4:20 p.m. - 2007-06-26
Mae West Time
Sex was not the point. Not the point at all. It was being desired. Being desired gave her a sense of worth and power, a heady combination that she had never before felt. She could not be bought, bribed or schmoozed. And yet, she could bestow her favors on whomever she chose. For whatever random, impulsive and inexplicable reason. Her choice. She could also withdraw them at will. Her will. She could afford to be flip. She called it her "Mae West time". Tongue in cheek, she delivered ridiculous femme fatal lines to an unsuspecting array of guys with no discernable common thread. That girl in the sequined jeans. With the careless grin. During the week, she was fine. A student, lying on the grass at Valley College, writing poetry. Bringing home dinner in a red and white bag. Happy to be setting the heater at 80 and falling asleep by 8:00 pm. Cozy on her Noah sheets. Blissfully alone. On weekends, though, she was driven. An anticipated loneliness would stalk her on all sides, painting the walls with bars. She would be frantic until the plans were in place and she would find that rarest of creatures, a girlfriend to walk into the club with. Once arranged with Meridee, her heart would settle back into place. Weekends supplied a fresh crop of paper scraps with scribbled numbers and forgotten names. Sometimes she would call. Often they would find her with baskets of fresh cherries and Tea for the Tillerman. They were nothing but mirrors. The guys. She wanted desperately to see her reflection. The desire in their eyes. Her worth. Lost in shallow waters. Like the Woman of Shallot, she haunted the moors of local clubs bathed in light unspeakably soft. She was happy in her own way, as I recall. I want to ask her how it was ever enough. She would shrug and play with her hair. "Come up and see me sometime," her eyes would say.
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