ALMOST HOT

Carrie and I had sneaking out down to an art form. We could navigate our town with our eyes closed, hold hands, slide through our dew-soaked backyards and run down the middle of Log Cabin Lane like we were the only two on the planet. Once over the railroad tracks we’d arrive at the Olympic-sized swimming pool hidden a half acre behind the Stark’s house. It’s important for kids to have a secret place to gather and tell secrets. The journey to freedom took exactly seven minutes from backdoor to diving board.

Earlier that day our class had graduated 6th grade. There we were, ten new graduates, skinny dipping in the Stark’s pool under a sliver of a moon, celebrating grownup-ness.

We made fun of each other, smoked cigarettes stolen from Tyler Wilson’s older sister’s purse, played truth or dare. We all seemed older. John had grown facial hair, Emily suddenly had boobs and for the first time ever Eric looked cute, which made the “who can kiss longer” game awkward. Eric and I defeated Carrie and Tyler but only because Carrie had a coughing fit. Then we headed back to my house.

I had a bunk bed. Carrie and I liked to sleep on the bottom together, our heads facing opposite directions. Like teddy bears we’d hold onto each other’s toes. Tonight Carrie’s still-cold toes smelled of chlorine. I told her Eric had tasted like BBQ potato chips, and she said she faked the cough because she was bored.

Then it happened. Carrie slid her toes from between my arms and started tickling my panties with them. At first I laughed, and then I moaned a little. I’d never felt anything like that. It was comforting but strange. Suddenly my Friday frillies were wet. I didn’t understand this, but I quickly found Carrie’s panties with my toes and copied her. We did this until we fell asleep, and then we did it for the rest of the summer. We never thought it wrong or weird or that we were lesbians. We didn’t even know what that word meant. We were just two girls making each other feel good.

Carrie and I never looked ourselves in the mirror like I did last night and asked, “Am I gay?”

I like men. I like the way they smell, the way they fix things, the way they growl at sporting events. I hadn’t thought about my 12-year-old bunk bed adventures for years. Until last night.

After a dinner out with Jen, a girlfriend, she and I walked back to our cars, but not before we reminded each other of the upcoming sale at Anthropologie. At the parking garage we hugged goodbye and then she leaned over and kissed me. I didn’t resist. Her tongue felt good against mine. I could taste her Cosmopolitan. I could smell her perfume, her shampoo. The smell was delicious, innocent and scandalous, familiar. When we were done exchanging lipsticks, we smiled at each other.

“Think this changes anything?” she asked.

“Let’s just be friends OK?” I tried to joke.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” she said, re-applying her lipstick.

I didn’t say it, but I felt the same.

And that was that; we climbed into our cars and drove home to our men.

I crawled into bed and wrapped my arms around mine.

“How was dinner?” he asked.

“Yummy. Jen says Hi.”

“You smell good,” he said.

I froze.

I slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Had I just cheated on my boyfriend? Was I a lesbian? I know the word now. Was I bisexual? I liked the way her lips felt, and I love that she and I can discuss my favorite magazine, BUST.

Oh my god, BUST.

I stared at myself in the mirror. “Have you been gay since you were 12?” I was certain I was about to come out of a closet I hadn’t even known I was in.

Then it hit me. I’m not gay. I’m Almost Gay. A brand new sexual orientation, a way to label the average woman who maybe has a crush on Missy Elliot, appreciates the curves of her own sex and won’t come out of a closet but might come out of a lingerie drawer. Almost Gay women don’t regret the summers they spent with their best friends discovering their sexuality. Almost Gay women crave the touch of a man, but once in a while look across the bar, lock eyes with another woman and wonder: What would it be like to kiss her?

I returned to bed and snuggled up next to my boyfriend.

“Everything OK?” he asked.

“Absolutely sweetheart. Goodnight,” I whispered.

It was an almost normal Hollywood night. Sun setting, smog settling, temperature dropping in 5-degree increments, horns blowing and car alarms singing. We were busily drinking at a party after a long day’s work, discussing the newest cast of “Project Runway” and dreaming of the $178 pair of blue jeans that we knew would make our asses look hot, if only we had the cash.But this Hollywood party wasn’t exactly the Hollywood norm. We were drinking keg beer, not martinis; wearing tennis shoes, not stilettos; and we were sitting, make-up less, beside a newly lit chiminea, when someone called across the patio, “Hey Ange, Shan, is it hot yet?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, we said in unison, “It’s almost hot.”

Then we looked at each other, flashed our not-so-pearly whites and said, “like us.” And then we giggled like little girls giggle before they learn to become self-conscious.

That moment forever changed us. Those two words inspired in us a whole new way of looking at the world and at ourselves in it.

That night we discovered that Almost has been given a bad rap,that, in fact, most people believe that Almost doesn’t count, that Almost means not good enough, that Almost never wins the game, pageant or prize. That night in our comfy tennis shoes and cheap denim, we realized that although we’re not A-List Hot, we are Almost Hot, and we wouldn’t trade that for anything. Being somewhere in the middle grounds us, gives us perspective, keeps us real.

Almost Hot began to grow, like a baby would if it were in your belly. We cared for baby Almost Hot like we would any pregnancy. We ate a lot, talked a lot, whined a lot, and discovered, nine months later, that Almost Hot was ready to enter the world. She decided she wanted some friends, and it was up to her mommies to find her some. So we, being the Almost Hip LA mommies that we are, went to the Beauty Bar, where all Almost Hots go to get pretty, and over cocktails and manicures we decided that there had to be more Almosts floating around in this world. In Almost every nook and cranny we looked, we discovered more Almosts.

We came upon the Almost married, commiserated with the Almost divorced. We anticipated moments’ “Almost time,” we whispered and during some disastrous moments we were comforted by knowing they were Almost over. We and others often were Almost there, and some things seemed only Almost fair, and lots of times we sighed with relief after we were Almost late, and Almost always we laughed when we realized that there are Almost a million (maybe a billion?) more Almosts out there.

The point is this. Almost is not about regret, it’s about all of those things that we Almost do or don’t, that we Almost are or aren’t. It’s about the abundance of Almost in everything that makes us who we are and drives us to go on.

Almost Hot, our column, celebrates the significance of the Almost in everything. Each month Almost Hot will explore the ups and downs of living life in the Almost world.

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