When Eve invited Amanda out for a drink, she hadn’t meant it to be a date. It was a casual social thing, two colleagues hanging out after work, getting to know each other a little better. And it wasn’t even Eve’s idea. All she’d done was belatedly accept an invitation that Amanda had extended more than once, and that she herself had felt guilty about declining. There was no hidden agenda; she was just being polite, making amends, and giving them both something to do on an otherwise empty Friday night.
And yet it felt like a date, which was weird, because Eve didn’t date women. Of course, she wasn’t dating any men either, though that was only for lack of opportunity. If a man had asked her out, she would have happily said yes, unless it was creepy Barry from Gender and Society, who, unfortunately, was the only man expressing any interest at the moment, with the possible exception of Jim Hobie, the chatty bartender, though all he’d done was offer her a free drink, which hardly qualified as a romantic overture, and which, in any case, she’d declined.
But if tonight wasn’t a date—and it definitely wasn’t—then what accounted for the fluttery feeling of anticipation she’d been experiencing ever since she’d marked it on her calendar? And why had she chosen to wear this silky green blouse that went so well with her eyes, and then unbuttoned it one button lower than usual? The answer to these questions, Eve knew, was as simple as it was embarrassing: she’d been watching too much porn, and it had infected her imagination, making her hyper-aware of the sexual possibilities embedded in the most innocent situations. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so pathetic.
“I meant to tell you,” said Amanda, who seemed quite clear about the fact that she wasn’t on a date. “The maple syrup guy can’t do the November lecture, so I’m scrambling to find a replacement.”
“Uh-oh.” Eve stretched her mouth into an expression of mock horror. “Sounds like a sticky situation.”
Amanda looked puzzled for a moment, and then made a sound that resembled a chuckle.
“Sorry.” Eve frowned. “Humor’s not my specialty. At least that’s what my ex-husband used to tell me.”
“Nice,” Amanda said. “I’m sure you appreciated his honesty.”
“Absolutely. He was full of constructive criticism.”
“Sounds like my old boyfriend,” Amanda observed. “He was very concerned about my weight. If he caught me with some Ben and Jerry’s, he’d pull the container right out of my hand. He’d say, I don’t want you to regret this.”
“Really?”
“It was all for my own good, you know?”
Eve wanted to say something supportive but not inappropriate about Amanda’s curves—that was one good thing about the Milfateria, it had given her an appreciation of the sexual appeal of all sorts of body types—but they were interrupted by a couple of middle-aged frat boys who wanted to know if the stool next to Amanda’s was free. The guy who asked was jolly and bloated, with thinning blond hair and an alarmingly pink complexion. He made no effort to disguise his interest in the hand grenade tattooed on Amanda’s left breast, only partially obscured by the neckline of her dress.
“All yours,” she told the guy, scooching toward Eve to make room. Their knees bumped together, and Eve felt the subtle electric jolt you sometimes get from accidental contact. Amanda shifted again, undoing the connection.
“Ted—that’s my ex—used to tell me I was a bad storyteller,” Eve continued. “He said it was like a Victorian novel every time I went to the supermarket.”
That didn’t sound too bad to Amanda. “I like Victorian novels. At least I used to. I haven’t read one since college.”
“They can be kind of daunting,” said Eve. “I’ve been meaning to start Middlemarch for the past year or so. Everybody always says how great it is. But it never seems like the right time to crack it open.”
Amanda looked wistful. “There’s so much to read, but all I do is watch Netflix and play Candy Crush. I feel like I’m wasting my life.”
“It’s hard to concentrate after a long day at work. Sometimes you just want to turn your brain off.”
“I guess. But even on the weekends, I’ll read five pages, and then I have to get up and check my phone. It’s not that I want to, it’s that I have to. It’s a physical urge, like the phone is part of my body.”
Eve was a little too old to have that sort of relationship with her phone, but she understood the larger point all too well. It was mortifying to be an adult and not be able to control yourself. She didn’t used to be like that.
“Hey,” she said. “Maybe we could find a retired English professor to talk about Dickens or Jane Austen. We haven’t done anything like that for a while.”
Amanda’s nod was grudging at best. “We could. But I was hoping we could maybe try something different. Get outside the box a little.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. There are a lot of fascinating topics out there. Let’s hear about global warming or immigration or the rise of feminism or the history of the birth control pill. The anti-vaccine movement. I mean, just because you’re old doesn’t mean you can’t handle a new idea, right?”
Eve heard the implicit criticism in these suggestions. Her policy, ever since she’d taken charge at the Senior Center, had been to avoid controversy when booking the lecture series. No religion, no politics, nothing divisive or threatening. The series, as currently conceived, leaned heavily on nostalgia (FDR and the Greatest Generation, the Titanic and the Hindenburg, the Civil War and wagon train pioneers), continuing education (Backyard Wildlife, Know Your Night Sky), and uplifting human interest stories (a mountain climber with a high-tech prosthetic leg, an ex-nun turned cabaret singer), with the occasional author appearance or travelogue sprinkled in.
“I hear what you’re saying. But you know who we’re dealing with. A lot of the seniors are set in their ways. They don’t like anything upsetting or unfamiliar. Trust me, they don’t want to hear about global warming.”
“I get it.” Amanda nodded ruefully and tossed back the last swallow of wine in her glass. “I didn’t mean to rock the boat.”
“It’s okay. That’s why I hired you. Sometimes the boat needs to be rocked a little.”
*
In the lesbian MILF videos that Eve liked best, there was only one basic scenario: a confident woman seduces a reluctant one. Many began with the reluctant woman grumpily washing dishes or mopping the floor when the doorbell rings. The visitor—the confident one—usually arrives with a bottle of wine, a sympathetic expression, and a bit of exposed cleavage. Cut to the two women on the couch, deep in conversation, usually sitting close together. Often their knees are touching.
It is so good to see you, the confident one says, stroking her friend’s thigh or upper arm in a comforting, arguably nonsexual way. But you look a little sad.
The reluctant one doesn’t deny it.
It’s been a rough day, she sighs.
Maybe she lost her job. Maybe her husband left her. Maybe the bank turned down her loan application. But whatever the problem might be, it’s nothing that can’t be solved by a backrub and some cunnilingus.
*
Eve relaxed a little once they relocated to the restaurant section. They hadn’t planned on eating, but they’d polished off the first two glasses of wine in under an hour, and neither of them wanted to drink a third on an empty stomach. It was only seven o’clock—way too early to call it a night—and a table happened to be available, so here they were.
“I love these potatoes,” Amanda said.
“Should we get another order?”
Amanda dabbed at her mouth with the stiff cloth napkin, leaving a smudge of lipstick on the white fabric.
“That’s very decadent of you.”
“I don’t get out much,” Eve explained. “Might as well take advantage.”
“You should’ve come to Foxwoods the other night,” Amanda teased. “I could’ve used the company.”
Eve grimaced. “Was it horrible?”
“It was actually okay,” Amanda said. “I just felt sorry for Frank Jr. It must be depressing, doing an impersonation of your dead father. At least Nancy got to wear go-go boots and sing some songs of her own.”
“She did look good in those boots,” Eve said. “But I really don’t think they were made for walking.”
She glanced around, trying to get a bead on their elusive waiter. Aside from the iffy service, Casa Enzo was as good as everyone said, a cozy tapas place—the first ever in Haddington—with a dozen tables packed into a room that wasn’t quite big enough to accommodate them. It was even louder here than at the bar, but at least Eve wasn’t experiencing the restlessness that often plagued her in restaurants, the nagging sense that she was marooned at one of the boring tables while the interesting conversations were happening elsewhere.
“We should do this more often,” Amanda said. “I’m usually just sitting home on the weekends, eating too much chocolate.”
Eve plucked an oily green olive from the bowl. “So you’re not seeing anyone?”
Amanda shook her head, more in resignation than sadness. “It’s kind of a romantic wasteland around here. There aren’t a lot of single people my age. At least I haven’t figured out where they’re hiding.”
Feeling a little self-conscious, Eve removed the olive pit from her mouth and placed it daintily on her plate. There were six of them now, lined up like bullets, with bits of stray flesh stuck to the surface.
“These things are addictive,” she said.
“What about you?” Amanda asked. “Are you involved with anyone?”
“Not even close. Haven’t had a date in six months. Haven’t had a good one in at least two years, and even that one wasn’t all that great.”
“Really?” Amanda seemed genuinely surprised. “How come? I mean, you’re a very attractive woman.”
“Thanks. That’s sweet of you.”
“I’m serious,” Amanda insisted. “I hope I look half as good as you when I’m your age.”
Eve forced herself to smile, hoping it would hide her irritation.
“Hey,” she said. “Did I tell you about the class I’m taking?”
*
Some of the videos Eve had stumbled upon skipped straight to the bedroom, two naked women already engaged in the usual licking and groping. She clicked out of them as soon as she realized her mistake. She needed to start at the beginning and observe the negotiation, to see how the small talk turned into flirting, to hear the magic words that got the reluctant one to accept the first kiss, or allow her blouse to be unbuttoned.
The really hot part was the epiphany, the moment when the reluctant one suddenly understands that she’s been seduced. All the good stuff happened then. The quickening of the breath. The parting of the lips. The silent granting of permission. The understanding that everything that came before had been leading inevitably to this: one mouth discovering another, a hand cupping a breast, knees spreading apart. The end of reluctance. When it was good, you could forget you were watching porn and accept it, if not as the truth, then at least as a glimpse of a better world than the one you lived in, a world where everyone secretly wanted the same thing, and no one failed to get it.
*
Dessert arrived and Eve did the honors, poking her spoon through the brittle crust of the crème brûlée into the golden custard below.
“Wow,” she said, pushing the dish across the table. “You gotta try this.”
Amanda took a little bite. Her eyes widened with theatrical wonder.
“Oh my God. If I’m still single when I’m thirty, I’m going to marry the person who made this.”
“I hope you don’t mind a ménage à trois,” Eve told her, “because I just had the exact same thought. Except for the turning thirty part.”
“I’m game if you are.” Amanda glanced toward the kitchen. “But I guess we’ll have to see what our husband thinks. Or wife.”
“I’m sure they won’t mind.”
Amanda nodded, but her face had turned serious.
“So how old is your professor?”
“Around my age. But she’s only been living as a woman for a few years. Before that she was a heterosexual man, a professional athlete with a wife and child. But she was an emotional wreck, self-medicating with alcohol and prescription drugs. She went on a business trip and tried to kill herself with an overdose. Apparently, she came pretty close. When she came out of the coma, the first thing she said was, I’m a woman. I’ve been a woman all my life.”
“That’s so cool,” Amanda said. “Studying gender theory with a trans professor. You’re really lucky.”
“It’s pretty interesting. She’s an attractive woman and there are all these middle-aged straight guys in the class. They don’t know what to make of her.”
“Really,” Amanda said, as if Eve had been holding out on her. “Any cute ones?”
Eve shook her head. “It’s a motley crew. And believe me, at this point in my life, my standards are not especially high.”
“Come on.” Amanda smiled encouragingly. “There’s gotta be someone.”
Of course there was someone. There always was, at least since junior high. It wasn’t a class if you didn’t have a little crush on someone.
“It’s crazy.” She lowered her voice, in case anyone nearby was listening. “The only person I’m the least bit attracted to is a kid. Eighteen years old. Just a baby.”
Amanda looked delighted. This was better than she’d hoped.
“That’s pretty kinky,” she said, as if kinky were a term of high praise. “I didn’t know you liked the young ones.”
“It’s not like that,” Eve said. “I just find myself watching him a lot, thinking, If only I were your age.”
“What’s he look like?”
“He’s really thin, almost like a girl. Not too tall. Long hair. Beautiful eyes.”
“Smart?”
“I’m not sure.” Eve had only talked to Julian once, and he hadn’t said very much. “Kinda hard to pin him down. For the first couple of classes, I thought he might be gay. But it turns out he identifies as straight.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“We do these peer interviews where we’re supposed to articulate all this stuff people usually just take for granted.”
“What did you say?” Amanda seemed genuinely curious, as if Eve’s sexuality and gender identity were shrouded in mystery.
“I said straight. Cisgender. Nothing too exciting.”
Amanda nodded, as if she’d figured as much. Did she look disappointed, maybe just a little? Eve wished she could qualify her answer, explain that she was very turned on by lesbian porn at the moment, and was trying to figure out what that meant. But she’d need a few more glasses of wine before she’d dream of making a confession like that.
“So would you ever do it?” Amanda asked. “Hook up with a guy that young?”
“No way.” Eve grimaced at the thought. “He went to high school with my son. I’m old enough to be his mother.”
“You’re a MILF,” Amanda said, very matter-of-factly. “It happens.”
Eve was momentarily startled by the term, and the ease with which Amanda had used it in public. In her mind, it was a dirty word, not to be spoken out loud. But also a compliment.
“I don’t know about that,” she said, smiling modestly.
“Look at it this way,” Amanda told her. “If a guy your age went out with a college girl, people would congratulate him.”
“I wouldn’t. I’d think he was a creep. And I’d feel sorry for the girl.”
“Even if she didn’t feel sorry for herself?”
“It’s not gonna happen,” Eve said. “It’s not even in the realm of possibility.”
“I’m sure the kid would be thrilled. It’s like a porn fantasy come true. I did it with my best friend’s mom.”
“They’re not best friends. They barely knew each other.”
Amanda scraped the last bit of crème brûlée from the bowl. Her face turned thoughtful as she sucked on her spoon.
“I wouldn’t mind dating a younger guy. I’ve only been hooking up with older men lately, and I could definitely use a change.”
“Really? How much older?”
“Mostly forties. Some fifties.”
“Wow.” Eve nodded in a way that she hoped came off as nonjudgmental. “Is that a preference or just a coincidence?”
“Little of both.” Amanda’s tongue flicked out, expertly removing a stray dab of cream from her upper lip. “They’re nicer than guys my age.”
“Where do you meet them?”
“Tinder, mostly.” She watched Eve closely, trying to gauge her reaction.
“So you meet strange guys and have sex with them?”
Eve wanted the question back as soon as she’d asked it. But Amanda didn’t seem to mind.
“They’re not that strange,” she said, smiling at her own joke.
*
In the videos Eve liked best, the women were friends or neighbors or former romantic partners. Some of the other scenarios were a little more problematic, playing on age and power differentials that would have raised serious red flags in real life. A teacher doesn’t think a pupil’s been working up to her potential. A homesick foreign exchange student needs a little cheering up. A cougarish stepmother puts the moves on her sullen, but very persuadable, stepdaughter.
In the porn world, no one seemed to have heard of sexual harassment. Doctors went down on their patients. Personal trainers fondled their clients. Underperforming employees found creative ways to save their jobs. Eve would have objected strenuously to these scenarios if a man had been involved. But with two women, it was different somehow—a little more playful, and not nearly as creepy. Just a harmless fantasy, rather than something that reminded you of an infuriating article you’d read in the paper, or a bad experience recounted by a friend.
*
“There was a girl in my dorm who transitioned,” Amanda said. “It was an amazing thing to watch. When she showed up freshman year, she was so plain and quiet nobody even noticed her. Then she cut her hair and started dressing like a boy. Sophomore year she began the hormone therapy. Junior year her voice got deep, and it was like, I’m not Linda anymore. Please call me Lowell. That summer Lowell got the top surgery. By the end of senior year he was this buff, handsome dude with a scruffy beard and a motorcycle. Lots of girls I knew dated him. It got to be sort of a thing, you know? Like, cross that one off the bucket list.”
Eve nodded, but the story sounded so foreign to her. When she’d been in college, there was a woman on campus with patches of dark hair on her face, but nobody thought she was cool or intriguing. People mostly just felt sorry for the poor girl, and did their best not to stare. Eve assumed she was suffering from a medical condition or some kind of cosmic misfortune. It had never even occurred to her that the bearded woman might be making a choice, moving in the direction of happiness.
“So these girls who dated Lowell,” Eve said. “Were they straight or bi or what?”
“All kinds.” Amanda lowered her gaze, adjusting the napkin in her lap. “I asked him out for coffee one afternoon. We had a pretty good time. When it was over, he drove me home on his motorcycle, and we made out a little outside my apartment. It got pretty heavy, but when he asked if we could go up to my room, I chickened out. I guess I wasn’t ready for whatever that was gonna be, which is saying something, ’cause I was pretty much up for anything back then. But he was totally cool about it. The next time I saw him, he was dating this beautiful Turkish girl from my Milton class.”
“That’s so amazing,” Eve said. “It’s like a modern-day Cinderella story. You change your body and your name, and all your dreams come true. I wish I could do that myself.”
“Really?”
“Not the man part. Just the chance to leave your old self behind. To take all your mistakes and regrets and erase them from the story. Who wouldn’t want that?”
Amanda nodded, as if that made a lot of sense.
“So who would you be? If you could start over?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t given it a lot of thought.”
“What about your name? What would you call yourself?”
“Let’s see.” Eve closed her eyes, and a name appeared to her unbidden, blue letters stamped on a gift shop license plate. “Ursula. I’d call myself Ursula.”
“That’s a strong name. What’s this Ursula like?”
“Braver than me,” Eve said. “She does what she wants. Doesn’t worry so much about what everybody else thinks. Doesn’t settle for less than she deserves, or apologize unless it’s absolutely necessary. She just wants to live and have adventures.”
Amanda smiled. “I like this person.”
Eve knew she’d said more than enough, but she was on a roll.
“Ursula probably doesn’t work at the Senior Center.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Amanda said, but she didn’t sound sorry.
“She does something a little more exciting. Maybe she’s a travel writer. She wears sunglasses and has lots of affairs.”
“She sounds pretty sexy.”
Eve scratched at a yellowish stain on the tablecloth, hoping her face wasn’t as pink as it felt. She was a little drunk, a little embarrassed, but also strangely exhilarated.
“What about you?” she said. “Who would you be?”
“Juniper.” Amanda spoke without hesitation. “I’d be petite and graceful. Maybe a dancer. No tattoos. Just my own beautiful skin. And I’d be naked every chance I got. I’d leave my window shades up, let the whole world look.”
“Good for you.”
Amanda laughed a little sadly, like she was unworthy of her own fantasy. Eve wanted to tell her she was beautiful already, but instead she made a toast.
“To Ursula and Juniper.”
“Juniper and Ursula,” Amanda replied, and they clinked their tiny glasses.
*
By the time they left the restaurant, Eve had come full circle, back to the idea that this was a date, and a pretty good one at that. They’d talked for hours without hitting any dead spots, they’d drunk a little too much wine, they’d laughed and told the truth about their lives.
It was quiet as she walked Amanda to her car, a bracing autumnal chill in the air. The fluttery feeling in Eve’s chest was even stronger than it had been before.
“Thanks for dinner,” Amanda said. “I really enjoyed it.”
“Me too.”
Instead of getting in her car, Amanda just stood there, smiling shyly, like she was waiting for something else to happen. Eve wanted to kiss her, but she was paralyzed, unsure about which one of them was the confident one.
It has to be me, she thought.
She was older. She was the boss. But she didn’t feel confident at all. She felt lost and scared, like she was floating in space, completely untethered.
And then, almost as if she were reading Eve’s mind, Amanda stepped forward, opening her arms and tilting her chin at an inviting angle. Eve swooped in and kissed her on the mouth.
“Whoa!” Amanda stiffened and pulled away with a shocked expression, raising both hands in self-defense. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry.” Eve was mortified. “I just thought—”
“Wow.” Amanda laughed nervously, wiping her wrist across her mouth. The gesture seemed a little excessive—the kiss had only lasted a second, no tongue or saliva involved. “I just wanted to give you a hug.”
“Oh, God.” Eve hid her face in her hands. “I’m so stupid. I drank too much. I’m so so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Amanda told her, still sounding a little shocked. “It’s no big deal.”
“Yes it is,” Eve muttered into her palm. “I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t right.”
“Really. It’s okay.”
Eve uncovered her face. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry.” Amanda touched her gently on the arm. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
Eve felt a little sick. She hadn’t thought about the possibility of Amanda telling anyone.
“Thank you,” she said. “I would really appreciate that.”
*
She drove home in a fog of regret, wondering how she could have done something so irresponsible, so unlike herself. Was she that lonely, that desperate for sexual contact? It made no sense, taking a risk like that—jeopardizing her job, her home, her son’s college education—just to pretend for a night that she was living in a porn video.
You are so stupid, she told herself, trying not to think about the bitter disappointment she’d felt when Amanda’s lips had failed to open.
She was normally a careful person—careful to a fault—and now she’d gone and put her livelihood in the hands of a young woman she barely knew, a girl with a grenade tattooed on her chest, probably not the best decision-maker in the world. It was a terrible thing to hand someone that kind of power, even someone who claimed to be your friend.
She wanted to call Amanda and repeat her apology, let her know that it would never happen again, that their relationship would be cordial and professional for however long Amanda remained at the Senior Center. But maybe a call wasn’t the best idea, not so soon. Maybe that would only aggravate the situation, make it seem like a bigger deal than it already was. But she had to say something, for her own peace of mind, so she sent the blandest text she could think of:
You okay?
Yeah, Amanda replied, almost immediately. Fine.
Are we still friends?
Totally, Amanda replied, with a smiley face added for reassurance.
A moment later, another text arrived, a single word trapped in a separate bubble.
Ursula
Just the name, no exclamation mark. It looked sad like that, all alone, dead on arrival.