Chapter 4

I dragged Cindy out of the house in the middle of her 70-hour work week to go to CBGBs with me. We got there early and sat at the bar, listening to a newly formed punk band founded in Bayonne, New Jersey. They were good, but it was obvious they were trying too hard to be The Sex Pistols. This is why most bands fail; they can’t create something new and original. It can be argued, of course, that all bands have influences and “it’s all been done before.” But if you wanted to sign and produce, you had to have something special. The Blue Is had Janine. Special indeed.

When the second band, another, slightly improved punk-pop trio, was clearing their equipment, my girlfriend came bouncing up to the bar behind me and Cindy. “I’m so glad you’re here!” She threw her arms around me and kissed me, I melted as usual. I was so attracted to her it often frightened me, and it seemed to be getting stronger, which was worrisome since I didn’t know if it worked both ways. She ordered a Dewar’s and perched on the barstool next to Cindy.

“It’s nice to finally meet you; Maggie has told me so much about you.”

Cindy took her hand and kissed it. “I wish I could say the same, but Maggie has been keeping you under wraps, she says very little.” She winked at me.

I had told her very little, but not because I was keeping anything to myself, it was because I knew I didn’t have to. Cindy had been reading me like a book for many years and there was rarely an explanation or clarification needed. Janine and I had seen each other as often as we could after the night she drunk-dialed me and came over. As predicted, I had forgiven her by midday, probably by mid-morning.

She spent most of her time rehearsing with the band and writing, and if not those two things she was with me most of the time. I hadn’t “dated” in so long I’d almost forgotten what it was like, getting dressed, checking yourself out in the mirror, carrying breath freshener in your pocket. My dates with Janine included sitting in on some rehearsals, meeting the other members of the 54

band and their significant others, and the occasional dinner and a movie. There were no recurrences of her behavior the night she blew me off, at least not yet. I had gained equal access to her home as much as my own, it all felt uncomfortably normal.

The three of us chatted for a short time, then she had to go do what musicians do: set up equipment, sound check, go talk to herself in the dressing room…in truth, I didn’t exactly know. When the lights went down, we moved to a table closer to the stage. Cindy leaned across the table and patted my hand,

“Let’s see what she’s got. I want to see what pushed you so head over heels.”

Watching her on the stage was exciting, inspiring, erotic, heartbreaking, all at the same time. It reminded me of when I used to hang out in strip clubs and I had a large circle of friends who did it for a living. Once I knew them well enough, I could see distinct differences in their stripper personas and their true personalities, it was fascinating. I knew when Janine was playing to the audience, seducing them, “prowling the stage” as had been said of The Pretenders’ Chrissie Hynde. She dominated them, I watched the crowd watch her, mesmerized, awed at her passion. I knew from other singers I’d met that the band can’t really see anyone beyond the second or third row because of the stage lights. I also knew that meant Janine could see me, and I loved it. A few times she looked right at me, sang to me, seduced me.

Most of the songs I recognized, they were all from the same album that contained “Too Much Trouble,” which I was certain would be the closing number.

Original or not, all concerts still adhered to a certain pattern, it’s just an unwritten rule: if you have a hit, you play it last. If you have several, you scatter them throughout the show, saving the best-liked for last. Unless, of course, you were Van Morrison, who was quoted saying, “If you want to hear Brown-Eyed Girl, just go buy the record.”

About three quarters of the way through the show, the band huddled for a minute. Janine came back to the microphone and said, “We’re going to do a new one. We’re not actually sure 55

that we’re ready, but we’re gonna try!” The crowd went wild, it was 11 PM now and beginning to get crowded.

I looked across the table at Cindy, out of place with her fur coat and dry martini in the middle of CBGBs. She smiled at me and mouthed the words, “I see.” I wondered if Cindy was drunk, she never seemed to be. She probably drank one to my every three. She had never said anything about my alcohol intake, but I knew she knew, and I knew she would if it started to affect me in irreversible ways. So far, it hadn’t. But we both knew I drank increasingly in the past ten years, and I was no longer a binge drinker. I panicked when alcohol ran low in my house, and I’d begun to keep an eye on the supply at Janine’s. Of course, I spoke not one word of this to anyone.

The set went dark save a single spotlight on Janine. The song began with a soft symbol riff, shortly followed by a heavy, melodic rhythm that could only come from an upright bass. The whole place grew eerily silent as Janine began,

“Don’t tell me…don’t tell me she’s gone…gone away, she shared that bed you made…lying safe with you…” and just a few bars later,

“Take all your fears and crying off the wire…and set it all on fire…” and I knew I recognized it. That sheaf of cocktail napkins in the very first package she sent me from LA. She had never gotten around to asking me to finish it as she had threatened, but had apparently revisited it, worked on it, and perfected it all on her own without ever mentioning it.

Cindy leaned over into my ear, “This is for you, isn’t it?”

I just smiled, embarrassed. But something else struck me, something sad, something that knew she was a part of me now, and I was a part of her. I knew that, despite what might be genuine love, Janine and I were both tragic figures, and tragic figures always come to tragic ends.

* * * *

There comes a time in every bi girl’s life when she will come across a bold lesbian who will introduce her to taboo 56

matters of sex. On a crisp, clean, October morning, I drank my first cup of coffee and decided Janine had arrived at the summit, and I would approach the topic that evening. We had been seeing each other for about five months.

I watched her pick at my freshly made gumbo and flip through the day’s Billboard charts from across her dining room table. Behind her a bay window overlooked the Promenade, I could see couples in swarms out to see the view, walking dogs, contemplating, professing love, all with the rhythmic soundtrack of the traffic on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway just below.

There was no way to begin coyly, I thought, I might as well just spit it out.

“Janine?”

“Yes, baby?” she said, glancing up from her charts.

“Um, the women you’ve been with in the past, did you ever, um…have you ever tried…eh…”

“Just ask, sugar. What is it?”

“Janine, have you ever had sex with a strap-on?”

She choked on her gumbo and dropped her fork, splattering rice across the blue cyan linoleum as it hit.

“Oh, Christ, wait a minute.”

She stood up so fast I was surprised the chair was left standing in her wake. I understood this reaction to be a “no.”

While she rinsed off her fork after wiping up the mess with a paper towel, she looked over her shoulder at me, “Well, why? Do you want me to?”

“Yes. But if you don’t want to, I’ll understand. And I’ll never bring it up again.”

“Well, I just, I mean, what’s wrong with the sex we have now?”

“Nothing at all. I’m perfectly content. I’ve just been thinking about it is all.”

As she passed me back to her chair, I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her onto my lap. I had embarrassed her, and myself. I’d mistakenly assumed she was adventurous enough to have tried it at least once.