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“People are like fabrics: some are silk,
some are flannel. You have to be careful
which ones you try to sew together.”
—Hannah O’Dowd
To Anna, of course
Dating Without Novocaine
Lisa Cach
MILLS & BOON
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Anna Dudey and Scott Bodyfelt, who provided invaluable information on their professions.
To my extraordinary agent, Linda Kruger.
To my friends, whose experiences were rich sources of inspiration.
And to all the poor saps who’ve gone out with me, not knowing any better.
Contents
One: Sequins and Gossamer
Two: Orange Tiers with Bric-a-brac Trim
Three: Gypsy Scarf
Four: Black Leather
Five: Mourning Clothes
Six: Silk vs. Spandex
Seven: Green Plaid
Eight: Rubber Boots
Nine: Synthetic Fur
Ten: Tighty Whities
Eleven: Walking Shoes
Twelve: Embroidered Linen
Thirteen: Polyester Brocade with Garters
Fourteen: White Satin
Fifteen: Nasty Sweater
Sixteen: Blue Uniform
Seventeen: Pink Panties
Eighteen: Tapestry with Fringe
Nineteen: Shoulder Pads and Falsies
Twenty: Latex
Twenty-One: Wet Terry Cloth
Twenty-Two: Blue Medallion Print
Twenty-Three: Old Denim
Twenty-Four: Green Piqué
Twenty-Five: Percale Sheets
Twenty-Six: Running Tights
Twenty-Seven: Pale Gold Accessories
Twenty-Eight: White Silk for Another Day
One
Sequins and Gossamer
Portland, Oregon
“A noint your sacred body parts,” Sapphire said, passing ’round a small blue-and-white Chinese bowl. “I made this rose water with the petals of flowers from my own garden, plucked under the full moon to call forth the power of the Goddess.”
I slanted a look at Cassie, seated cross-legged next to me on a cushion on the wooden dance floor. She was wearing a short top that ended just below her breasts in a row of dangling, shimmering silver disks, her slightly poochy belly bare above the heavy belt of coins around her hips. She narrowed her tilted elf-green eyes at me in warning.
The bowl came to me, the rose water a dark burgundy that smelled safe enough when I gave it a cautious sniff. I dunked my fingers in the water and dabbed the stuff on my throat and wrists like perfume, and passed the bowl on to Cassie.
With reverence, Cassie anointed her breasts and her crotch, then bowed over the bowl and shut her eyes before passing it to the next novice belly dancer.
“I never knew you had sacred boobs,” I whispered to Cassie as Sapphire invited the class members to share their experiences of the past week. “I would have paid them proper respect, if I had. Shouldn’t you be wearing a more expensive bra, if you’re carrying around holy orbs?”
“Hush!” Cassie scolded.
A long-haired woman with hurt-looking eyes started talking about the telepathic conversation she had had with her dog.
“You’re going to have stains right over your nipples.”
“Hannah, be quiet. You won’t experience the Goddess if you don’t open yourself to Her.”
That didn’t sound a particularly awful threat at the moment. The belly dance/goddess worship class of ten women was sitting in a circle around a small terra-cotta sculpture of figures linking arms around a lit votive candle. I’d seen the same piece in Robert Redford’s Sundance catalog.
The psychic-dog woman finished, and a middle-aged woman with about fifty extra pounds showing between skirt and halter top started to weep. “My fiancé had to go to court this week. My neighbor says he flashed her, that he stood in our front yard and exposed himself to her. But he wasn’t naked, and he didn’t do it on purpose! He was wearing panties and gartered hose. He went out to get the paper, that was all.”
Sapphire made soothing noises, while the other women murmured and cooed.
“If she’s in touch with the Goddess, why is she dating a pervert?” I asked Cassie.
“Hannah!”
I shrugged. It seemed a reasonable question.
“It’s time for the affirmation,” Sapphire said, and everyone put their palms together in front of their chests, fingers pointing upward.
