Yesterday morning at four a.m. I was abruptly awakened by a friend drunk-texting that me he loves me, it’s a modern and technologically maladaptive communication of love.  This in turn prompted me to dwell obsessively on problems I’d never solve or remember. Also I was forced to consider whether I would rise early to meet the lesbian hikers gathering at the foot of a mountain range with the intention of getting up it, and in the process, maybe mounting each other.  I’m not usually one to go in for the group-outdoorsy activities.  It’s hard enough talking to a dozen people seated around an outdoor table with wine glasses. Subtract the table and the wine and add a mountain, suddenly you have the elements for a disaster film. Someone always ends up being eaten, and not in the good way. But eventually my rational mind kicks in and inquires, what is the worst thing that could possibly happen on a dyke hike?  I could walk headlong into a rattlesnake that I’ve never dated.


I drove to the meeting spot and watched girls gather below a giant sycamore tree.  These girls were young.  I’m talking, gum-chewing, camouflage-shorts, and soccer-jerseys cause-they just graduated high school young.  I like youth, but it’s much more attractive when exhibited by an adult.  I don’t want be on a date and think, this could be someone I might have given up for adoption when I was eighteen.  I slipped on my earphones and headed up the mountain by myself.  I listened to 50 Cent on the way up because the rhythm of rap aids in completion of difficult tasks under adverse circumstances, similar to why rap music was created originally.  The hike was long and arduous interspersed with moments of mind boggling beauty and serenity. I felt like I was having a relationship with nature, but without the fear of commitment and abandonment.


I was almost to the car when I encountered the single file line of merry lesbians hoofing it up the hill towards me.  All of them of them were completely oblivious to anything except the steep incline and some wild bunnies.  Surveying them as I passed only reaffirmed my correct choice on the solitary path, until up around the bend came a vision of maturity and self-aware loveliness.  I couldn’t stop myself from pausing my music and ripping out my headphones.

“They’re just up around the bend.”  I quickly volunteered to this woman who looked as if she had just climbed out of a still wet Raphael oil painting.

She stopped and stared at me dumbfounded.  ”Who?”  She asked.

I gazed at her for what seemed like an eternity.  Surely she was with the band of wandering menstruals.  She absolutely looked like a lesbian who was trying to look straight for some unknown reason.  I stammered.  ”I thought you were with those, um, young, uh, baby lesbians.”  I came out with it.

“Oh really?” She said playfully, “Do I look like a baby lesbian?”

“No.  No, not a baby one?”  I was clearly not backing my way out of this one.

“I see.  What’s your name?”  She asked extending her hand.

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with anything.”  I said, suddenly nervous as I grabbed her hand anyway.

“Well,” She said calmly while never averting her eyes from my gaze, “If we’re going to discuss my sexuality, I think we should know each others names.”

Excellent, I thought and gave her my name as if it had been mine my whole life.  It was then she revealed she was not with the baby group, but just a “lone bisexual hiker.”

“Really?”  I replied, “That’s such a coincidence because I was bisexual for years until I could admit that I was only into women. Bisexuality is actually a stage on the way to becoming a homsexual. Although, being bi can be a destination in itself I suppose.”  It must have been the altitude of the mountain encouraging me to blurt out counterproductive information.

“So what now?”  She asked, acting now more like a proper straight woman who though intrigued, probably wanted to finish her workout.

“I think we should go out and have strong drinks overlooking the ocean.”  I said, channeling more superfluous bravado from nowhere.  It seems as though straight leaning women respond well to the aggressive male type behavior that is laughably charming when crossing the lips of a woman.

“Why strong drinks?”  She pondered, still having a firm grasp on my hand.

“A strong drink,” I paused for effect, “will make you forget you’re not gay.  And I’ll forget to wish you are.”

She stared at me so hard I considered I had dirt on my face.

“Alright.” She said, gently releasing my hand.  ”I’ll meet you at Moon Shadows at five.”

“Can we make it nine?”  I said, thinking that nine sounded sexier than five.  ”I prefer the cloak of darkness.”

“I don’t think so.”  She replied, maintaining the bisexual upper hand.  ”You did pretty well in the daylight so far.”

She then smiled mischievously and hiked on past me up the hill leaving me to wonder what to do with another bisexual girl.  Like stray pitbulls, bisexuals are nearly impossible to keep.  If you want to keep them, you have to train them.  There is a plethora of lesbian insider information she wouldn’t innately know.  She wouldn’t automatically know how to achieve multiple orgasms with set of jumper cables and a flare, for instance.

As I finally reached my car, I was overcome with excitement and terror.  I had a date in less then four hours with a stranger I met in the hills.  Luckily she’d been carrying a water bottle and not a lead pipe, but still, . . . Scary.

The date went better than I could have imagined, although my imagination often lacks authenticity.