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steered clear of me, not fond of the new Elena. He was accustomed to the version with little tolerance for men. But I was finding it surprisingly easy to laugh at their dumb jokes.
    â€œWhy yes, you’re right, the BlackBerry scroll ball is like
a little clit!” It was relatively painless to play along when I wanted something in return. And as it turned out, it wasn’t just Dante I wanted. I was on a man mission. My curiosity had been piqued, and I had to put Megan’s lessons to use, not to mention my hard-earned money. A Brazilian wax with Mariola is not cheap.
    Three hours into the night, uninspired by the selection of single straight men on the party menu, I poked around the hors d’oeuvres and snagged the last piece of cake.
    â€œYou didn’t,” said a voice from above. A sharply dressed man hovered over me as I swallowed the second half of the slice.
    â€œI did.” I washed down the last of the cake with the last of my wine. “Where did you swoop down from?”
    â€œI just got off work,” he said, reaching across the table too close to me and dutifully refilling my glass with shiraz. He was careful not to spill any on his crisp white shirt, which he’d unbuttoned at the top. Though I knew nothing about ties, a nice-looking one hung loosely from his neck. His sandy brown hair was mussed in just the right way; naturally, after a long day’s work, as opposed to crafted with some overpriced pasty product with a name like Morning After. He had a little bit of the Joseph Gordon-Levitt baby-face thing going on. I wondered if he wished he looked older.
    â€œWhat do you do that you get off at midnight?” I asked, nearly losing my balance. The sugar rush had set in.

    â€œI’m a lawyer, a first year, which means I’m basically their bitch. I stay until my bosses leave and often much later.”
    That was the point where my brother left the party, only after unsuccessfully urging me to pass up the lawyer for late-night sibling sundaes. He’d tried his best. But if ice cream couldn’t stop me, nothing could. I hugged my brother goodbye, sending him off with the same famous last words I’d been saying his whole life: “Don’t worry!”
    The lawyer invited me to join him on the couch, where he promptly picked up my feet and started massaging them. After walking in those shoes, I was putty in his hands. It was a little embarrassing, flirting with him in front of everyone at the party. But I wasn’t bothered enough to stop him, which is one of the great things about getting older. You care less and less what people think. When the party started to thin out, I excused myself to the bathroom.
    Elena, you can do this. I fixed my hair in the mirror. You’ve come this far. I was anxious, assuming I would have to take some initiative if I were to go home with the lawyer. With the women I’d been after in the past, I’d often offered the first signal of interest. There is nothing worse than hitting on a girl and having her say, “Sorry, I’m straight.” Since I was femme, I liked to help erase any ounce of doubt, for there is a complex dance performed at lesbian bars. Is she gay? Is she here with a guy? Is she here with her gay friends? Does she have a girlfriend? Has she dated my best friend?

    When I found the lawyer back in the living room, he was wearing his coat and holding mine. I guess the dance for straight people is more like the two-step. One, “You’re single?” Two, “Me too.”
    â€œLooks like the party’s over,” he said, holding my coat open behind me to slip into. “I live right down the street. We can get my scooter and I can give you a ride home if you’d like. I just got it.” I smiled to myself, sliding my arms into the ripped lining of my sleeves.
    It’s hardly necessary to say that we ended up in his living room, on his couch, for yet another foot massage.