Lady M is French, the kind of French where you’re unbearably chic. She’s exactly the type of French that can throw her messy, after-sex-hair on top of her head, and start a new fashion trend. She wore a black silk shirt, black jacket, black heels, and dark jeans on our date, last night.
“Does this mean you’re bi, now?!” My friend H asked, excitedly over text. We always fantasise about running away together and being hetero lifemates.
“I don’t think so, no.”
Lady M had already ordered sangrias when I got there, and thank fuck for that. My first Date with a Woman. Not a “date,” and not a “girlfriend.” A Date. A Woman. A French Woman who runs the Bi-Women’s group in my area. I hadn’t even thought she had any interest in me, until Special K and I left her birthday party a few weeks earlier, and she planted a serious kiss on me. So, I pretty much walked straight into my glass, and tried desperately to channel my inner Domme and get control of the tone of the evening. If anyone was going to be nervous about this date, it would be her, dangit! I’m a Domme and stuff. Rawr!
“So, did you two kiss?!” H is a fast typist on the iPhone.
Lady M is French… which would have been a good thing to remember when I managed an awkward half-hug, and she pulled me back to do a second cheek-kiss, as the French do. I pulled out the flogger in my head and demanded that the inner butterflies calm the fuck down. I looked at M over her glass; despite her initial kiss, she was spending quite a bit of time on her phone. Hm… I have to get a sitter for the kids and find clothes without baby puke on them, and she’s chatting away online?
The food was good, and when we chatted, it was about music and literature and the perils of extricating oneself from smothering relationships. I make a Virginia Woolf joke about having “a room of one’s own.” I don’t think she caught it, but my inner feminist gave me a mini high-five. Dessert was a hot chocolate fudge brownie, because calories don’t count when you’re on your first lesbian date.
And there, outside of the little Cuban restaurant, up against the wall in the light drizzling rain, I kissed her. I kissed Lady M.
There weren’t fireworks, and I didn’t immediately feel my “Bisexuals Membership” card spontaneously grow in my wallet, but it was nice. She was nice. She’s easy to be near. And maybe, more than her genitalia, “easy and breezy” is just what I need right now.