A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Six Continued..

The area was unfamiliar to me, near water and sheltered from suburbia by an air of historical industry.  While locating the address she had provided me with proved simple enough, I knew that this challenging individual wouldn’t be letting me off that easily.  I was right.

 

Approaching the door, what looked like a small parcel greeted me, wedged in the security screen.  Upon closer inspection, I found a smartphone wrapped in a scrap of paper, tied with a rubber band.  I started at a bark of laughter before realising it had come from me, then unwrapped the package and read the note my tormentress had left:

‘If you can figure out sat nav on the iphone, then you will find sunset.  Z’

Cursing my recent propensity to broadcasting my opinions around iphonic imperialism, I hit the single button on the thing and found an option called ‘maps’.  How fortunate the device had been engineered with the novice in mind, as locating the trail she had left involved just a few intuitive clicks.  I bundled back into the car and meandered through some back streets to a spot along the river.  There she waited on a two-seated pink sofa she had constructed out of deckchairs and cushions, bottle of beer in hand, music belting out of the window of her nearby car. 

To Be  Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Five Continued..

The following days yielded more messages on Pink Sofa with references to moths, while the butterflies in my stomach slowly settled and found roosting positions.  The back and forth banter stirred up a capacity for salacious self-deprecation that I'd not realised would be so well received.  Diving in with stories of charming failures and distracting 

dalliances, I exorcised the demons of doubt and began to find my adventures amusing.  As did she.

I was beginning to realise that this woman shared my still-forming perspective that relationships as I had known them to this point were unhealthy and unsustainable.  Enlivened and enthralled, I explored, investigated and unravelled threads of argument and pressed her for feedback to my awakening understanding.  Previously unseen possibilities and alternatives were opening up in my relentless self-examination and a pattern was beginning to take shape from the fabric of our evolving conversation.

I had to meet her.  Sober and sane, armed with a developing awareness of self and a hunger for continued growth, I asked her out.  She accepted with an address and a single word: 'sunset'.

To Be Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Four Continued..

Pink Sofa's message notification feature served me well at my office job, as leaving social networking sites open didn't paint the most flattering picture of administrative efficiency.  The next day, an email alerting me to this most anticipated of responses appeared, prompting me to hurriedly log in.  I felt my eyes widen and my breathing slow at what I read.

An elegant thanks for the compliment, then the bombshell: identifying herself as Zy from the Pink Sofa party.  An amusing and winsome reference to an interaction we'd shared involving a moth told me she'd not only been paying attention but was also looking to continue the dialogue.  

I was excited.  I was intrigued.  I was petrified.  The juxtaposition of my memory of the creature from that long-ago dinner party with this eloquent profile and direct countenance was almost too much.  Rather than letting my second-guessing monkey-mind tie knots in my ability to act, I quickly replied with a laugh and acknowledged the shared memory, promising to write more later once away from work.

To Be Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Three Continued..

Prolonged self-anaesthetisation sure makes the days whizz past quickly and summer days for a student can be somewhat blurry at the best of times.  Which these were not.  Another year began, another cycle of work-sleep-study-repeat, and the haunting images of that initial meeting were fading into a soup of frivolous parties and day-long 

hangovers.

In an attempt to keep the spiralling costs of socialising down I began spending more evenings on Pink Sofa, glass of wine in hand while I chatted and charmed from the safety of my desk chair.  Nights at the local girl bar were adding up, depleting both financial and inspirational resources.  I was finding interest in ululating autobiographies harder and harder to feign and my neck muscles were tiring from nodding at pretty things.  Having the time to consider and frame my wit and wisdom was suddenly working for me and my contacts were plentiful and intriguing.

A face amongst the featured members caught my attention one night, the eyes obscured by sunglasses but a confident, close-lipped smile, brimming with self-knowledge, demanding a second look.  A quick click on this face brought me to a profile description unlike any other I'd yet encountered.  The style of writing hooked me instantly; elegant, confident and controlled.  Yet the content was wild and untamed, stating in the most matter of fact terms definitions of freedom and meaning and love.  A glimpse into a mind and a way of thinking that I instinctively understood.  I sent her a smile.

24 hours later I received a message.  Consistent with the character portrayed in her profile description, she had read my profile, extracted something pertinent and quoted it back to me with 'that resonates, thanks for the smile'. Had she simply smiled back, I might have been able to leave it at that.  Maybe.  The fact that she'd connected with something I'd written filled me with a strangely familiar glow.  I had to learn more.  I poured another glass of wine, downed it for courage and hit reply.  A short message, just enough to indicate interest, complimenting her writing style and asking what she did for a living.

I waited.

To Be Continued..

Be Brave

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_profilepage&v=BrVcUZC8jmM

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Two Continued...

Wine, beer and many additional lesbians later, the party was loud and the drinking games were many.  Half-ravaged plates representing most continents and some islands littered every surface and these usually professional, well-kempt women were trying to figure out how to down shots of creamy liquor without using their hands.  Needless to say, things were getting messy.

Having learned the lesson many years before that shots treat my stomach as a trampoline, I found myself in the unusual state of being the most sober person in the room.  While last place in the drunk race was not my desired position, it did afford me the best view of the floor show that was to unfold.

The flow of the conversation had turned to a raucous game of one-upwomanship called 'lowest price'.  The winner of the game was the person who would accept the least amount to do whatever dare was proposed by the sozzled group.  I didn't know it at the time but this was one of Zy's favourite games, doubtless because she always won.  No matter what the challenge, no matter how squirm-worthy, she would always do it for less than the next person.  None of us had noticed her clever manipulation of the conversation on to this topic but, once she'd planted the seed, the group ran with it.

The perfect drinking game!  With inhibitions lowered and all in the same awkward boat, rapid fire suggestions criss-crossed the table.

'How much to stand in the backyard naked?'  

'How much to run down the street naked?'  

As nudity didn't bother me that day (not my own anyway), I assured them that I'd do it for nothing but taking money for it would make me feel like a whore.  Somehow this response didn't fit into the spirit of the game, so the focus shifted from me to the instigator of all of this, with our slurring hostess cackling 'Zy, how much to pash The Artist?'

It was an unlikely pairing and the laughter at the image was cacophonous; from all except the owl-eyed beauty across the table from me.  Suddenly all business, she proceeded to negotiate terms, division of labour, rates of pay and meal breaks while The Artist dissolved into uncontrollable spasms of hilarity.

As a struggling student who needed all of her money for beer, my change purse was spared the ransacking of the seagulls, who finally scraped a sizable collection of coins together, dumping it in a pile before the cool, calm Zy and the still giggling Artist.  The reality of what they had requested had now hit the group and their respective levels of discomfort manifested in fidgeting, cackling and inappropriate outbursts.  My fascination was my only focus so, hidden behind the safety of the role of 'official timekeeper', I could absorb every nuance of the softest, most sensual kiss I'd ever seen play out before me.  And all I could think was 'I wish I'd gone to art school'.

To Be Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Submitted by a rare fan...

Part One

I had met this strange creature over a year before, at a time in my life that all lesbians who paddle in the shark pool of long-term relationships experience at some stage.  After six years of circular arguments, self-doubt and a euthanised libido, I was gasping for some responsive female company.  

I had recently rediscovered the joys of drinking after a two year hiatus and was valiantly forgoing sleep, lectures and liver longevity in my determination to make up for lost time.  A new acquaintance's Pink Sofa dinner party invitation, complete with her network of fascinating female friends, was high on my list of 'places at which to get rat-assed'.

Six months of accidental meals and deliberate intoxication had somehow been a magical combination for my skin, shape and deportment, provided you caught me at the right time of day/week/month.  Exuding a confidence usually reserved for jet pilots, I bounded into my new friend's kitchen and proceeded to whip up three courses of Japanese delicacies at once, all the while holding my hostess in thrall with tales of my latest effortless successes at University and points-scoring sparring matches with professors.

I was in full flight of my own excellence when I noticed that my audience had doubled.  Perhaps it was the beer, but all I remember of that first glimpse was a still, quiet mouth and quite the most intensely observant eyes I'd seen not imbedded in an owl.  I knew they'd been watching me as I'd peacocked around the kitchen and the least drunk part of me cringed a little beneath her gaze.  The moment passed almost instantly before she looked away and, without those high beams pinning me to the wall, I was able to recover myself slightly.

The falter in my one-woman-show had allowed my hostess to notice the newcomer also and she snapped to introductory action.  'Beej, this is Zy.  Zy, BJ.'  Again, that silent appraisal, those searchlight eyes piercing my bravado and slight of hand.  Again, the swift snap away, too brief to unravel.  Who was this creature with her bold, questioning eyes and endearingly shy demeanor?  I disliked the taste of my discomfort in the back of my throat and washed it away with a large swig of beer.  I decided the best course of action would be to drink heavily, immerse myself in cooking and ignore this enigmatic distraction.

To Be Continued..

URGENT: Save the Bobby Calves

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