April 11, 2008
Little Miss X


cydytame073.jpgTo be honest, I don’t remember her name. I have only the vaguest recollection of what she looked like. I remember that her hair was shortish and pixie-like, but given that it was 1984, that would hardly differentiate her from most chicks, myself included. We were almost all of us sporting asymmetrical choppy hairstyles that relied on generous applications of copious polymer-based hair products.

Her hair was slightly red; she was, I think, a strawberry blonde. Her skin was pale, and when we kissed, I had to bow slightly to meet her lips.

I don’t remember where we met. I do, however, remember our first date, which was a date that neither of us realized was a date, but this black dude at the bar recognized it for us. He turned to us, all of us sitting in a row at that heavy-wooded, nautical themed, low-ceilinged bar and said, “It’s nice to see two people who enjoy each other,” and he grinned, his eyes going all evil-twinkly.

He saw something in us that we didn’t quite recognize: we were hott for each other. Miss X and I sipped wine and slipped oysters, and the world fell away in this pleasantly buzzing fashion. Though it wasn’t until later, when in her tiny floor-flung bed and fumbling with each other’s bras, that we realized that it had.

From the first moment I laid eyes on Marta, my first girlfriend, I knew both that she was a dyke waiting to happen and that I would be the catalyst. There was never any misconstruing of our conversations. I was flirting, she was responding. I was seducing, she was seduced. The dynamic was very clear, even as it was exciting, electric and star-showered. There was no surprise when we first kissed that night while on patrol in the darkened halls of our Catholic girls’ sleep-away camp. There was pleasure, and there was a breath-bating moment of success, on my part anyway, but there was no real surprise.

Ending up in bed with Miss X, though, took me by surprise. For one thing, though I was living in Boston and my boyfriend in Vermont, we were supposedly a couple, however much our monogamy had always been of the elastic don’t ask/don’t tell French variety. And for another, I had just been looking for a friend, not a lover.

I had hoped in meeting Miss X that I’d just make more connections in that city where I was still feeling kind of alone. And yet there I had found myself with her, sipping and slipping, and this black guy at the ship’s wheel and fisherman net bar knowing that we were into each other, and us enveloped in the foggy bubble of erotic attraction.

And then I was in her bed. I don’t remember who kissed whom, or where, or when, or how it was that we realized the black dude had been right, and that this kiss was inevitable, inescapable, inexorable, and now. I don’t even remember  particulars about her body or our sex, though we saw each other for about a month.

I remember she had small very perky breasts with tiny raspberry nipples. I remember making her come; I remember the feel of her pussy clenching and sucking around my fingers in delicate anemone ululations. I remember waking in her bed, and I vaguely remember her room, a tumbled jungle of cotton-lycra clothes and secondhand books.

I remember I was her first female lover, a distinction I’ve had with all of my female lovers, with the exception of my celebrity and those women I’ve had threesomes with. Or most of them, anyway. I tend toward the inexperienced girl, for some reason.

And I remember telling my boyfriend in one of his visits to Boston that I had a girlfriend. I remember enjoying the hott-pink drama of the moment, of being theoretically torn between two lovers and really just not feeling so much like a fool as an impostor. Because when it came down to it, there at the bottom of my psyche, I knew that what I was not was a lesbian. I knew that this girl was just a girl to me and that she would never captivate me because of her sex.

After my boyfriend left that weekend, the lesbian drama a Bunsen burner to our love, I broke up with Miss X. She wasn’t that torn up about it, from what I remember, or what I told myself after, and I never saw her again.

But when I’m really honest about it all, I realize that I must feel badly about it all, or I would not have erased so much about her from my capacious memory. Something, somewhere pressed the “delete” button, and there’s a gap, like the scratchy silence of Nixon’s tapes, and there in that silence is the uncomfortable echo of my guilt.


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