Girl Crazy

Loving Morgan

One hot summer night in Seattle, I was kicking it at this warehouse party with my friend Morgan, a chain-smoking, fast-talking, truck-driving hot chick. Her ex-boyfriend Joey, a long-haired stoner painter guy, turned to me at about 3 a.m. "Are you in love with Morgan yet?"

It was true, I was, and had been for a long time. The first time I ever saw her I followed her around the whole night, determined to get a number, a name, a glance, something. Our mutual friend Hal did the introductions and I swooned whenever she walked by, her butterscotch hair strung up on either side of her head in big, messy buns, slinging a camera around her long, white neck. She grinned at me once, twice, and by the end of the night she was giving me a ride home.

We kissed the way girls kiss each other, soft and light, giggling like we were getting away with something. But it never went any further, because, I came to learn, Morgan loved dick. And she had just started dating Zeke, the owner of a very nice penis, a scruffy West Coast snowboarder type with bleached-out blond hair and a goatee, who emanated cool from every pore of his being. Poor me.

But in spite of Morgan's rapidly developing relationship with Zeke, my crush on her never faltered, and the more I knew her, the more I would tell her (beg, more like it), Be my girlfriend, I'll get you flowers every day. She never relented, though she took great delight in teasing me with flirty kisses and hugs. Faced with her curly eyelashes that reached for the sun whenever she batted them, my insides would turn to goo. I especially liked it when she'd sit in her beat-up truck and hawk loogies seven feet out. "Morgan," I'd say, only half joking, "I love it when you're butch!"

Morgan loved dick. And she had just started dating Zeke, the owner of a very nice penis.

Still, Morgan was not cruel; she liked me, I knew it, she knew it, and her boyfriend knew it. One day, they invited me to join them at their house for dinner. She told me she'd pick me up Saturday night, and she told me to wear a dress. I got out some long black thing with a plunging neckline and waited. She arrived with flowers, clad in a brown suede floor-length dress, and smiled.

I was a little nervous, but not really sure why. I needn't have worried: They had the whole thing planned, right down to when they broke out the wine and the clothes started coming off. In my short sexual life, I've had seven or eight ménages à trois, an astounding number when you think about it, but this was the only one that mattered.

Getting jiggy with Morgan was no problem; getting jiggy with her cute, snowboarder boyfriend was—and not necessarily because I thought Zeke was a toad. I half-wished he would just go away and leave us be. But Zeke was a gentleman. Unlike the boys who insist that they'll just watch (like the one who proceeded to dump chocolate body fudge on us), or the ones who insist it'll be a true sharing experience (but really, it's like watching your boyfriend cheat on you right in front of your face), Zeke took his cues and came when we called him. Literally and figuratively.

Morgan's a photographer, so we capped our evening with a photo session, less naughty than you'd imagine. They are beautiful black and white photos—most of them, ironically, of Zeke and me lounging against the bed while he smokes a cigarette. But I like to think of them as Morgan's portrait of the two of us—with Zeke taking her place in the photos, like a bittersweet dream.

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