Bye Bye, Birdie
SO, my East Coast gal pal met my plane at Newark airport. And when I say she met my plane—she was on the gangway right in the doorway since she worked at the airport and held certain privileges there. We rushed through passport control and customs, grabbed my luggage and were suddenly in her van on our way to my place in Brooklyn.
She asked about my trip and gently broached the topic of my English Bird. I said we had a fine time together and not to worry about it. She said she wasn’t going to ask details and I didn’t offer any. We got to my apartment in Flatbush and, both exhausted, fell into bed. In the morning she drove me into “the city” (as Brooklynites refer to Manhattan) and dropped me at my office before heading back to Jersey, where she lived.
I was now in re-entry hell: I had landed back in the middle of a very contentious presidential race that was indeed quite a bit about race. I wanted to move to Europe to escape American hell (as I always do when I return) and in particular longed for London where I had, sadly, left my Bird behind. The two of us talked on the phone several times a week, flirted by email and made plans for her to visit NYC in later October, which would give me time to recover fully from my impending laparoscopic partial hysterectomy in September.
My local gal pal went on her own extended vacation and our relationship, such as it was, quickly faded away. I saw her at my 45th birthday bash in early September and that, really, was the end of it. We both had other fish (or birds) to fry, it seemed.
It turned out that my English Bird became more and more distant and I began seeking out local romantic/sexual partners on the personals. The Bird went back to an ex and, with my painful post-hysterectomy pussy pulsating, I again cruised the personals seeking local lesbos to meet for casual dating—and sex, too, as soon as my doc took me off “pelvic rest.”