Chapter 1

This was, I thought to myself as I dialed, the second strangest phone call I have ever made.

What was even more bizarre was that the strangest phone call I had ever made was only two months ago. Fifty-one years old, I thought sardonically, and breaking personal records right and left.

That call two months ago had been to my son, who lives with his new wife in Colorado. I heard the words of that conversation echo in my mind, clashing with the soulless, digital beeps of the numbers I was dialing. Brian, it looks like I have cancer, and it looks like it might be too late to do anything about it... It was astounding really, how when I made the phone call, it felt strange saying the words, and not heart wrenching like I thought it would be.

He had taken time off from work, bless him, and flown down to be with me, knowing I had no one else. But what could he do? We cried together, held each other, took a couple of long walks, and he promised he would be back, and spend as much time as he could, and bring Gina along. There were no grandchildren in my life, and as much as I wanted them, I was also relieved that they were not going to be around to attend my funeral.

Pancreatic cancer, the oncologist told me with a sympathetic shake of his head, was the toughest one, because it creeps up on you and doesn't let you know it's there until it has the knife to your throat.

In the past two months I had been through it all: anger, frustration, sadness, self-pity, and then, finally acceptance. Once I got through that obstacle course of emotions I was doing what I should be doing-living. Next month was the Alaskan cruise that I had never taken, and two days after that, a skydive. Yes, I was pulling out all the stops. It would only be a short time, I know, until I would be too weak to do all this stuff. Make the "to-do" list now, I committed to myself, and have these experiences before it is simply too late. A month ago, I couldn't wake up and make it to the kitchen without stopping to cry. Now, I got out of bed quickly, shook off the pain, took my medication, and cursed the five hours of sleep, wishing there was a way to live without it, and eager to drink in as much of this existence as I could before God took me out of here and to the next level. This was the new Susan Orlander, and my only regret was that I hadn't started living like that eight years ago, when my husband and I divorced. Better late than never, I suppose, but gosh Susan, talk about late. I laughed out loud at myself when I thought this. I loved to laugh, and I resolved to laugh as often as I could while I had the strength.

I had about eight thousand dollars to play with, and the rest, about twenty-five thousand or so, was earmarked for Brian and Gina. Start a college fund for my little grandchild, I told them. I'll take a chunk out for myself and be selfish for the last few months of my life.

The phone was ringing. Maybe this is the strangest call I have ever made, even eclipsing the notification call to Brian. I'll just have to wait and see.

Three days ago, watching TV late one night I saw a show with that had an odd scene in it. Two women walk out of a bar together, talked for a few moments at a car, and then start kissing passionately. It stirred something inside me. I had always had fleeting fantasies, and even a few dreams, of being with another woman, but had never done it. I talked to a therapist and mentioned it, and she didn't even raise an eyebrow.

"Most women have the fantasy, or at least the curiosity, Susan," she had said. "Don't worry about it. It doesn't mean your lesbian, or bisexual. Most women never act on it, and you probably won't. You're married, you have a family, you have a conscience, and you just won't risk it."

And she was right. I didn't. But that was when I was married, when I carried around all those layers of concern and appropriateness. Now, I was the sentenced prisoner, being asked if I wanted a last cigarette before the blindfold.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I would. Do it, I told myself. Like the Alaskan cruise and the skydiving, just do it.

But how to go about it, I started to wonder? Hang out in lesbian bars? I couldn't do that. I didn't even like heterosexual bars that much. I mean, my physical appearance is not the issue. For a fifty-one year old woman, I was in good shape. I kept myself pretty fit, and though there was a little sag of my breasts, and the hint of spread in my backside, I was still shapely, and pretty clear of wrinkles. I was still attractive. I know because men and women alike had told me so.

Besides, I don't think women would put as much emphasis on looks. Still, the bar scene was out. So what, then?-- approach a good female friend, and say, "Hey, I want to jump in bed with you because I want to experience a woman before I die!" The lezzie bar might be easier than doing that to a true friend.

And then it hit me. I didn't want to hurt a friend, risk an emotional development and then die on someone, but I wanted to feel a woman's body, feel what it's like to make love to another female. The only choice was, at first, distasteful, and then, like the evolution of my emotions about dying, totally reasonable: A call girl.

It was time to hit the yellow pages. With someone who does this professionally, several aspects of my search are eliminated: no hunting, no rejection, no embarassment and disrespect of anyone I know, and no long games of persuasion. I pay her, and she comes to me. And I certainly didn't have to worry about contracting a deadly disease. I was immune to everything now. But were there call girls who would do this? I was about to find out. The second strangest phone call of my life was being answered.

"Angels On Call, how can I help you?" The woman's voice sounded professional and calm.

I cleared my throat. Just be direct, I told myself. The worst they can do is hang up. "Hi," I said pleasantly, as if I were about to order a gift basket for someone, "I was uh... wondering if you have any women there who, ah, would spend time with another woman. Me, that is."

"Yes, we do," she said, not sounding surprised at all. "I have a few girls who will do that actually. Is this for a threesome, with you and a guy, or... ?"

I smiled. That must be fairly popular, I thought. "No, just me."

"Okay, that's fine. Yes, I have a few girls available."

Girls available. What an odd sounding phrase, to be spoken to me. "What do you need from me, I mean where do we go from here?"

"Well, hon, first of all, is there any type of girl you are looking for? Specific physical things, race, size, hair color... ?"

I let out a little laugh. Look over the menu, Susan, and pick an entrée. "Well, I don't know, I mean I'm assuming they are all pretty young and pretty attractive-"

"Yes, they all are that," she joined me in the little laugh, and I was much more comfortable now.

"I just want someone who has umm... experience. That won't feel uncomfortable with me, you know-"

"Don't worry. I've got just the girl. Raquel. She's twenty-four, and pretty open-minded, and I'm pretty sure she's bi."

"Hm. Well fine, now umm... how much is all this costing me?"

"There's a flat fee of $300 for her to come out, and that's for an hour and a half with her. That's just for being with her. Anything other than companionship you have to negotiate with her. Your activities and time you'll discuss with Raquel, and if she requires more, than you work it out with her."

Raquel. A shiver went through me, and I already was fascinated by this mystery call girl.

There would be more than an hour and half. I wasn't a guy, who wanted to "get laid." I wanted an experience, one I could smile about on my death bed, which was currently being prepared by the guy with the hooded cloak and the sickle. I knew already this was a good decision.

I paid the flat fee over the phone with my credit card, and supplied my address, and directions. The woman assured me that Raquel would be arriving within an hour to an hour and a half. My house was a little ways out of the city, and it would take her a while to get here.

I tingled with excitement. There was so many unanswerable questions about all this, bridges I knew that had to be crossed before we really found out where we were going. I was journeying into the grand unknown in just a few months. Why not get some practice?

I walked through the living room and made sure it looked neat, then I got into the shower. Just my nakedness, the water rushing over my body, and the certainty that a woman was coming here, to my house, to introduce me to my first lesbian experience, aroused me tremendously. I had a light, dancing feeling in my chest. My fingers went to my sex and stroked gently, but I resisted the urge to masturbate. I wanted to save my sexual energy for what lay ahead.

I toweled off and went to my closet. What to wear? I laughed at myself. I've had to dress for many different occasions, but never for the prospect of a call girl coming to my home. I chose a cotton lilac drawstring skirt, knee length, and a simple tan crinkle tank top. I would skip a bra, and with a pair of yellow cotton panties under the skirt, that was it. I decided to keep it basic. Together the look was relaxed (much more than I was!) and almost earthy. The skirt and top went nicely with my long silver hair (such a better word than "gray"-- I had stopped coloring it two years ago, especially when people commented on how nice it looked long and natural). I was home. My house was earthtones, Mexican tile, and wood. Ceiling fans with rattan blades, and big Afghan throw rugs. I wondered what Raquel, probably used to meeting men in hotels, would think of being here.