Carrie's the only one who calls after one a.m., so I
know it's her before I answer.
"Where?" I ask.
"The condo."
"Fifteen."
I step into sweatpants, pull a T-shirt out of
the
hamper, throw it over my shoulder.
Grab a six-pack out of
the fridge, and go.
I need to get a life.
I need to get laid. Quit
chasing goddamn lesbians all over town in the middle of the
night.
Only one problem.
I'm in love with Carrie Anderson, lover of
women,
member of the rainbow brigade, lesbian with a capital "L."
Carrie's stronger than I am, taller, too. Never had sex
with a man, no desire to begin with me. And, yes, I've
asked. Begged.
Gave her my best young-Marlon-Brando
leather dude seduction.
She was kind enough not to laugh.
I'm a fool.
And I'm on my way to rescue her, once again.
She falls into the passenger seat, cussing.
"Goddamn lesbians.
I'm sick of them," she says.
She
grabs my arm.
"Take me to The Cheetah.
Please--"
"No more strip clubs for you," I say.
"You're
becoming an addict."
She pouts.
"I brought beer," I say, my thumb indicating
the back
seat.
"I told her about Sheila."
"And?"
"It's over."
"With Sheila?"
"No, Sam."
It's hard to keep up.
Carrie pops open a beer, starts drinking
without me.
I realize the ramification of her news: Carrie lives with
Sam; Carrie just broke up with Sam.
"Come stay at my place," I say.
Carrie puts her feet up on the dashboard, sinks
low in
the seat. "Dean,
we're almost thirty. Shouldn't
you be
married or something?"
I drive to The Cheetah.
Carrie shrieks as we pull in,
leans over and kisses my cheek, squeezes my knee.
"I love
you," she says.
I slip my dirty T-shirt on as I get out of the
car,
watching Carrie bolt for the front door, pulling her wallet
out of her back pocket.
It's hard not to love Carrie at The Cheetah.
Outside,
in the ordinary world, Carrie slouches, minimizes herself,
avoids eye contact with strangers.
At The Cheetah, Carrie
struts, saunters, squares her shoulders like a man.
And
when the dancers come to her (and they always do) she
swivels her hips with theirs, tosses her shoulder-length
hair back, lengthens her neck, extending into the fullness
of her body, as if it's a foreign country she rarely
visits.
There's a blond D-cup dancing in front of me
but I'm
watching Carrie, cash in her hand, half-naked strippers
circling her.
She looks at me and shrugs. At
The Cheetah
there's no reason to make choices.
She disappears behind
the curtain with two of them: lanky red-head and svelte
Asian.
I stand up and follow, slip behind the curtain
to
watch. Carrie
knows I do it; she's never told me to stop.
The dancers take turns with her, writhing, teasing.
Time has a way of shifting behind the curtain at The
Cheetah. Seconds
become minutes; minutes, hours.
I watch
as Carrie's breathing grows short, as she grips her thighs,
bites her bottom lip, clenches.
She's almost there, I can
tell; she's taken the incidental friction of the dance as
far as it can go; she's at the tipping point.
That's
when she does it.
Right at that instant, when Carrie's
there, but not there, when she needs something more than
the Cheetah girls can give, that's when she looks at me.
She doesn't bury it, doesn't keep the moment for herself.
No, not my Carrie.
When the universe expands and a second
becomes an eternity, Carrie stares right into my eyes,