I was done.

Done with men.

Women say it all the time; they get fed up, throw their hands in the air, and vow a life of celibacy—until the next chiseled chest comes into view, and then they’re foaming at the mouth and wiping the drool from their chin. But this was different, I really meant it.

I’d been manhandled by the last pig that would ever bring his sausage near me. After one of the nastiest divorces in history, followed by some of the crudest and raunchiest dates, I’d decided to bat for the other team.

Ronnie roared with laughter as I made my proclamation. Just before her features cleared, she realized my mind was set. “Giselle, you don’t just decide to become a lesbian. You either are, or you aren’t, and based on the fact you’ve been sucking stick instead of going down to Taco Town since puberty, it’s unlikely you just missed the signs.”

My best friend, Veronica, would know. She was the girl every guy wanted, every girl wanted to be, and in the end, she preferred fish to hot dogs. At least if I made the switch late in the game, I had someone to show me the ropes, teach me the Jedi ways.

“What happened this time?” Ronnie knew all the gory details from every failed attempt at a relationship or date since I’d gotten my first kiss.

Sitting in the darkened bar, I swung my feet under the high stool and twirled my drink in the pretentious glass it had been served in. Bars had moved up a notch since the last time I’d dated—thank God someone finally outlawed smoking in these tiny places. Not only could you see the person you came with, but you could also breathe long enough to enjoy a drink.

Justin. That’s what had happened this time. Justin happened.

“He peed on my walls, Ronnie. And then he seemed surprised I was offended by it.”

She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Nodding her head, she confirmed she knew how savage the male species could be. “Men are gross, Gizzy. But you can’t just decide you’re going to be a switch-hitter. You’ve been practicing the wrong game for too many years.” She was humored by the entire conversation, but I wasn’t kidding.

“Are you going to help me or not?” I was on the verge of pouting and wasn’t above doing it if it would help me get my way.

“Help you what? Pretend to be a lesbian?”

“I’m not pretending. I want out. People switch careers, why can’t they change sexuality?”

“Please refer to my previous comment: you don’t just decide to eat pussy, Giselle.”

“I’m assuming it’s like beer…an acquired taste.”

She spat her Cosmopolitan across the table and quickly grabbed a napkin to pat her lips dry.

“What? I didn’t like dick the first time I tasted that shit, either. Be real. No bodily fluid tastes good. It’s the feeling you impart that makes you love the taste you’re chasing.” I wanted to smack her—Veronica was making this entirely too complicated. “Look, I just need you to show me the ropes. Give me some dating pointers. The how-to guide to wooing the hoo hoo.”

She sat back against the chair and crossed her mile-long legs. Her perfect breasts sat on display while her ample cleavage peeked over the top of her blouse. Veronica was sex on a stick and knew everyone in town.

“I think that might be against the rules.”

“Don’t be coy with me, you whore. I know where the bodies are buried. Spill it.”

Her laugh echoed through the empty bar. When I didn’t budge, and my facial expression remained stoic, she leaned in with her elbows on the table. “You’re not expecting me to show you, right?”

“Eww. Gross. No.”

“Then lay it out for me. What specifically do you want to know?”

“Where do you go to meet women? How do other women know you’re interested and not searching for pole? Hell, I don’t know. Teach me like you would a teenager who’d never had their first sexual encounter.”

We spent the next two hours talking shop. It was amazing, as a woman, what I didn’t know about the vagina—or maybe the varieties that exist. It never dawned on me that they’d come in all shapes and sizes like penises do—likely because I’d never been scoping them out—but this was a new me, vag friendly.

* * *

I decided to start over with my dating profiles. None of them had worked for heterosexual relationships, so I doubted just switching the bubble to female looking for female would be beneficial. I needed to totally redesign myself and be honest about what I was after. The truth was, at this point in my life, my girlfriends were more important than dating. I valued my tried and true friendships more than money, but all I was really after was gratifying sex. I wasn’t ashamed to admit that, either. I didn’t want to whore myself out to the highest bidder, but I wasn’t opposed to having an exclusive sexual relationship with no strings attached. In fact, I’d prefer it—I just no longer wanted to do it with men.

When I got to the questions about the physical characteristics of the partners I sought, I drew a blank. I’d always found women attractive—I could admire their beauty and praise their assets—but if I were to outline my perfect woman, I had nothing. I saved my incomplete profile and started to flip through the images of those who were now on my radar. I giggled at the names people had chosen for their profiles as I swiped left and right. It didn’t take long for me to realize that my tastes in men and women didn’t differ all that much. Dark hair, blue or green eyes, tan, toned. Perfection. I’d started to settle for men just to reach the infamous O, but my standards for women were impossibly high. If I were going to dive for muff, she would have to be the crème de la crème.

I glanced at the clock and realized I’d been scoping out women for far longer than intended but had only admired a handful of ladies. And it became clear, the pictures I’d used in my profile to seek men weren’t going to work when trolling for honeys.

“Ronnie, I need you to come over.” I’d called my bestie for reinforcements. It didn’t matter that it was nearly eleven on a Monday night. My selfish streak had gotten a mile wide, and I hoped Trish understood—or at the very least, kept quiet.

“Hey, Giselle. Ronnie’s in the shower.” Trish sounded tired, but I never knew if it was me or her general attitude. She and Veronica had another spat over a pair of heels Ronnie had to have, and Ronnie had run to Holden’s house for refuge. She’d just returned home a couple days ago, and my guess was Veronica was walking a thin line to keep her girl happy. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, hi. Yeah. How are you?”

Her clipped response instantly told me she wasn’t interested in chitchatting with me. “Fine.”

“Can you have her call me when she gets out?”

“I’ll have her call you in the morning. She needs to get some sleep.”

I bit my tongue to keep from smarting off. Veronica loved Trish, even if Trish could be unreasonable at times, but this wasn’t my battle to fight. I’d let V handle her drill sergeant when I talked to her tomorrow.

“Thanks.” I didn’t wait for her to respond before disconnecting. I’d tried to be cordial with Trish, but my loyalty lay with Veronica. Girls had come and gone, but we were solid.

Without anyone to take strategically staged photos, I was stuck with what I had for the evening. I tried to find pictures of me with guy friends, images that highlighted my figure, flaunted my hair, and made me look delectable without appearing too straight. Tough to do when I had in fact been heterosexual for thirty-plus years. My most sexually appealing photographs were of me with my girlfriends, but I didn’t know how that would look to other women. In hetero-land, if I posted a picture of me with a dude, it had better be my brother or my father—but I didn’t know if the same rules applied…so I opted for a couple solo shots from Christmas events I’d attended over the holidays. Red was an alluring color, and I had been rather festive.

I closed my laptop, proud of my progress. Rome wasn’t built in a day. With a mental note to talk to Ronnie, I turned off the lights and tried to sleep.