Smokey Saga #57:
"
Do You Trust Me?
" (lesbian version)
*****
This is a polished-up gay girl rendition of a story from 2014, my first tribute to Halloween. Lately, this is one I've been wanting to try to "Sapphize." About half the first fifty Sagas are hetero stories, featuring gents as main characters alongside the ladies, and because of character/plot points, most of these would not work with lesbians. "The Babysitter" did, so I split that into two versions. And with a little retooling here and there, this one I believe can also. If you haven't read the original—or if you simply prefer girl-girl stories to girl-boy ones—feel free to read this instead. It is not a sequel, it's the same thing. But better. TRUST ME!!
*****
Don't You Want Somebody To Love
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013, 3:06 p.m.
Off the elevator and out of the medical building stepped 32-year-old Phyllis Dixon, following the most recent appointment with her therapist, Dr. Isaac Jameson. It'd gone okay, or as well as could be hoped for, Phyllis supposed. Most appointments were more or less the same nowadays. Now it was back to her house to do...whatever. She'd decide when she got there.
Every other week she was afforded forty-five minutes to discuss her life and issues, which didn't consist of very much baggage. There wasn't a lot that could be considered wrong with her. She was securely employed at First Federal Bank, kept herself in reasonable shape physically and hygienically, was 5'6", 125 pounds, gay, and didn't lead the loneliest social life. Yet for all her visible good points, she was alone. Oh, she always had her family, of course, but she'd never exactly been very fortunate meeting women.
It wasn't as if she'd never been on a date. She'd gone out with a few girls in high school and college, but nothing more. The percentage of the female population she met never seemed extremely keen on her, but then, being in the lesbian minority put her at something of a disadvantage. There were women in her bank who were attractive, who were nice, and who were both, but they were all very straight, and very happily married. In fact, Phyllis was pretty sure her male colleagues were married also. And while she wouldn't want to date someone she worked with, she did grow the slightest bit weary of colorful co-worker stories which began with, "My husband..." or "My wife..." Having nothing to contribute, she felt a bit left out.
And so her love life—or lack thereof—was the subject that came up most frequently during her therapy visits. Dr. Jameson had mentioned to her that her chances of meeting someone would be undoubtedly improved if she tried visiting a lesbian bar—a venue specifically designed, after all, for the purposes of meeting gay girls with whom to strike up a romantic connection. She agreed with the logic, but...she didn't know. Much as she wanted to meet someone, her adult-long scarcity of female company had depleted her confidence—even if her solitude had naught to do with her personality.
Phyllis did not consider herself especially beautiful. And it was apparent to her that not many others did either. She boasted a nice body and full, thick hair, but her own facial features frankly struck her as awkward. Oh, a gentleman might tee up on her now and again, but being gay, she was unable to return his fancy. She couldn't pose for modeling, but at least she didn't make her mirror crack. But even if she was alone only because everyone else was already snatched up, wonders weren't done for her self-esteem. And the environment of a gay bar daunted her. She didn't know if she could contend with hotter or more experienced women to court a cute girl, and the idea of a threesome—or even more involved orgy—freaked her out.
The therapist suggested to her that it couldn't hurt to just go, walk around, peek about here and there and get a feel of it. She didn't have to talk to anyone if she was intimidated; she could just have a look, and depart anytime she wished. It was essentially the equivalent of window shopping for store merchandise. "Just keep in mind," he'd said, "Gay bars have raised a lot of batting averages. There are no guarantees; you may still strike out, and you may not. But it can't possibly lower your odds, and if you don't try, you'll never know. Remember, you miss 100% of the shots you don't take." Dr. Jameson was quite fond of his sports metaphors. Phyllis was about to say that taking a shot wouldn't help if she didn't even know where the goal was, but her doc went on.
"I mean, there're lots of women out there, that're not only okay with meeting a nice gal with a lot to offer like yourself; they
want
to," he continued. "And besides, even if you don't meet anyone today, nothing says you can't go back and try again tomorrow. You
never know
whose fancy might be struck by your presence."
You'll forgive me if I think that's just a little easy for you to say
, Phyllis thought, as her doctor was happily married too. But she really liked him. She enjoyed confiding in Dr. Jameson, because he treated her like a friend, gave her good advice, and could relate to her in at least one important way. He knew a few things about courting women. And the ol' shrink was making good sense. Phyllis was starting to think she should forget her fears and inhibitions and just give it a shot. What the hell, she thought, allowing herself to be convinced. Really, what's the absolute worst that could happen?
Actually, she knew what was the absolute worst that could happen: she could be shot down at every turn, thereby obliterating the few remnants of self-worth on to which she'd managed to hold. But she had a feeling that probably wouldn't happen. Like her doc said, she shouldn't have so much difficulty just getting a conversation started. Any woman she'd see could be looking to meet a lady just like her—otherwise, what was she doing there?
"Let me ask you something, Phyllis," said Dr. Jameson. "Just hypothetically: if you did meet a girl—at a bar, or anywhere else—and supposing she might be interested...what are you looking for? What do you want in a woman?"
Good question. Phyllis had to think about it awhile. She
wanted
to say, "Well, everything you usually look for in a girl," but didn't think that a good or narrowed-down enough answer. She wanted someone who was sweet, kind, pretty, funny, with a good personality, good heart, good sex drive, for starters...but it seemed to her those were standard on the checklist, basically par for the course. But as she pondered a bit, she arrived at the conclusion that she wanted someone who could...challenge her.
"Challenge you how?"
Better question. She admitted this being an opinion to which she perhaps wasn't entitled, but...frankly, she was just a little tired of making all the effort. In the case of each date in her teen years, it was she who'd laid the groundwork, initiated things, and set up all the arrangements. And being that none of these encounters went anywhere, she speculated there was something she wasn't doing right. It also seemed she couldn't get a girl to show more enthusiasm than she felt obligated to, that they only regarded her to keep her from thinking them impolite. She had no way of knowing if they were actually interested or not. And she was frankly losing the will to try. It was a fair deal of pressure to go through each time, she told the doctor, the whole exhausting courtship ritual. It was taxing on her, as well as her budget, and it wasn't paying off, so...why bother?
This pattern generated great frustration through its consistency. Life became duller with each passing day of loneliness, and the more tedious things became, the more she desired someone to come lift her from the rut and spice things up. That was what she needed, some spice and pep to get her love life running. Being the aggressor proved a fruitless solution. Something of a catch-22, as girls—herself included—liked to be pursued and play hard-to-get, which she found cute and charming...at first. Why shouldn't they like this feeling, she thought. Clearly, on the receiving end of attention, having the signal raised of someone being intrigued, who
wouldn't
enjoy that? One day she thought,
What if
I
were the one to be picked up on? What if someone showed interest in
me
first, or asked
me
on a date? What if
I
was given the choice to accept or reject an advance?
Not only would it finally indicate to her that a potential mate was interested, the dating ball would be dropped into
her
court for a change, for
her
to do with as she would. It was quite a feeling to imagine, but she couldn't see it actually happening. Even so...
What if someone were to challenge
me
for once?
Supposing—theoretically, of course—a woman approached her, began conversing and opening herself up, leading perhaps to something more. What would happen...she had nary a clue. It was something she'd have to experience to find out. And so Dr. Jameson said he'd see her in two weeks, and Phyllis left. And on the way back home, the boredom of solitude went on wearing on her, finally producing just enough courage that she decided...
Y'know what?
Why not? Why the gosh-darned hell not? What really have I got to lose, after all?
She made up her mind to find a local lesbian bar and go. She had one errand to take care of, and then her path would be queer. She just hoped she didn't chicken out on herself.
*****
Where Every Lesbian Knows Your Name
Wednesday, October 30th, 2013, 5:39 p.m.
She felt her heart beating harder on the way. She was nervous, even though she hadn't yet arrived. She had her suit on, a blue ascot around her neck, a modest layer of makeup touching up her semi-awkward face, was freshly perfumed, and empty-bellied. She'd wait on eating, at least until something happened...or didn't.
There it was, LesBeers. A large, loquacious banner with a rainbow background hung beneath that read, "Where EVERY night is Ladies' Night! C'mon in out of the closet and have some fun!" Phyllis double-checked the address, even though she could clearly see the sign. 6511 Bellerive Boulevard. Yup. Okay, no excuse left now. She located a space, paralleled in, took out some change, fed the meter and locked the car. She took a breath, straightening her suit, and made her way across the street.
Once she got inside, she was a little surprised to see how crowded it was—not so much because it was a weekday, but because, well, she guessed she didn't expect to find this many single lebs in town in the first place.
Wow
, she thought,
Are there this many chicks here
every
night?
There were probably even more on the weekends. For a moment she considered going back outside to make sure she'd come into the correct establishment, but she wasn't that addle-brained.
She shyly wandered in, relieved to see most gals this evening dolled up like herself. Being the only dame in a suit, she'd feel a little out of place. She passed around a few friendly smiles and waves as if to say, "Hey, yeah, I'm new here, what's going on," and so forth. She made her way around the bar, looking for a place to sit. Another pleasant surprise presented itself as she took in a closer view of the clientele. There were comely women everywhere, smiling at her as she passed—some quite flirtatiously. Eventually, she located some unoccupied stools, next to one of which sat a very cute, very blonde mademoiselle in her 30s, close to Phyllis' age, sipping provocatively from her glass. Her brows arched cordially as they made eye contact. Phyllis slowed to a cautious halt beside her.
Just loudly enough for her to hear, Phyllis unassumingly motioned to the vacant stool to blondie's right. "May I?"
The woman smiled and nodded without hesitation. "Please!" she welcomed enthusiastically, patting the stool with her palm.
This put Phyllis' mind a good little bit at ease.
Wow, this might be easier than I thought!
she told herself. But just as quickly, she added,
Yeah, but whatever you do, girl, don't get cocky. Don't get overconfident
.
Hey, this is
me
I'm talking to, remember?
