I had thought that my ex-girlfriend, K, was possibly “the one.” When we had dinner on our first date, she was in bed with me in two hours. The connection we had was passionate, intense, close, and tender. My friends noted how I glowed in her presence and that we seemed to go together. We fell madly in love, and I felt her adoration for months, her sweet love notes and homemade dinners and her calling me “my love.” She playfully albeit seriously liked to fantasize about us getting married and having children in the future. I gave her a promise ring, and she even had a sperm donor selected, a guy friend who was part-Swedish, part-Persian, you know, standard lesbian relationship details. But our relationship was challenged with our opposite natures clashing. Six months in, she decided to break up with me, expressing that she had thought she could come to love me but realized it was not possible. She returned the opal ring, surrounded by tiny diamonds, back into the palm of my hand.
***
Devastated, I tried to move on and not think about the woman who had broken my heart. I invited Camille over to my place for dinner and a movie for our second date. She brought dessert and I cooked Italian food: eggplant parmigiana. She was dressed in a gray sweater and embraced me at the door, no kiss yet, watching me cook and adding that she couldn’t fix more than grilled cheese sandwiches. I had the initial pang of missing K, who was a stellar cook.
Camille sat next to me on the couch to eat dinner and watch the movie, which was about a married couple that had once been in love and was now on the brink of divorce. Relationships were hard. She turned to kiss me in the middle of a scene and her mouth felt cold, her tongue moving in me as a total stranger. I became cognizant that K was facing me from a framed photograph on the wall, her hand resting on my thigh on the first night we met. Tonight was different, surprisingly different from the night when I had gotten drunk with Camille and fooled around with her in my car. My heart was heavy with a real sadness. K was like Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food to Camille’s vanilla ice cream. Phish Food was my favorite indulgence.
I touched her long hair trailing below her shoulders, felt her up, and our shirts and bras came off. Straddling her and pleasuring her large breasts with my tongue, in the same spot of the couch I had gone down on K, I realized Camille didn’t inspire me to fuck her. She was calm, rather plain, liked it slow and light. I wanted emotion, wildness, force, electricity between our minds and bodies. I wanted K’s beautiful body with her tattoos and sculpted arms, her kisses, her, us. I had the memory of her pressing me up against the kitchen wall and attacking me. Was I not that into Camille tonight because I wasn’t over K? Or was I just not that into Camille? What was going on with me?
She spooned me in bed with our underwear on, her arm wrapped around me where K’s would have been. “I can’t wait to wake up to you in the morning.” She smiled at me through the darkness. In the morning, we opened our eyes and kissed awkwardly. We had Mexican coffee and breakfast tacos at a café down the street; that was when she made the startling discovery that her white Saab was missing from my parking lot. I drove her to a towing place up north, where a creepy man, who looked like he was running a graveyard, gave her car back and watched me lean into her car window to kiss her goodbye— like we were girlfriends. “Would you like to go out one night this week?” she asked, gazing at me with her pale blue eyes. She was someone my mind told me I needed to consider more: a kind, stable, intelligent woman interested in me. I decided to go on a third date and then make a decision.
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