Next day, Saturday, I got an unexpected call from Dave, late into the afternoon.
‘Hiya, I’m done climbing and haven’t broken anything. Can I buy some wine and come and drink it with you?’
My heart was pounding and plummeting, leaping and lurching. Truth was, I didn’t know what I’d do if she made a move on me. Submit without a fight? Tell a little white lie? Fend her off? All options were open. The only thing I couldn’t do was to decline her offer.
‘Wine always sounds good,’ I said.
‘Red or white?’
‘I’m easy. When it comes to wine,’ I added hurriedly. ‘Where are you?’
‘Twenty minutes away, according to my satnav.’
It was over half an hour before she arrived at my poky little flat . . . Sorry, at my beloved, albeit rented abode.
‘I stopped for Chardonnay and Shiraz,’ she said in greeting. ‘And these.’
She was thrusting a bunch of roses at me. A dozen of them. A dozen! Blood-red, they were. I had never been given flowers before, not even daisies. This statement of intent scared me. It also thrilled every nerve in my body.
Being honest as always, I must admit I wet myself.
Trying to be bold I asked her if she’d bought them from a petrol station. Maybe a posh one in or around Ilkley. She said no, she’d considered doing that, before detouring to a local garden centre.
If she’d tried to shag me at that moment, I would have let her. No, I would have let her with open arms.
And legs.
And everything.
The evening passed with us drinking wine (she’d brought three bottles) and watching soppy films on Sky. When she cuddled against me I didn’t protest. Secretly I hoped she’d try for more.
And, secretly, I wondered what I’d do if she did.
Eventually, when the wine was all gone, she called a cab, telling me she’d collect her car in the morning, early on, once she’d sobered up. ‘I’ll be in and out like the SAS,’ she grinned. ‘You won’t even know I’ve been.’
We waited for her taxi in my hallway. She was wearing a thick, outdoor shirt. It was blue and black check and probably rocky-outcrop-resistant. For the very first time I noticed her nipples. She was still flat-chested but not totally unfeminine.
‘Next weekend,’ she said, rousing me from wicked if hazy thoughts. ‘Are you definitely up for it?’
‘Without a doubt,’ I assured her.
‘I’ll book the rooms tomorrow.’
I kissed her. No rational reason, I just did it. She kissed back but left all the instigation to me. She didn’t even grope my bum. Which was a pity. I wouldn’t have protested.
‘Separate rooms,’ she said again, smiling into my eyes.
‘That would be best.’ I hesitated then let the alcohol speak for itself. ‘I can’t promise you a night in bed; I’m not sure I’m ready for that. But I will mess about with you in the shower. If that doesn’t seem too . . . too childish.’
‘It seems like a good idea to me.’ She grinned her lovely, captivating grin. ‘Just so you’re aware, I have been known to have up to ten showers a day. Sometimes I spend more time under the sprinkler than I do in bed.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I said, grinning back at her.
*****
The working week absolutely crawled by. If it hadn’t been for the lunch hours I don’t think I would have made it. Honestly, I think I would have self-combusted. Fortunately, we could meet up every day, Monday to Friday at twelve on the dot. So we did, growing closer and closer all the time.
Most of that week (last week) has been forgotten already. I can’t remember anything about my working activities apart from a “1-2-1” with Joyce on Wednesday, and then I can only recall our chat at the end. We’d got through the routine stuff when Joyce mentioned Dave. ‘I couldn’t help noticing you have found a new friend,’ she began.
I was mortified when I realized Joyce was worried about me. First she confirmed that I was aware Dave wasn’t a guy . . .
‘I know she’s not,’ I told her. ‘She’s a very beautiful girl.’
That knocked a lot of wind out of Joyce’s sails. Without ever using the word “lesbian” she . . . clumsily, if you ask me . . . speculated about Dave’s sexuality. Eventually I’d heard enough. I like Joyce but couldn’t have her controlling my life. Keeping it polite, I pointed out that I’d had all sorts of friends at uni and could look after myself.
Then I spent the rest of the day wondering what I’d let myself in for at the weekend.
That night I went online looking for definitions. A straight person had, I discovered, “an enduring pattern of emotional, romantic and/or sexual attractions to persons of the opposite sex”. I thought about that and concluded I wasn’t very straight. Okay, emotionally I wasn’t immune. A lot of guys annoyed and frustrated me, but annoyance and frustration weren’t attractive emotional qualities. Not to me, anyway. As for romantic . . . ha, ha, ha! And as for sexual . . . how often had I seen someone in the street and thought, “Wow, look at the lunch box on that!” Never, that’s how often. Not even once.
Next stop was the bio of a bisexual person: “Romantic or sexual attraction to people of any sex or gender identity.” I ruled myself out of “bisexual” without bothering to look up “gender identity”. Hadn’t I just ruled out men per se?
And so to the definition of a lesbian: “A female who experiences romantic love or sexual attraction to other females.” I chewed that over a while. No denying it, I was sexually attracted to Dave. I still didn’t know what that attraction would lead to, but it was definitely there. Yet the wording was “females”, not “a female”. As far as I was aware, I had never been attracted to any other female. Not unless you counted Beyoncé, Nichole Scherzinger and their likes. And that was more admiration than attraction, wasn’t it?
Well, wasn’t it?
Timeout for a brief digression. I’m not very big on masturbatory fantasies. Not for a girl who masturbates quite a lot. Usually I concentrate on what I’m doing to myself, trying to think of ways to improve. I very rarely fantasize about real people or (real or imaginary) situations. On those few occasions when I have pretended I was taking a lover, the lover had always been a faceless, well-built man. That doesn’t mean, of course, that I haven’t thought about some of those girlie videos while I . . .
Back to the definition of “lesbian”. “Romantic love” was a term that thrilled and chilled. I had had schoolmates and friends at uni . . . girls, I mean . . . who I love. Meaning I loved them at the time and still do love them to this day. Only not in a romantic way. And I definitely hadn’t been sexually attracted to any of them.
I think. Or rather, don’t think.
That left Dave. Those roses were still taking pride of place in my kitchen window. They had been given as a romantic gesture, obviously, and I’d received them more than willingly. And Dave already had a place in my heart. I loved her just as much as I loved any of my other friends. No, I loved her more. Was it “romantic love”? Not yet . . . possibly not yet . . . but like it or lump it, it was heading in that direction.
I said it then for the first time. Words which have now become my mantra.
‘I’m Mikki. I am twenty-four and I am a lesbian.’
‘And I’m in love with Dave.’