3. What if they look, smile, and call me over? This may seem like the best-case scenario, but it fucks with my head more than the other two. Do I walk over like some needy puppy, making it obvious that I’m on the market and so thirsty to meet a man that I’ll stop and talk to random dudes in public? What if I trip? What if I have a booger in my nose?
4. What if no one looks? Now, this is the single-woman’s holocaust. You’re so lame, you’re invisible. Casper. Harry Potter under his magical cape. No one can see you. You’ve spent hours getting dressed only to realize that no one cares that you’re there and, well, no one cares if you leave. Do you then inject yourself into someone’s path of vision? Or sit and pretend to enjoy your own company?
Journey says I’m going to have to get over this, that thinking so much only lowers my confidence (how I walk into a room, stand at a bar, and smile while just on my own) and that males thrive on this female confidence. It’s what attracts them most. So, twisting through the crowd of men in the lobby at the hotel in my killer red heels, the sugary-sweet positive angel on my left shoulder thought, “Confidence, confidence, confidence,” but the what-the-hell-were-you-thinking-walking-out-of-the-house-in-hooker-shoes devil on my right shoulder backed that up with, “Did he just turn his back when he saw me?” and “Oh . . . was that a smile? I knew these shoes were working! Maybe I should go over and say hello. . . . Oh . . . That wasn’t a smile. Maybe he has gas.” Managing my neurosis somewhere in the middle, in my mind I winked and lingered at the smiling brother a bit, but in reality my nerves sent me rushing to the receptionist so I could get the number to Scarlet’s party suite.
“Big night, huh?” I said after giving the woman behind the desk Ian’s last name and turning back to drink in the brothers as she looked at her computer.
“Leftovers from last night,” she said. “It’s a fratern
ity. They had a ball.”
“Really? Wish I had an invitation,” I joked, remembering my disaster on the living room couch. Certainly, one of these men could’ve used my services. “It’s not every day that you get to see so many fine brothers in one place like this.” I saw two of the men greet one another with a fraternity handshake. Their linked-up arms were so muscular and strong it sent tickles up my spine. Lord, it had been so long since I’d felt a touch like that. “Dang,” I started, turning back to the receptionist, who looked a little less impressed than me. “I love fraternity men. Maybe I should call some of my girlfriends down here. You think they’ll be here all night?”
“Probably,” she said flatly. “But don’t bother calling your girls.”
“Why? What?” I spied the dazzling menfolk once more and then turned back to the receptionist. “What? Oh no. Don’t tell me. They’re gay! It’s Atlanta! I should’ve known,” I discerned aloud. In my voice there was a mix of surprise and acknowledgement with a dash of quick understanding. Suddenly, in my mind anyway, I could explain why I’d gotten no cat calls during my stiletto-clad cat walk through a sea of men. Of course no one wanted to holler at me! They’re all gay!
“No, they’re not gay,” the receptionist said.
“What?”
“Not gay. They’re not gay. They’re transgendered.”
“Trans-what?”.
“Transgendered.” She nodded toward the group, signaling for me to get another peek. “Those fraternity boys used to be sorority girls.”
As Grammy Annie-Lou would say, my mouth was picking up flies. That’s country people speak for: it was wide open as the landscape before me redeveloped into a new reality.
Armed with the party room number, I’m sure my face was painted in colors called shock red and crimson awe as I made my way back halfway through the strange promenade to get to the elevators. All those muscular arms, perfect jawlines, tight bums in designer suits, the delicious opus of masculine energy was . . . a group of women turned men? I traded my previous saunter for a humble creep. I couldn’t care less if no one looked at me now. Wait . . . they weren’t checking for me either. . . .
Ian opened the door before I could knock.
“I thought you were coming earlier,” he barked in a tight-jawed whisper.
“Umm . . . can I get a hello first?”
Ian was just as I had left him. All height and all muscle. He was six feet nine and so naturally in shape I never once heard him mention going to anyone’s gym. When we’d met during orientation freshman year at Florida A&M, I was sure he was a basketball player—I think the team even tried to recruit him—but Ian Dupree’s head has always been in his books.
“Yeah . . . whatever . . . hello.” Ian quickly pulled me into the suite. There was a little sitting area set up before a hallway that led to the main dining room. I could see that the room was already half full.
“People are already here?” I asked.
“It’s eight fifteen.”
“The party started at eight,” I pointed out with surprise in my voice.
Ian gave me one of his looks. He had baby cheeks and penny-colored eyes that matched his skin. He was more cute than handsome. We’d become fast friends after that orientation at FAMU. He loved that I was from the country and didn’t ever know anything he was talking about. I loved that he was from New Orleans (a big city to me) and seemed to know everything no one was talking about. With one of his books in his back pocket, we’d walk through campus debating the world. He had all the information. I had the neurotic opinions. Ian never seemed to notice all the girls standing around looking at him with thirsty eyes. I’d play into it. Laugh like he’d just said something really funny, link arms with him, and stare past their needy ciphers like we were so connected we couldn’t see them. My roommate said I had a crush on him, but really I just liked the attention of walking around the yard with the cutest guy on campus and I figured I was keeping Ian single until the right woman came along.
“Come on, Ian. Who comes to an eight o’clock party before nine in Atlanta? If the invitation says eight, that means they’ll still be setting up at eight. It’s just courteous to get there at nine.”
“Sure,” Ian said. “Well, Scarlet’s friends got news of the proposal, and by seven thirty they were lined up outside like it was the running of the bulls.”
Right then, I wanted to say something sweet to congratulate Ian on his big move, but I was still trying to figure out how to convince him to call the proposal off. Journey was right—I had to support my friend, but if he called it off himself, I’d have nothing to support.
“How’d they find out?” I asked.
“I told Scarlet’s best friend.”