Copyright (c) February 2002 by Jules Kurre.


Meaningful Encounter




Jules Kurre


Why would I choose to come to a place like this? Darkness, smoke, loud music, women on the prowl: all the things I despise. It's a Friday night. Nothing better to do, I guess. I so rarely go out anymore that it seems like a treat to do something different. I usually spend all my spare time reading new textbooks to use in my classes. I'm a doctor. Not a medical one...a doctor of philosophy is what we call them. I teach logic. Kind of ironic when my own life seems to be so illogical at times.

When I'm not reading, I'm thinking. That's my downfall. Always thinking too much and feeling too little. That's what my last girlfriend told me, but what did she know? It didn't take her much to feel at all. If someone walked by her and accidentally brushed her shoulder, she'd be writhing on the floor in ecstasy. Okay, I'm exaggerating. I'm not a writer. Don't expect colorful metaphors. This is just my journal here.

So anyway, I went to a lesbian bar, something I almost never do. And that's when I saw her: my future, my love, my life. Just kidding. Thought you were stuck in a smarmy, love-at-first-sight story, didn't you? You're not going to find that here. But you will find something interesting. Take my word for it. I don't normally write much in my journal, but this encounter was worth it. I did see a woman that attracted me, that much is true, but I didn't start developing expectations. Isn't that a little unhealthy to start having fantasies upon seeing someone for the first time? I think it is.

Anyway, I was sitting at the bar, minding my own business when this Greek goddess walked in and changed my world. Sorry, just kidding again. You probably want me to get to the dialogue, don't you? Or maybe just the sex? I'm smiling as I write this. This writing stuff is fun. Not that I could do it for a living. Geez, carpal tunnel and all that. And my eyes. Staring at a computer all day long would probably drive me quite batty. Anyway, I'm enjoying it for the moment.

I spotted this woman. She didn't look like most women do when they come in here. Most look like they want to be seen or as if everyone is staring at them. All she did was walk in, go to the bar, glance at the dance floor, and turn to the bartender. Then she said, oh, you know what...this writing thing is hard. I need to learn what to leave in and take out. You most likely don't want to hear about what kind of drink she ordered. I mean, gee, it was only a Dos Equis. Not really a big deal. Remind me to edit that part out later.

I was sitting about a meter away from her, nursing a gin and tonic, willing the ice to melt into it to make it less potent. I'm not a good drinker at all. Alcohol and my system do not mix. But, that night I was feeling kind of adventurous, and decided to go with an alcoholic drink. Usually I keep it to Shirley Temples. (Pathetic, isn't it?) Anyway, I was sure she had come there to either meet someone or meet someone and I wasn't going to qualify for either of those scenarios. I was totally surprised when she actually sat down next to me.

"I usually don't do this," she began. "But you looked deep in thought and I'm curious. What are you thinking about?"

"Maybe I'm not thinking about anything," I know I sounded almost defensive. I found that I didn't much enjoy her invading my space, even though I had found her attractive from afar.

She smiled and took a sip from her beer bottle. "No, I know when a woman is thinking and you're deep in thought. Why not loosen up a little? This is the perfect environment for it."

"Oh, I don't doubt that. But I just came here to–" I found myself stumbling over my words. "I'm not sure why I came here." 

"I could help you find out." The woman smiled at me, but not like I was her prey of the evening...of course, that was even more reason to believe that I was.

"And just how would you propose to do that?"

"We could talk. You could tell me what you were thinking about."

I had to admit, this was the best come-on line I had yet heard. I almost believed her. "You'd think it was silly." I was trying to figure out her age.

"Try me."

"I was actually thinking about how I think too much."

She laughed. It was genuine, or she was good at faking. I wasn't sure. "Thinking too much can be a downer, true."

"My last girlfriend said that–" I paused. What the hell was I doing about to discuss my sex life with a complete stranger? As I considered the question, I found my answer. It was because she was a stranger.

"What did she say, sweets?" The woman's voice was low and sultry. I could hardly help responding to it.

I had to know. "What's your name?"

"C.J." She smirked.


"No." And then she laughed, a wholehearted throaty laugh that almost embarrassed me.

I was taken aback. Was she playing with me? I remained silent.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. It's so stereotypical. A dyke named C.J. or Moe or Jo." She grinned. "I'm sorry."

"So your real name isn't stereotypical?"

"Nope, not Stereotypical, it's Samantha." She laughed again. "My friends call me Sam."

"I'm Carol. Nice to meet you." I shook her hand, enjoying her sense of humor. "I'm actually called Carrie, because I hate the name Carol."

"Well, I hate the name Samantha. Looks like we have something in common."

We both laughed. "I think you were about to tell me what your last girlfriend said about–"

I was starting to feel more comfortable with this stranger and to my surprise I was beginning to like her. "Okay. She said that I think too much and that's why our sex life wasn't all it could have know?"

Sam took a swig of her beer. "No, I don't know. What exactly are you talking about?"

"I could never quite get there, if you know what I mean."

"Not really." Sam stared back at me guilelessly. I knew that she knew what I meant, but she was goading me into spelling it out. Then she gave me a very small smile that said, 'I'm playing with you.'

"She said that I thought too much, that I was even thinking during sex and I couldn't let go." I rolled my eyes, but was surprised that I wasn't embarrassed. I had just told Sam something that I hadn't told anyone. And I had known her for less than five minutes.

"Well, hon," she said. "What were you thinking about?"

"How old are you?" I blurted out before thinking.

She didn't look surprised that I asked. "I'm 34. Does that scare you?" She bit her bottom lip.

"You're not much older than me. And why should your age scare me?"

"No reason. Now are you going to tell me what you were thinking about when you were having sex with your girlfriend or not?" She chuckled.

"Lots of things. I think about documentaries a lot. Often, I would think of those when we were having sex. Not extensively, but fleeting images, you know? And then I would force myself to come back to the reality of what I was doing. I have some kind of disease, don't I?"

Sam ignored the question. "What would you think of when you forced yourself to come back into the here and now?"

"This is going to sound really weird, but I would fantasize, about her."

"You fantasized about the same woman that was making love to you?" For the first time I saw surprise on Sam's face.

"Yeah, I actually did." And then we both look at each other and laughed.

"Hmm...interesting. You must have felt really pressured."


"Carrie, that's fucked up. You felt so pressured to 'perform,' that you had to fantasize about something that was actually happening."

"Yes. Very strange, isn't it?" I surprised myself by not feeling at all self-conscious.

"You need a new experience."

I found her blue eyes staring into mine more intensely than they had before. "What do you mean?"

"Were you in love with her?"

I had no idea where she was heading with this line of questioning. "Well, yes."

"You say that as if it's a necessary component to sex."

"For me it usually is."


"It's always been. There's nothing wrong with that."

Sam shrugged. "I suppose not. But being with someone you weren't in love with would take the pressure off." 

I was getting suspicious. Was this just another pick up line? "And how can you be so sure?"

"Because, darlin,' I used to have the same problem you have. I overcame it."

"Oh, you overcame it by having sleazy sex with a stranger?" I laughed, but she didn't. To her, this was a serious conversation. It was to me, too, but I was using humor to cover my nervousness.

"No, I had sex with someone I liked...a lot. But I wasn't in love. There's a big difference."

I had to admit, she almost had a point. In fact, she did have a point. If I had sex with someone like Sam, there would be no pressure. Who cared if I came? Who cared if I didn't? We weren't in a lifetime commitment. We could go our separate ways. I could find another Sam right around the block, at the next bar, wherever. She had said there was a difference...a difference between having sex with the "in love" feeling, and the "extreme like" feeling. Shit, I was having a hard time telling the difference between the two. "And what's the difference, Sam?"

"It's like apples and oranges!" She laughed and I gave the gag sign. "When you're in love, sometimes, you feel obligated to achieve a certain satisfaction. I had a girlfriend that told me that my coming was extremely important to her own satisfaction. So, naturally, being the inexperienced youth that I was, I totally focused on it, so much so that I could never get there. And believe me, she got an A for effort...for execution, B- and for..."

I laughed. "I think I get the point, but I think you're just trying to pick me up. Granted, it's a very creative way to do it, but–"

"And what's wrong with that? Unless you find me physically repellent in some way."

"No, I don't," I replied honestly. I found her quite compelling and that would be my downfall. If I wasn't already in love with someone, I was bound to be by the time I went to bed with them or soon after. It just always seemed to happen that way. Could it be different with her?

"Then I think you should try kissing me. If you feel something, we'll continue. If not, that'll be the end of it."

"You're clever."

"Carrie, I'm being honest with you and offering to help you."

"I don't have a problem."

"No, you don't. It's your partners who've had the problem. Isn't it?" I looked into her eyes. It was easy to accept what she was saying.

"I'm not sure. I've always thought I was the problem."

She held out her hand to me. "Let me show you. I'd really like that. No strings attached."

No strings attached. That was the part I always had a problem with. But maybe it could be different this time. I took her hand. I think I finally realized why I came to this bar. She helped me find the answer. 

The End


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