Cover

I gave up. I caved in. I succumbed.

After years and years of struggle, of listening to others, of heeding advice, of kowtowing to societal mores, to church teachings, to my family and friends, I knew I had to yield. I wiped damp hands on my new black jeans, and looked for a parking spot. They were few and far between, but I finally found one. I nervously approached, swallowing, trying to control my trembling. I walked up the steps and through the door, holding my breath. It was exactly the same as the first time I entered a Baptist church. (My best friend in grade school had been Baptist). After all the dire warnings and threats of fire and brimstone, nothing happened. No thunder. No lightning. No small, burnt spot smelling of ozone to show where I had been. No tiny pile of ashes to show that I had been. I just--stepped forward, and there I was, inside.

"So you gonna block the entrance all night, or what?" came a gruff voice in my ear. I looked at the short-tempered, short-haired, short woman standing in front of me and grinned.

"Sorry," I said, paying the cover charge. "That was the sound of a cherry pop."

"Wha . . . ?" She paused, then looked me up and down. A slow grin spread across her face. "Welcome, then. Have fun." She hiked her jeans up, and looked beyond me to the next customer. As I walked on, she slapped my ass. I spun around and glared at her. She winked.

"I'm off at ten, if you're still around then."

I caught my breath, gave a shaky laugh, and said, "Thanks. If I am, I'll look for you."

"No need. I'll find you," she said as she collected the cover charge from the couple at the door.

I nodded, then moved on inside. It was a bar, like many other bars I'd been in, only it was mostly women. A few men had come with dates, I guessed they were hoping to pick up a third for threesomes. Not this chick. That was not in my bowl of cherries.

I sat at the bar and, well, I girl-watched. I was finally free to girl-watch, and I took advantage of the permission I'd given myself. Another cherry. Just to look at and appreciate women, in all their delightful variety within this particular slice of society. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, slim, padded, angular, curvy . . . I decided I like curvy. The rest didn't seem to matter, my eyes adored roaming over the curvy ones. Intense, relaxed, angry, giggly, calm, excited . . . I liked smiles, I found myself watching the ones who smile.

Several came to me, exchanged names, chatted me up. Two tried to tell me they were what I needed tonight. I was gracious in declining--no sense in making them angry--and said I was waiting for my date. One came back, later and asked where my date was, and was I sure she was coming? I assured her I'd just spoken to her, she was busy working but would be with me shortly. On cue, my short-short-short friend from the door came over.

"Go away, Debbie, do. She's been waiting very patiently on me, and you don't want me to turn you away at the door next week, now do you?"

Debbie left, somewhat dejected, but she quickly spotted other prey and perked up.

"So far so good?" my "date" asked.

"Yes. So far, so good." I was looking out at the women chatting, dancing, laughing, playing pool. "I like it." I picked up my drink, noticed it was a fresh one, and looked over at shorty. I'd have to ask her name soon.

She grinned. "On the house, welcome wagon and all, and the name's Brett."

Brett. I should have known. A short name to go with the rest of her.

"Brett." I took a breath. "Maybe you can help me out here. My full name is Maria Ignacia," I pronounced it as my mother does, Marignassia, but it's still too long. Brett looked at me, taking in my black hair and eyes, black vest over a white tee, black jeans, black boots. She raised an eyebrow.

"I should think it's obvious. You're about to become the black sheep, aren't you?"

I bit my lip, it was part of what I'd avoided thinking of; but she continued.

"Blackie." She grinned. "I've been calling you that all night, in my mind."

I laughed. "Should I tell you what I've been calling you?"

"No need. Everybody thinks of me as Shorty. So what made you accept it?"

I liked that--her calm assurance that it's not a decision, but an acceptance of an intrinsic part of myself.

"Tired of fighting it, I guess. Tired of looking away every time I see a beautiful woman. Tired of not going to the art galleries because the nudes excite me. Tired of dealing with the jackasses who think their extra bits make them better than me. Tired of being dictated to by parents, friends, church, society. I am not a sheep. I decided I should stop acting like one."

"What then, if not sheep? Wolf?"

"Hardly!"

"Ah. How 'bout . . . swan?"

"The ugly duckling grows up? I like that. I bet you say that to all the new ones."

"Nope. Just the swans. Black swans. Beautiful black swans." She winked. I blushed.

"Are you flirting with me?"

"If I were male, would you ask that?" She smirked.

"Oh, my. There goes another cherry."

"What, no one else has flirted with you tonight?"

"Nope. Chatted me up, tried to pick me up, but no flirts, alas, alack!" I teased.

"So another cherry. What, are you carrying a bowl of cherries around?"

"Yep." I held my breath.

"And were you planning to share?"

"Maybe." I swallowed.

"Let's have another then. Dance with me." She stood and held her hand out to me.

"Greedy, aren't you?" I said, taking her hand. "This right here is one, walking to the floor another, actually dancing, that makes three . . ."

She laughed. I liked her laugh.

First dance. First slow dance. First second slow dance. First kiss. First second kiss. First French kiss. The bouncer asked us to leave. That was an unexpected, but not totally unwelcome, first.

She took me to her place.

Cherries jubilee.