When I walked into my friend Sue's office this morning, she was jumping up and down. Two thick lines of perspiration were streaming down her face.
'What are you doing?' I asked.
'Jumping up and down,' she answered.
'Why?' I asked.
'You don't want to know,' she said, increasing the frequency of her jumps.
I watched for a moment, wondering whether I really wanted to pursue this line of questioning. Finally, since I really had nothing better to do, I asked. 'Is this some type of gay thing?'
She collapsed in her chair and wiped her brow. 'Kind of. I have to call a girl for a date and I'm trying to exhaust myself so I don't sound too anxious on the phone.'
'Have you worked out a script?' I asked, warming to the subject. Sue is one of the many young protégés I have coached in the art of girl-on-girl lovin'. The first lesson I taught her ( after the mandatory 'how-to French kiss your mentor' introductory session ) was to always plan exactly what you are going to say to a woman before you phone her. This will lessen the risk of sounding like a bumbling idiot when recovering from the shock of hearing her voice on the line.
'I worked on it until midnight last night,' she said, handing me a sheet of paper. Her script read: Pick up the phone. Dial the number. When she answers, say, 'Hi, how are you doing? Wanna go out? No? OK, I understand. No hard feelings.' Hang up. Cry.
I balled up the paper and tossed it at her head. But I didn't throw it too hard because I understood the hell she was going through.
Calling a woman for the first time is an excruciating exercise. You have no idea whether she'll be happy to hear from you and so you are forced to rely on her vocal inflections as subtle signposts to guide you through the call. If you misread her tone at any stage you could easily navigate off the path of romance and into a minefield of rejection and humiliation.
There have been times in my career as a lesbian when I stared at the phone for hours before finally grabbing the receiver and punching in a phone number in a fit of near hysteria, praying that she wouldn't actually pick up the phone. As soon as I heard her voice, I'd stumble away from my carefully prepared speech in a panic, and instead of asking her to dinner, I'd rage against sea monkeys or the nonessential nature of gall bladders or some other nonsense. The conversation would sputter to a lifeless end, and I'd hang up the phone longing for my days as a straight girl, when boys were forced to take all the chances and all I had to do is sit by the phone and wait for it to ring.
I wrapped a sisterly arm around Pam's shoulder and handed her the phone. 'Just call the girl,' I said. 'The worst thing that can happen is she'll say no. Actually, the worst thing that can happen is she'll say yes. If that happens, you'll start dating and then you'll move in together. You'll spend too much money on a house in a bad neighborhood. You'll get some cats, stop having sex, and grow to resent each other. But at least you'll have a girlfriend, and that will make all your single friends pea-green with envy.'
