I Left My Back Door Open Read Free

had a little black book chock-full of men’s names who would gladly answer my “booty calls.” That is, if I were to make them, which of course I never would, because I wasn’t that kind of girl.
    But this morning, when I woke up alone at the age of forty-one on my expensive Swedish mattress, it occurred to me that there wasn’t one special man that I could just casually call up and ask if he wanted to have sex. Except nerdy-ass Bill, the engineer, I chuckled grimly. Of course, I did have admirers who called my show and sent me fan mail. But I tried to maintain a separation between my public persona and my private dilemma.
    Most of the men who I actually knew were either married, involved or church types who would trip out if I made such a brazen request. In other words, I was too well-respected.
    I imagined that even if I phoned my philandering ex-husband, which I never would, he would gloat, “I knew that one day you’d eat humble pie. But it’s too late, you know I have two kids to consider. Where are your family values? I’m trying to be faithful in this marriage.”
    Of course, then I’d recall that Wendell cheated on me less than a year after we said, “I do.” When I confronted him about his overnight absences and sudden interest in buying new underwear, he came clean, so to speak. Wendell explained that it was easier to cheat on a woman without a uterus, who wasn’t a complete woman anymore, as he put it. You see, I had to have a hysterectomy because of fibroid tumors. And six weeks of abstaining from sexual intercourse while I healed from major surgery was more than poor Wendell could manage. I had to grieve the end of my marriage and the loss of my womb at the same time. It wasn’t a good year.
    If I called Randall, an ex of mine who’d recently moved to Washington, D.C., and asked, “Do you wanna get funky with me?” he would delicately remind me that we were just “good girlfriends now.”
    We’d broken up when he came out of the closet. But if Randall were straight, I’d be willing to fly to D.C., especially if it were cherry blossom time.
    Who else could I call? I imagined dialing my last boyfriend, Cedric. But he would clear his throat and ask, “How much weight have you lost?” After all, he dumped me because fat was a turn-off. I tried to lose weight, even occasionally vomiting for love, but in the end, my five-foot-five-inch frame was still hovering at twenty percent over my ideal weight. And, according to Cedric and the American Medical Association, that qualified me as overweight. Cedric couldn’t commit to somebody who couldn’t commit to fitness. And as of this morning, my treadmill was still being used as a clothes rack.
    I sighed as I zipped past the expensive high-rises along Chicago’s Gold Coast. I knew that I could gap my legs open somewhere and get sex. But that’s not what I wanted. I wanted a special man in my life. Was that too much to ask? Books and movies always showed women dealing with mess. But they almost never told you that there were lots of women who didn’t even have any mess to deal with. Women who can go for a whole year without even being asked on a date. This is not unheard of; I know women like that. They are not ugly or bitchy or stanky with bad table manners. They’re just invisible. I know, because I’m afraid I’m becoming one of them. It wasn’t always like this. When I was younger, men wouldn’t leave me alone.
    â€œBelly dancers at home, here’s music to undulate to.” Jade’s husky voice on the car radio interrupted my thoughts.
    I imagined Jade’s listeners moving themselves in wavelike motions to the haunting music.
    â€œOpen and close your whole bodies,” she instructed.
    I glanced at the water, lapping sensually against the shores of Lake Michigan in the dark. I pretended that I was rushing home to undulate with