months living together were great. We fucked all the time and loudly. For the first time we were able to be completely unrestrained and uninhibited. We also had little to no self-awareness about how much noise we were making. Our building was a quadplex with two apartments downstairs and two apartment upstairs. And apparently the walls were thin.
What brought it all home for us was one Saturday afternoon. We were not fucking, for a change, but we were lounging around in bed. We heard our across-the-hall neighbors having sex. And it was obvious that they were trying to be quiet. The only sounds they were making were some squeaky springs and heavy breathing. Not even any moans or cries. But we heard it all as if it was happening in the room with us.
After that day, we started to notice the other sounds we could hear. We’d never met the guy who lived upstairs, Al (we knew his name from mis-delivered mail), but we could hear his alarm clock in the morning, and hear him padding around his bedroom once he got up and before he went to bed. He never had anyone over for sex as far as we could tell.
He began to play into our fantasies, however. We were excited at the thought of him listening to us up there, his bed directly above ours, maybe stroking his cock. We also used to joke if he thought and/or worried about us from time to time. “I haven’t heard the dykes downstairs fucking for a few days. I wonder if they’re having a fight?? I hope everything’s okay.”
We also had this grand fantasy of having a quadplex fuck-off. The idea was that we would coordinate with our neighbors (none of whom we ever met, now that I think about it), and we would all plan to have a fuckathon at the same time to see who could be the loudest. In our little make-believe ideal, we would also have our windows open to share our joyous noises with the neighborhood, and hope to inspire more.
Under her hands, mouth, and tongue, I learned firsthand exactly what all of the exquisite torture I used to give my Angel felt like. In fact, not long after I had been thoroughly fucked by her several times, I made a lunch date with Angel and apologized profusely for never giving her a break. She got a big laugh out of that, saying that no apologies were required but she was glad I found what what it was like.
I also learned that, while it’s not exactly the same thing, the right dildo can be just as hot and satisfying as a real cock. Aside from masturbation, my only experiences with double-penetration have been with her. She never used an actual strap-on with me, but she did have a nice array of different sizes and lengths and we tried them all.
While the relationship itself was a disaster, she had an indelible impact on my life. I feel her presence in my life every day. Mostly because she had a large role in completely reshaping my tastes in music. When she and I met, I was listening to mostly Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson. She joined a band that would become my favorite band of all-time, Mofro. Through her I learned an appreciate for jazz, blues, soul, and even rap. If it were not for her, my musical tastes would not be nearly as eclectic as they are now. For that, I’ll forever be grateful.
One other interesting thing I wanted to share that came as a result of our relationship was something I like to call the Lesbian Name Game. I actually haven’t thought about it in a really long time until I started writing this. See, the Lesbian Name Game predicts the evolution of a woman’s name as she embraces being a lesbian. You start with a feminine given name which becomes a shortened masculine nickname and eventually ends up as just an initial. We saw this happen many times in the local community. For example, Bernice become Bernie and finally just Bea. Tonya would turn into Tony and then just T. She was actually never known as Bernie (I actually used to call her ‘ma bella Bernicio’ incorporating her middle initial O), but I did go through a Tony phase for a while. While I am no longer consider myself a lesbian, except for part-time sometimes for the right girl, many of my friends do call me T.