Wind Beneath Her Wings

Descending the escalator into baggage claim of the West Palm Beach International Airport, my attention was drawn at once to a young man wearing a classic chauffeur uniform holding a small piece of poster board with my name written on it. Guessing him to be about my age, twenty-three; and also about my height, five-seven, I stepped up and told him that I was "Jessica Carpenter". His face filled with a warm, friendly smile and he introduced himself as Nathan. Informing me that he was my limo driver and that he would be escorting me to my hotel, we proceeded to collect my bag and Nathan then escorted me outside to his waiting white stretch limousine that literally sparkled in the warm November sunshine of south Florida.

With all the dash, charm and debonair of a true southern gentleman that Nathan demonstrated, I had no doubt that if I were a heterosexual woman, I would be forever his. Lord knows we would certainly make beautiful children what with both of us having fair alabaster skin, big brown eyes and soft, sandy blond hair. Of course, my hair is considerably longer; wavy and flowing down to the middle of my back. Where Nathan had a solid and stocky athletic build with broad shoulders, thick chest and muscled arms, I have a curvaceous feminine figure with long and shapely legs, flat and firm tummy, slim waist and pert thirty-four C cup breasts. Where his face is chiseled with a granite jaw and thin lips, my face is narrow with high cheeks and full, pouting lips. Yes, we would make pretty babies. But alas, I am not a heterosexual woman. In fact I am what men of all ages would consider "a terrible waste of good pussy". For not only am I a lesbian, but I'm a lipstick lesbian.

Nathan opened the back door of the limo and I slipped into unadulterated luxury; fine leather seats, plush carpeting, glossy mahogany paneling, full bar, state of the art entertainment system, a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon and a beautiful arrangement of six white roses with fresh baby's breath in a lovely crystal vase sitting atop the bar. Taking the attached card in my now trembling hands, I read the familiar handwriting:

HEY JESS -

HOPE YOU HAD A GREAT FLIGHT AND AN EVEN BETTER RIDE INTO THE ISLAND. I KNOW THESE FLOWERS MAY SEEM A BIT MUCH, BUT I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU LOVE WHITE ROSES. CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU, HON!!

XOXO,

DP

As the limo cruised along the beach front highway toward my destination at the Resort of Singer Island, I gazed out the windows totally mesmerized by the tropical landscape and exotic beauty of the sunshine state. As the palm trees, sandy white beaches and the dark blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean passed by, I just couldn't get over how beautiful it all was. I also couldn't believe that just a few hours earlier, I was slogging through the morning rush hour traffic of Detroit, Michigan on a frigid winter-like morning en-route to Wayne County Metro Airport. Now I was in a mid-summer days dream and tropical paradise.

When Nathan turned the limo into the grand drive of the stupendous high rise Marriott Hotel of Singer Island on North Ocean Drive, I nearly fainted dead away as I took in the sheer majesty of the place. Nathan led me into the splendid lobby and got me all checked in. The concierge handed me a standard sized envelope with my name written on it and then he rang for the bellman. Nathan bid me farewell and I followed the bellman across the beautiful atrium to the bank of elevators and rode up to the top floor.

My suite was absolutely out of this world! I nearly broke down in tears I was so overwhelmed by it. The bellman informed me that the staff lovingly referred to this particular suite as the First Lady, for it adjoined the Presidential suite; which just so happened to be occupied this weekend by a very famous young lady in the world of sports who was in town for a photo shoot. The bellman carried my bags into the bedroom, set them on the California king size bed and then gave me a brief tour of the posh suite. When I tried to tip him as he departed, he told me that the "First Lady" had no need; for the "President" had already taken care of it. And with that, he smiled warmly and was gone.

I stood humbly in the center of the cavernous penthouse, slowly spinning on my heels to take it all in. Opening the double bay doors that led out to the balcony, I was nearly swept off my feet by the breathtaking view; not to mention the strong breeze off the Atlantic Ocean that was not more than fifty yards away. As I gazed out over the seemingly endless ocean and the beach that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions, I suddenly heard a tiny voice whispering deep in my subconscious.

"How has this happened? How did a lowly florist assistant and part time courtroom sketch artist in Detroit, Michigan end up at a place like this?"

Without giving myself an answer, I shut the balcony doors, stripped out of my traveling clothes and hopped into the shower. The shower stall alone was bigger than my entire bathroom at home.

An hour later, I was just finishing putting on my makeup and running a brush through my hair when the doorbell to my suite rang. Yes, it has a doorbell! My apartment in Detroit doesn't even have a freaking doorbell. Having slipped on a one piece bathing suit, tan khaki shorts and a pair of flip-flops on my feet, I hurried out to the door to ultimately find a very striking and elegant woman in her late forties to early fifties waiting on the other side.

"Hello." She said sweetly in a deep southern accent. "You must be Jessica. I'm Marilyn."

"I know. Nice to meet you." I replied and we shook hands.

"I take it you received the note she left for you with the concierge then?" Marilyn probed.

"I did. She said you'd be coming to get me."

"Wonderful. Then shall we go? She's waiting."

Marilyn and I rode down the elevator, crossed the lobby and were soon climbing aboard a golf cart waiting for us just outside the hotel entrance; me in back and Marilyn riding shotgun beside the driver. We scooted quickly down the beach and less than ten minutes later we arrived on the set of one of the Sports Illustrated 2008 Swimsuit Edition on location photo shoots. Marilyn led me around a crowd of curious and excited spectators, through the security line and on to the set itself where there were photographers, gaffers and electrical grips galore; as well as several very expensive cameras, lights and various other pieces of photographic equipment. There was a Hollywood style makeup and hair station, makeup artists, hairstylists, wardrobe staff, caterer line, schmoozer's, ass kissers, VIP's, invited guests and private security. And of course, the star model of the shoot herself:

Danica Patrick!

Standing under the makeup and hair canopy with her head tilted slightly back and her eyes closed while some scruffy looking guy was styling her gorgeous long and dark hair, Danica looked like an exotic angel in a sinfully sexy little white bikini. And you know the bikini I'm talking about!! Surely by now you've seen the 2008 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition that featured Danica Patrick frolicking on the beach. Yes, that's the bikini she's was wearing as I then stared at her.

Marilyn proceeded up under the canopy and whispered into Danica's ear as I waited in the wings. Instantly, Danica's eyes popped open, her head dropped and spun in my direction, those gorgeous doe eyes locked on mine and her face lit up with a breathtaking, heartwarming smile.

Danica Patrick has two smiles; and if you've watched her as carefully as I, then you have probably noticed this. Number one smile is her professional smile; primarily used for the media cameras, the press and the public at large. It is clearly practiced, conditioned and can be summoned almost on cue. But number two smile is a smile that can only come from deep within her heart and soul. It doesn't surface very often, but when it does, it is absolutely unmistakable! Danica's face fills with an adorable child-like innocence that is angelically precious; every fiber of her mortal being literally beams with heaven's light as those gorgeous eyes of hers sparkle like jewels. Whenever that smile comes, it usually means that someone she loves or cares for deeply on a very personal level is nearby.

And at that moment, that very smile was glowing all over me.

~~~

Danica Patrick and I had met just six months earlier, in May 2007, courtesy of my cousin, who had been hired as a member of her pit crew. Having been born and raised in Indianapolis, the Indy 500 was literally in my blood and I was a natural born fan. And like most every other 500 fan, I fell in love with Danica Patrick from the moment she first appeared on the scene in 2005. But in truth, it was far more than that for me. I was completely captivated and totally captured by her from the word go. She was so young, so beautiful, vibrant and passionate; not to mention sexy as hell, and for a time I couldn't help but wonder why she was racing cars when she could easily be a supermodel or movie star. I followed her movements carefully for many months and became an apt study of her body language, attitudes and expressions from a distance. Then one day it hit me. It became so clear that I cursed myself for not having realized it sooner. What other possible explanation could there be for such a vibrant and gorgeous young woman to be involved in an almost one hundred percent male dominated sport? Simple: Danica's "in-the-closet".

Initially I was rather baffled by it; why be in the closet in this day and age? But then, I don't exactly advertise my homosexuality either, and I can't say for sure if I have a comfortable explanation as to why not. Then it dawned on me that for somebody in Danica's position, being openly gay could be extremely detrimental; not only to her career as a driver, but also her public image would be irreparably compromised. Her credibility as a role model and her marketability as a sex symbol would be completely destroyed. Contemplating it further; Danica's situation, if indeed she was "in the closet", was actually heartbreaking; even tragic, and my own heart filled with great pity for her. But alas, this was nothing more than a wild conspiracy theory I concocted in my overzealous imagination to justify my fancied romantic hopes and lofty lover's dreams with a completely unattainable woman. And though I knew it was all just a fantasy, it still didn't stop my heart from breaking when I learned that Danica Patrick was engaged to be married; to a man.

I spent nearly the next month moping around like a true-to-form, heartbroken slob until one afternoon, the owner of the florist shop where I work, confronted me on my depression, voicing her deep concern. When I told her the story, she laughed hysterically for nearly half an hour and I felt compelled to drive a pair of scissors into her eye. Later that afternoon, still fuming over my employer making so light of my emotional agony, I actually thought about creating the most beautiful arrangement of flowers ever conceived and sending it to Danica with the love letter of all love letters. That's when it finally dawned on me how utterly ridiculous I was being and that my behavior was actually bordering on obsession, stalking and pure insanity. It wouldn't have made any difference if in fact Danica Patrick was marrying a woman. Though she seemed like everything to me, the bottom line was that I was absolutely nothing to her but one of her adoring fans; millions of faces without names.

Suffice it to say, I pulled my head out of my ass, ultimately making peace with the fantasy of Danica Patrick and hence, got back to living in the real world. Then about a year later, my cousin Sean called out of the blue with his wondrous news of being hired as a member of Danica Patrick's pit crew. Now you would think I'd have blown a head gasket; but much to even my own surprise, I remained in reality. After all, nothing was initially mentioned about me possibly having the opportunity to meet Danica Patrick in person and I didn't even press the issue. And when that subject finally did come up, I initially turned it down for I was now working a full time schedule at the florist shop, as well as doing some freelance sketching for the Wayne County Courts.

I've always had a talent for drawing and I've been honing the craft with passion all of my life. If you've ever seen "Titanic", then it will be easy for you to identify with the kind of drawing I do, for it's the same as Leonardo DiCaprio's character did; and dare I say, every bit as good. Yes, I even carry the drawing pad and pencils wherever I go because like most artists, I just never know when the inspiration will strike. My mother worked in a florist shop from the time I was born; as did both my aunts. In the beginning, working with flowers didn't interest me; but as I blossomed into a young woman and discovered the truth of my sexual orientation, I found that working in a florist shop was an excellent way to meet women! But that's a whole other story.

At length, Sean ultimately convinced me that I should seize this opportunity to come and meet the world's most famous, and arguably, sexiest lady racer: one Danica Sue Patrick. So I took a week off from the florist shop and headed down to Indy; outwardly indifferent, but inwardly bursting with joy.

I arrived at the Speedway early in the morning on Sunday and Sean gave me the tour. Danica, as it turned out, was off taping a morning talk show in New York City and wouldn't be back until the following day. Outwardly disappointed, but inwardly grateful, I breathed a collective sigh of relief. Yet as the next morning dawned, my nerves had me out of bed and puking my guts out even before the sun fully rose. By the time I got to the track, I felt like death warmed over and probably looked it too. The crew was already busy prepping the number seven Motorola car in the Gasoline Alley garage as I came in. The guys all greeted me warmly for I had met and spent the better part of the previous day with them. Then before I even truly realized it, I was suddenly face to face with Danica Patrick herself.

She came around the corner in her blue and black Motorola racing suit; and as per usual on a race, practice or qualifying day, all that gorgeous dark hair was pulled back in a long ponytail and those big, black sunglasses she likes to wear were on her beautiful little face. Sean made the introductions and Danica extended her hand for a shake. Though she was very cordial and pleasant, she seemed a bit standoffish; clearly more focused on qualifying for her third Indy 500 than meeting the lesbian cousin of her newest pit crew member. It was all I could do to keep from shaking like a leaf in the wind as I hung around the pits and garage, all the while in Danica Patrick's looming, and at times, rather intimidating presence. Though she was never rude or unpleasant to me; after our initial meeting, she hardly spoke ten words to me over the next three days.

Wednesday afternoon found me sitting in the back of Danica's pit, making sketches and actually beginning to feel like myself again for the first time in days. The number seven Motorola car was really misbehaving, so Danica was in a rather pissy mood as she paced the pits fuming for extended periods of time; I made a point to stay well out of her way. Whenever I draw, I tend to completely lose myself in it. Regardless of the people or the circumstances surrounding me, I'm totally focused and completely relaxed; and that day was no different. In fact I was so focused that I didn't even notice that Danica had sauntered up directly behind me and was looking over my shoulder as I sketched.

"Oh my God." She said; sounding deeply impressed.

I gasped deeply, dropped my pencil and juggled my pad frantically around as I nearly launched myself atop the Pagoda in sudden distraction and shock. Spinning aroud, I found Danica in her Motorola driver suit, wearing those big dark sunglasses and seemingly as startled as I as she jumped back and cupped her hand over her mouth.

"Oh! God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you'd heard me come up." Danica said remorsefully.

"No, I hadn't. Sorry. See, I tend to kind of get lost in my focus when I'm drawing." I replied; my heart ramming furiously.

"I have no doubt. That drawing is amazing." Danica said softly, indicating to my sketch.

"Oh...Why thank you." I told her.

"May I?" She asked; indicating to my drawing pad.

"Sure."

Thinking I'd just hand her my pad, Danica instead leaned over my shoulder and began flipping slowly back through the pages. With her chin practically resting on my shoulder allowing her hair, which was uncharacteristically out of its ponytail, to drape long and free down my arm; the soft locks brushing gently against my skin. Danica was so close up behind me that I could feel her chest rising and falling with every breath she took and felt nearly every whiff of air on my neck as it exhaled from her nose. It was also the first time I noticed the absolutely hypnotic scent of vanilla and jasmine that Danica wears; it made my head spin it so wonderfully intoxicating. Danica took her time and studied each of my drawings carefully and I could periodically hear slight gasps of astonishment, along with miniscule chirps of wonder, delight and approval from her.

"Jessica, these drawings are incredible." Danica finally told me.

"Thank you." I said humbly; frankly surprised that she even remembered my name. "You ought to see some of the ones I actually spend time on. These are just sketches." I continued.

"This is some of the most exquisite artwork I've ever seen and you're telling me they're only sketches?" Danica asked incredulously.

"That's right."

"And here I thought my car was giving me a lot of bullshit today." Danica snapped.

"Would you like me to prove it?" I snapped back.

"Sure! How?"

"Do you have time to sit for a portrait, madam?"

"Based on the way my car is running, I might just have until next May." Danica scoffed.

We both laughed at her joke and I had Danica seat herself in a comfortable position on the pit wall. I repositioned myself, flipped to the next blank page of my pad and went to doing what I do. And as I sketched, Danica and I began to talk; not chit-chat, but actually talk. And it wasn't long before I realized that I wasn't talking with the famous race car driver Danica Patrick - the only woman to ever lead the Indianapolis 500. No, I was just talking to Danica; another all American girl from the Midwest who was not that much different from me at all. Where I loved drawing and flowers, she loved speed and racing. Danica also mentioned that she loved flowers too, and that like me, white roses were her favorite.

Twenty-five minutes later, I handed Danica the rough portrait I'd made of her and she stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. I was actually beginning to get a little nervous; afraid she didn't like it when I noticed her hands where trembling and causing the pad to shake. Slowly, Danica slipped off her sunglasses and I was shocked to see that those beautiful doe eyes of hers were welling with tears. I stepped forward and wanted to place my hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but at the last moment, held it back.

"Danica, are you all right?" I asked.

"Yeah." She whispered. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"But you're crying." I said softly.

Danica sniffed and wiped at her eyes then quickly slipped her sunglasses back on as she cleared her throat.

"Sorry." She sniffed in a trembling voice.

"You don't like it?" I asked softly.

"Jessica, I didn't think it was possible for one human being to see another so clearly." Danica said in a shaky voice. "There's never been an actual photograph taken of me that is as good as this drawing. You have an amazing gift."