“Sure is breezy,” I comment to the wind. I continue sidestepping, my back to the wall of some thankfully windowless club. Passersby give me the same look: a raised eyebrow with a slight judgmental frown. Not even the young couple with the matching mohawks and forehead tattoos looked at me with any sign of amusement. What was I thinking? I had good intentions. Well not exactly “good” in the strictest sense of the word. I’d wanted to surprise my girlfriend. Speak of the devil…I check out the recently called list on my cell and click on the first name. I put the phone to my ear and listen to the first ring, second ring, third ring, fourth ring, silence, my girlfriend’s voice: “Hey, you’ve reached Ashley Davies. Leave a message after the FUCKBITCHSHIT beeeeeeeeep!”

“Ash, dammit, turn the ringer on your phone on! I need you ASAP. Call me back!” I press end call. That girl’s going to have a lot of voicemails to delete. Things could not get any worse. I look over to the left in the direction I’m stepping. The building ends at a busy intersection. Shit. Things can get worse. I slump down on the sidewalk, carefully keeping my back against the wall of the building as I go down. As I reach the ground I jump a little in disgust. I think I just sat in spit. I rest my head in my hands and try not to cry. How did I even get to this low low loooow point in my life? My mind wanders two hours back in time…

FLASHBACK//

This is the second time this week I’ve been so nervous the butterflies in my stomach have been eaten by hawks that have been eaten by pterodactyls that are now pecking at the walls of my stomach to get out. The first time I felt this way was when I went to the bookstore on Wednesday to purchase The Whole Big Huge Pleasureific Guide to Lesbian Sex. Today I will be making another purchase regarding lesbian sex, but this item is less literary. I’ve been in stores like this before in Ohio. They’re not exactly known for sales of sex toys, but my goal was behind these glass portals, painted to look like Wild West swinging saloon doors. I place my hand on the door handle, take a breath, and push in. WHAM I smack my face into the door when it refuses to give way to my push.

“Ow!” I cry out to no one.

I look down at the offending door handle. Printed in red letters on a white background is the word “pull.” Yes I’m off to an ambitious start. I try again, this time pulling the door handle carefully and slipping into the store before the entrance changes its mind. Once inside my senses are assailed with cow. I can smell hide, see leather lining every shelf, rack, and hanger in the showroom, and I can hear the lonesome cowboy song crackling out of the ceiling speakers.

“…and there’s a hole in my wranglers my woman won’t patch cuz she ain’t here no more. Left me cuz I hit her and she done took my horse so now alls I got is my tractor and I’ve gone lost the key… "

I step forward towards a rack in the near corner. A pink ten-gallon hat is bobbing behind it. As I close the distance, the ten-gallon hat ducks right and appears in front of me, topping a woman who I can only describe as a defrocked rodeo clown. She is about five feet tall in pink cowboy boots with a pair of faded blue jeans, a pink paisley blouse, and a white kerchief around her neck. Every article of clothing she’s wearing appears to have been set upon by a mental patient wielding a Bedazzler. Her hair sticking from her hat is comparable with that of little orphan Annie: Red, curly, and out of control. She’s smiling the biggest toothiest smile I’ve ever seen, and it splits her face down the middle like an overgrown seam. For several moments this glittering grinning woman silently stares me down with her beady eyes, then she screeches loudly in a Los Angeles born southern accent.