Butch Tales: Then I met Kat.

She was a beacon of loveliness, beckoning to me with a warm, friendly smile. A tall, strong, striking woman in blue jeans, white dress shirt, and a black wool blazer, she seemed just slightly over-dressed to be just another neighbor attending this half-Luaou-half-block-watchy-police-safety-lecture-Sunday-evening shindig at my apartment complex. Confident and composed, she seemed relaxed, yet somehow “on”. My guess: she was there in some official capacity, but this party was not her “show”. Intriguing.

I’d lived in this apartment community a few months, long enough to meet all the staff. So, I knew she didn’t work here. Hmmm… Having been raised by a cop, I felt fairly confident of my built-in police radar. Nope. Definitely, not a cop. So that ruled out the idea that she was the officer scheduled to speak this evening. OK, so I was more than intrigued. Beguiled is more like it.

My feet had followed my heart over to her vicinity. Something told me she would talk to me. Maybe it was because her eyes had lingered too, for just a moment when I had caught her gaze from across the courtyard. I was pondering what to say, and remembering why I didn’t ever do these things, when she spoke first.

“Those kids must be crazy to be swimming in that water.” A soft, deep, throaty laugh perfectly complemented her delicious voice of caramel tones and coffee notes.

Oh goodie. She’s really talking to me. Uh oh. Don’t panic. Think, think, think…

“Isn’t the pool heated?” I asked, grateful that an appropriate response occurred to me before too much time passed. I’ve never been very good at the whole talking to strangers thing. Apparently, my whole plan had been just to go stand near her. Proximity seemed important, but that was about all I had.

“No”, she said, “The water must be freezing. Of course, at that age, I wouldn’t have cared either. Any excuse to go swimming…”

“Me, too…” And so it was that before long we were telling tales of long summer afternoons, of the eternity of the thirty-minute wait after lunch, of the incredible lung capacity and other superpowers of the eight-year-old. Minutes before, we had been strangers, but in those few minutes, holding up the same clubhouse pole from opposite sides, watching the kids swim, we talked like new/old friends, like grown-up teenagers, like fellow travelers delighted to find each other once more after long, solitary, separate journeys.

Before long, I remembered again that we had just met.

“Oh, I am sorry. Where are my manners? My name is Sandy Shotwell. I have the corner apartment just down that path behind us,” I said as I extended my hand to shake hers, in a gesture at once so formal and so intimate that it seemed overmuch yet just right.

Lucky for me, she found this charming—I would later learn that this simple gesture placed a large checkmark in the “raised right” column, a counter-balance to the big question mark raised by my attire, which might best be classified as “Sunday afternoon grunge”, including boots, jeans, wallet chain and big comfy plaid shirt—and she took my hand and introduced herself.

Was she? Could she be? Yes, surely she was. The firm hand shake, the no-nonsense style, the twinkling in her eyes when they met mine again…but I was not really sure. I only knew that I wanted this moment to go on and on. I was enchanted. Yep, a definite goner.

“Hey Kat, where’s that gorgeous husband of yours?” The bouncy, little guy who had leased me my apartment, bounded up and into our conversation.

What? Huh? Husband? Had I heard right? Fortunately, their chat gave me a few moments to think.

A husband. OK, so that’s my answer. She’s a straight woman, a very attractive, charming, don’t-tell-me-she’s-not-flirting-back, straight woman…No, no, that can’t be right. There’s something more here. I just know there is…but a husband? I don’t need that kind of complication in my life, not now, not when I am just barely ready to try again. That’s it. I’m giving this ten more minutes. Then, I’m out of here.

Little did I know, that those ten minutes would be the best investment of my life, that I would relive and retell the story of this night over and over. After all it is “how we met”. It is how I met the love of my life. Nope. I couldn’t have known what would happen next. I was lost in thought, stroking my chin and carefully considering my boots, when she startled me back into full consciousness.

“A few of us are going to go to Roscoe’s for happy hour. Would you like to come?” she asked. An invitation. To a bar. A gay bar.

“Uh, that sounds like fun, but I’ve got to get up early for work in the morning…”, I stalled. But I wanted to go and before I knew it, bouncy Matt, the intruder, was giving me directions and I was agreeing to meet up with them in an hour.

I would take my own truck, a small measure of control, a reminder that I was a confident grown-up and not really a gangly, awkward teen. Not that you could tell from my nervous pacing back in my apartment. When I finally stood still, it was only to confront my closet. Demanding that it produce something appropriate for the occasion, I stared accusingly at my formerly entirely adequate wardrobe.

Then, of course, there was still the much more important question of whether this whole thing was at all a very good idea. My misgivings about my wardrobe were trivial by comparison to the safety concerns about meeting strangers in a strange bar, concerns raised by the ghost of my long-dead cop dad, who sat on my shoulder as I got ready to go out.

As always, I consulted with him about the important things in my life. She did seem nice didn’t she? Would you like her, Dad? Of course, you would. She had an honest face, a firm handshake, and a steady gaze. All marks of a good and decent sort, eh? Yes, I would take it slowly, carefully. Thanks, Dad. Love you too. Did you ever feel this way? Was it like this when you met Mom?

My cats were no help. Heedless of the fact that my world had shifted on its axis, Ben and George continuously rubbed against my boots until I fed them. Hypnotically, I served up ridiculously expensive kitty food and then petted Ben, my half-feral 23-pound purr box of an alpha cat. I told him how incredibly stupid his human was. How could I have skipped the whole shopping for new clothes step of the dating cycle? OK, so it had been a few years since I last dated and I never was any good at it. But really. How could I have picked up a woman at a party and agreed to meet her later at a bar. On a “school night”, no less. That kind of daring was simply not me.

Skritching behind George’s ears, I thought what a snuggly snow kitty my omega kitty was and how spending the evening with this peace-loving critter would be just lovely, when I noticed the clock on the wall above my kitchen window. Yowza! Only forty minutes to go, and I thought I had at least a ten-minute drive. OK. Time to get serious.

I had less than thirty minutes, if I wanted to get there early enough to get a safe parking spot and not keep Kat waiting. Jarred back to the task at hand, I hurried through a shower and quickly found some acceptable clothes: definitely nicer than I wore to the party, but not on the “trying too hard” side of the pendulum. Somewhere between combing back my jelled hair and polishing my boots, I caught site of myself in the steamed up bathroom mirror and I almost laughed out loud. How foolish I felt: all butterflies and shaking hands. Yet, I was no eighteen-year-old pup. Lately, I could see my father’s face when I looked in the mirror. I paused to consider the crows feet that time had recently begun to etch in my weathered face, the small funny gray spot on the back of my head, the eyes that looked back at me with a mixture of tender hope and terror, with the knowledge of too much heartbreak…but not today. Today, I would turn off the bathroom sink after Ben finished his after-dinner drink and scoot out the door. I had done well. I still had 20 minutes.

I lamented that I had not recently washed my little purple truck as I drove the few minutes it took to get to the neighborhood gay bar. A “neighborhood gay bar”. Cool. Yes, it was a good decision to move to central Phoenix. I was doing all right. Wasn’t I?

After circling the place three times, I had to concede that the only decent parking spot was near the back door. So, I parked there. I had arrived with ten minutes to spare. Screwing my courage to the sticking point, I stalled for only about two or three minutes, as I checked and double-checked that my truck was all locked up. Then I strode right on in, just as bold as you please.

OK, maybe not so bold. As I navigated my way through the loud, smoke-filled corridor, swimming upstream in a river of sweaty young men that filled even this back hallway, I wondered once more whether I was mistaking stupidity for courage. I had been to many a gay bar, including more than a few men’s bars. Why was I so nervous? After all a crowded place is just the thing for a first meeting of a woman you have just met this afternoon. Perfectly normal. Happens all the time. Right.

Elbowing my way to the bar, I opted for a soda water, just in case. While, I waited, I began looking around at the others at the bar. The eyes boring into me from behind turned out to be owned by one of the guys, in whose face I glimpsed an all-too-familiar expression—a mixture of embarrassment, disappointment, and annoyance at his error—before he casually turned aside in hopes of more promising cruising in another direction. Poor guy, natural mistake from behind really. I should probably take it as a compliment, but mostly I was embarrassed for him.

So, now that my eyes had fully adjusted, I turned my back to the bar and oriented myself to my surroundings. The bar was really just a typical low-rent sports bar, but somehow the place just reeked of nautical camp, even while televisions in each corner broadcasted sports, sports, and more sports. At first, I assumed that the televisions were muted, but gradually, I realized that the roar of the crowd simply absorbed the blaring from each set. Once my ears adjusted, the white noise all blended together into what seemed a friendly din.

In the sea of men, I glimpsed the faces of a few women, but none I knew. Not that I knew the woman I was seeking.

I had come in on the East side, just about in the middle of the bar. The narrow strip of the North end of the club was dominated by the bar behind me on the East side, while the West side was filled with far too many tables and chairs, containing fashionably loud and flaming young men, who occasionally looked up and sometimes even shouted in the direction of one of the games they were ostensibly there to see. Further south, the tables gave way to small booths along the West wall, crowding the players at two pool tables. Further still were the dart games along the south wall.

Still, no Kat.

Finally, as I peeked around an outcropping from the East wall, I saw the booths with tall stools huddled together in a cubby that was almost entirely paneled in mirrors. There, at the corner table, I glimpsed one of the Matts waving madly at me. Relieved, and more nervous than ever, I started toward the table they had been saving, wondering vaguely how long they had been there.

As I approached the table, my eyes met hers again, and I stood stock still gazing at her for what seemed a long silent moment. Her eyes. They were the softest brown, with flecks of green and gold. Dazzling.

Remembering my manners for the second time that day, I waved in greeting at each of the vaguely familiar faces. Then, I extended my hand to the owner of the second pair of eyes to bore into my head that night.

“Sandy”, I yelled.

“I know”, she shouted back. “Lee.”

“This is my little sister”, Kat helped me out.

Sister. Hmmm. “Doesn’t seem so little to me”, I thought. I should have been more than a bit daunted to meet her family on our first outing, but I instantly liked Lee. She had the fierce gaze of one with a keen mind and a loyal heart. I would be tested by her, and suddenly I feared I might not pass, but I would willingly walk through whatever gauntlet lay ahead. We should all have such sisters, and such friends.

Taking the only open stool, the one on my side of Kat, I noted that her glass was a bit less than half full. Nervously, I leaned close enough to ask if she would like another drink. My knee was no closer than six inches away, yet I was keenly aware when it approached hers, and exquisitely aware of the softest peach fuzz that graced her jaw just next to her ear. Feeling flushed and transparent, I was relieved when she accepted and I had the excuse to flag down the waiter. Waiting for drinks, we talked a bit more, but mostly we shouted at the people around us. Thus I learned that Lee was visiting, but considering a move here. I learned too that Roscoe’s was a place the Matt’s had picked. I got the idea they came here frequently and knew everyone.

After the drinks arrived, Kat and I gradually used the excuse of the din about us to talk more and more just to each other. It was so effortless that somehow we seemed to be cheating. Every now and again, one of us would remember the others and a bit grudgingly, we’d poke our heads up to shout some more. Each time, it seemed that Lee was more and more anxious. She had to go and she was not about to use the restrooms at Roscoe’s. I could not blame her. Each time, though, Kat put her off a bit longer, and each time, as Kat and I spoke more in what certainly must have appeared conspiratorial tones, I was more exquisitely aware of our physical closeness, my knee between hers, her lips close to my ear. I was grateful, for the semi-privacy that this form of communication afforded. Yet I could not help but be privately embarrassed by my realization that I was bordering on pheromone intoxication. I had not felt like this for a long time. No, I had never felt exactly like this.

Thus, I was both exquisitely pained and relieved by our parting, when finally, Lee could take no more. In the parking lot, I dared no more than to hold one of Kat’s hands in mine for a long, sweet moment. Then, I promised to call.

Later, as I lay in bed late into the night, whispering to Ben and George of my grand adventure, my head spinning, I thought back on how brief and yet how filled with portent the evening had seemed to me.

I reflected on all that I learned on what would soon become “the night we met”. That night I learned that both of my suspicions were true: she was gay and she did have a husband. She was just coming out, and I was a first of a sort. I learned that her sister is a fiercely loyal, brilliant woman, who just happens to be the only woman I have ever met who can hold a candle to Kat. I learned too that the bouncy young man, and his buddy who also worked for Kat, were dear, sweet, misguided ambassadors, who were trying their best to help her navigate this queer new world, but who were more lost than she in the land of Lesbos.

New truths were revealed to me as the tender buds of early spring. I was amazed to learn that she too feared, but could not ignore, the siren song of the possibility of us. That night we spoke with naked honesty of our hopes and fears, we created our “no harm” compact, and we glimpsed just for a moment what might be. I began then to learn the extraordinary lesson that doing things differently, going our own way, was as simple as deciding what we valued and holding on tight to those values as the precious treasures that they were. And that was the night I learned that it is possible for my hand to tingle for hours with the memory of her touch. That night, I began to appreciate the simple truth that I must, that I would, see her again.