I had just turned 35 – and not at all unhappy about that. I didn't have a lover, and that was fine too – I've never been desperate that way; I can be happy all by myself. So when my gay and lesbian health clinic was having one of its almost chronic fund raisers, and I was asked to volunteer for the date auction, I smiled brightly said sure, I'd be glad to.
Never having done this before – I never even had a blind date in my life - I was uncertain as what to wear. How dressed up? I was only doing this because it was a good cause, and had absolutely no expectations that the date would be anything more than, crossing my fingers, a pleasant evening out with a nice woman. I settled on a dark blue silk tunic dress with a handkerchief hem and butterfly wings. Low pumps that matched the color of the dress, and a one strand pearl choker round my neck. Romantic without being sexy; flattering but not revealing except for showing some leg – my best feature.
The auction was the second event of the evening, after the usual introductions and a few wry jokes by the Simone, the chair of the clinic's board – I supported this clinic in part because it wasn't like many others where the guys ran the show. They had rented a small hall with a curtained stage. We, the "dates", four women and four guys, waited behind the curtain to be called out. We were going to go out in alternative order, I was to be last; which was fine by me, I don't have stage fright, and I was flattered to be the "closer".
It went well. The audience was lively – I could hear their laughter and light-hearted, ribbing, call outs – and the bidding was spirited. When it came my turn, I groaned slightly at the introduction, "Now for last, a lovely, extremely nimble-fingered lady," heard the giggles, and decided to have some fun. I could have bounced out, cheer leader style, as one of the women did, or, done a vamp walk, hips swiveling, as one of the guys did. Instead, I walked with a deliberate stride to the center of the stage, pirouetted completely around once, and slowly bowed deeply, my long loose hair falling over my face. I stood up and clasped my hands behind me and smiled.
David, one of my dear friends, let loose a wolf whistle (he had promised to make a good bid for me, just in case). The auctioneer, suppressing a titter, started the bidding at a hundred dollars. Before David could get his offer out, a strong, husky contralto voice from the back of the hall: "A thousand."
Dead silence, then David – my dear, I was so going to kill him later, friend – drawling, cracked, "I guess nimble...feet...must be in high demand." A ripple of embarrassed laughter and the auctioneer quickly cried out sold.
I didn't have to peer over the crowd to see who it was. I'm very good at remembering voices. The woman who called out that show stopping bid was Doctor Marsha Scott. I knew her very casually: brief conversations in passing the days our volunteering times overlapped. She was a few years older than me. Short, stocky, but in tremendous shape; she was an avid handball player – 'A' ranked someone told me. A sometimes gruff, no nonsense, unglamorous woman. I thought to myself, "My, my, who would have guessed? There had been no glimmer, no suggestion from her that she was interested in me. As for my part, while I had dated intense chapstick lesbians, my inclinations ran towards women that wore pastel summer dresses along with their Doc Marten's. Oh well. It was a good cause.
Marsha – I remembered that she preferred Marsh – made her way up to the side of the of the stage where they were collecting money. I was a little amused by her outfit – the suit was obviously expensive and finely tailored, but that shade of brown was the wrong color for her, and pinstripes didn't make her look any more slender. As bent over the table and wrote a check, I got my purse and went down to her, and lightly rested a hand on her shoulder. "That was very generous of you Marsh."
She stood up and said quietly, "Let's talk outside."
I shrugged and nodded, said, "Okay," and followed her out the doors to the parking lot.
By her car – not a cliché of a doctor's Mercedes but another one, a yuppie-uberbutch Land Rover – She said, half whispering, in rush of words that almost tumbled over each other, "You don't have to go out with me, I was going to contribute the money anyway and David Oaks suggested that I come to the auction he said it was a hoot and a holler and I'm free this weekend..."
My first thought was: Good Goddess, she's embarrassed! Second thought: My dear sweet, match-making, Texan son of a bitch friend, I am so going to kill you – steely voiced, "Did David suggest that you bid on me?"
Women our age should be past blushing. "No! I mean he did mention that you were one of the women up, but it was my idea to bid."
I tilted my head, "Why?"
Marsh said lightly, "You've got the best legs around here." She suddenly shook her head and said, "No, truth is... I have a small crush on you."
Women my age don't turn red, don't stammer, "Ex...excuse me?"
She shrugged, "Two months now. Ever since the day you brought in that crying girl."
A phone call to our help line when I was doing a stint on the phones. A girl sobbing from a pay booth. Going out – against rules – to get her. Her face swollen, holding her wrist. Her father discovered her half-naked with another girl. Beat her up and threw her out of the house. Took her to the clinic. Marsh was the attending physician that day. The girl, only 18, clung to me, asking me to stay with her. Marsh nodded okay and I did.
I said as lightly as she did earlier, "I was wearing pants that day, you couldn't have noticed my legs."
She looked directly at me, "It wasn't your legs that I noticed."
Sighing, I said, "Did you make reservations for us for dinner?"
Her pale brown eyes had a nice sparkle. "Yes, at Cerise. For 7."
