And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

Coming to groggily, I found my head on a surface that was only semi-soft.

“Damn, Claire,” I mumbled, rubbing my cheekbone as I sat up on the bench next to her. “Have you been running sprints or something. What’s with the protruding thigh muscle?”

“What’s with the need to start a war instead of getting out of the lion’s den?” Claire returned. “You should be glad I have these muscles. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to drag you out of there.”

“Florrick,” I growled again. “What did she do to me?”

“Nothing,” Claire responded. “I did it.”

“You?” I questioned, turning to look into her sincere face. “You knocked me unconscious? Surely, you know that’s not good for my health.”

“Better for it than staying in there,” Claire returned. “I mean, who are these people? A succubus, a sociopath, more than one possible killer. Lindsay and Cindy are friends with a bunch of virtual nutjobs!”

“There are definitely some strange things happening in OCNA,” I acknowledged, trying to wrap my aching head around all that I’d heard.

“Do we tell them?” Claire asked.

“I don’t know,” I shook my head. “What do you think?”

Claire didn’t look anywhere close to an answer when the door opened, and we both looked back to see which of the OCNA crazies had followed us outside. Thankfully, it was a familiar face staring back at us.

“Hey,” Cindy interrupted. “Linds and I have been looking for you.” She leaned back inside to call to Lindsay, and, a moment later, they both stepped outside.

“So, quite a party,” Lindsay said, glancing to Cindy.

“Yeah,” Cindy grinned. “Interesting crowd.”

Holding my head, I tilted it up as much as I could. “I would like to say again how sorry we are about all of this.”

“Why?” Lindsay said with a sincere look on her face. “This is the best party ever.”

“Really?” Claire returned. “Even though no one you know is here?”

“Yeah,” Lindsay replied. “I mean, I was a little disappointed at first, but…”

“These people are awesome,” Cindy chimed in.

“Really?” I asked in confusion.

“Yeah, I mean, did you meet them?” Cindy countered.

“We met them,” Claire returned.

“So you know how cool they are then,” Cindy declared, as if it were an obvious thing.

“We know that…” I started to say, but didn’t know quite how to finish. All I knew was that we didn’t know anything, and yet we knew way too much. “Yeah,” I decided it was easier to just abandon the argument. “They all seem pretty cool.”

“We’re going to go back in,” Lindsay said, putting her hand on Cindy’s waist and directing her to the door. “Are you coming?”

“Jill got an accidental knock to the head,” Claire lied, and I slid a glance her way.

“Are you okay?” Cindy asked.

“She’s fine. We should probably just sit this one out,” Claire answered for me, waving them off. “You have fun.”

Lindsay opened the door for Cindy, and glanced back. “Thank you guys. These are our people,” she grinned, before disappearing inside.

“Their people are nuts,” Claire proclaimed as soon as the door clicked shut.

“Well, at least they have people,” I shrugged. “Better than no one.”

“And they have us,” Claire replied. “And we have them. No matter how many more people they have.”

“I never doubt that,” I replied.

Claire lifted two champagne glasses from the bench on the other side of her. “Here,” she said, pushing one into my hand. “I ran back in for these once I got you outside.”

“So, you put my head down on the bench?”

“There’s champagne, Jill,” Claire breezily replied. “Don’t over-think things. To Lindsay and Cindy,” she lifted her glass.

“To Lindsay and Cindy,” I lifted mine. “And to OCNA.”

“To OCNA,” Claire agreed.

Clinking our glasses together, we toasted all of the lovely – albeit insane – couples inside. But our friends the most.

a

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

We knew better than to stop again, but it was easier said than done. In the center of the room, as we snuck behind the redhead in the wheelchair, she did a sudden spin that took her wheel directly over Claire’s foot.

“Ahhhh,” Claire cried out, reaching down toward the appendage.

“I am so sorry.” The redhead stopped turning instantly, reaching for Claire. “I never do anything like this. I just wanted to prove to them that I could maneuver as well in this chair as anyone on foot.”

She motioned to the fake-Italian and real-Brit, who waved conspiratorially.

“Well, you certainly do know how to take someone out in it,” I joked, and Claire shot me an evil eye as if I’d stomped her myself.

“What can I say?” the redhead returned. “Taking people out is kind of my specialty.”

“Barbara,” the younger feline-woman appeared out of nowhere. “You told them?”

“Yeah,” I joked. “She’s obviously a superhero.”

“Barbara!” the feline-woman exclaimed. “Seriously? All that talk about secret identities…”

“Helena,” Barbara stated firmly.

“And secret lairs…”

“Helena…”

“And masks…”

The redhead’s eyes widened with every word, but she didn’t bother trying to cut Helena off again.

“And you’re just going to tell everyone at a party that you’re a superhero?” Helena finally finished herself.

I felt my mouth fall open, and glanced at the real-Brit and fake-Italian, both of whom looked as if they were fish out of water as well.

“Spent too much time in the kitchen again, didn’t you?” Barbara asked.

“What?” Helena returned.

“You know,” Barbara verbally nudged. “Making muffin tops.”

“Oh,” Helena glanced around. “Oh! Right! Muffin tops. Wooh, way too much time in front of a hot oven. I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“You don’t look like a baker,” the real-Brit declared.

“Thanks,” Helena flashed a dazzling smile, before glancing at the stern redhead and turning shamefaced. “I mean, you don’t have to look the part to make a kickass bakery item. Right, Barbara?”

“Right, Helena,” Barbara almost smiled, and the feline-woman finally succeeded in winding her way onto Barbara’s lap.

“We’ll just leave you all to it,” Claire said hastily and we were off again.

Turning toward the door, Claire and I bore down on it, like bulls running at red. Until someone stepped into the path.

“Alicia Florrick,” I growled.

“Were we finished?” she countered.

“Just say yes, Jill,” Claire instructed.

“No, we weren’t,” I replied.

I opened my mouth to launch into my opening argument when I felt an acute knock from behind.

Then, there was nothing.

a

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

“Okay,” I said, pulling Claire through the throng of women and trying hard not to make eye contact with any of them. “Just keep walking until we hit the door.”

“Do Lindsay and Cindy know that these people are all insane?” Claire returned sharply. “Or do they pretend to fake sanity really well like everyone else on the Internet?”

“Good damn question,” I responded low. “We’ll discuss once we’re outside.”

Claire nodded in agreement, and we continued to push through the bodies.

“Um, excuse me,” a powerful voice rang over the din of voices.

Trying hard not to look, I did so anyway. Straight into the dark eyes of a tortured soul.

“Could you clear this table?”

“Regina, they are not servants,” the wavy-haired blonde with her admonished.

“They’re not?” Regina returned. “How can you tell?”

“Because most people aren’t servants,” the blonde declared.

Regina shrugged indifferently. “Everyone looks like a servant to me.”

“I’m sorry,” the blonde started, but she was distracted by two women to her left.

Heads together – one blonde, one nearly black – the two women whispered back and forth, casting sidelong glances at the woman who had first called us to a stop.

The curly-haired blonde turned to face them, crossing her arms over her chest in a defensive pose. “Okay, what is it with you two?” she demanded. “You have been talking about us since the second we walked in here.”

Knowing they were caught, the two whispering women sat up straight and looked at the blonde full-on, with the occasional glance to the dark-eyed woman behind her, who stared right back at them as if she could crush their hearts with her bare hand.

“So, you must be the weaker one,” the black-haired woman stated. “What’s your backstory? Abusive parents? No parents? What, did your parents drop you on the side of a highway?”

“Whoa,” the wavy-haired blonde put her hand up to stop the words. “What are you doing?”

“Profiling you,” the other blonde chimed in. “Well, more her really,” she jutted her chin toward the dark-eyed Regina, who remained unperturbed.

“What about me, Dear?” Regina asked the blonde profiler.

“What happened to you?” the blonde returned with interest. “Because, let me tell you, the way that you look at people, the way that you talk to people, you read sociopath.”

“Watch it,” the wavy-haired blonde jumped to Regina’s defense.

“Oh please, Emma,” Regina murmured. “You called me that yourself. I want to hear more. Please, go on.”

The shiver that went down my spine seemed to pass through Claire as well, and she reached out for my arm. Even the two women who’d called her out looked at each other uneasily.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” the black-haired woman asked.

“Maybe,” Regina returned. “Have you?”

“Only when we’ve had to,” the blonde profiler responded, reaching for the black-haired woman’s hand for comfort.

“The same could be said for me,” Regina returned easily.

“Who’d you kill?” the curly blonde glanced back at Regina.

“Emma, we’ve got plenty of time to get to know each other,” Regina grinned in a way that didn’t bring even Emma much comfort, before looking back at the profilers. “Anything else?”

“All I know,” the black-haired woman said, standing strong as she stared the woman down, “is that we have met some of the sickest people on this planet, and you, you are something special.”

“Why thank you,” Regina returned. “But you really don’t know the half of it.”

“I really don’t know the half of it,” Emma plopped into the seat beside Regina.

“I really don’t need to hear anymore,” Claire declared and pulled me, once again, toward the door.

a

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

“Oh, hi again,” Claire said as she came to a halt a few feet later and released me.

I turned to find the blonde named Lu standing before us. Though, there was something different about her. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Have we met?” Lu asked, and Claire laughed.

Partway through her chuckle, both Claire and I became aware that the blonde was serious. Even though we had met her only moments before at the door.

“We were at the front when you came in,” I reminded her.

“No, you weren’t,” the blonde returned. “I was already here when you two came in.”

Squinting hard, I tried to determine if she was for real. Obviously, she was wrong, but she seemed dead-set on her story.

Before I could launch into another, well-deserved debate, the blonde’s easygoing date, Jordan, came breezing up to us. “Hey, Baby,” she threw at the blonde, whose eyes narrowed in response. Then, Jordan turned to us. “Hey again,” she said, sipping at her drink.

“So, you remember us?” Claire questioned.

“We did just meet,” she replied, glancing at the blonde. “What’s with these two?”

The blonde’s mouth fell open slightly, but, for a moment, no sound came forth. “I don’t know these two,” she responded finally. “And I don’t know you.”

“Oh, come on,” Jordan groaned. “I know we’re two very different people. I know I annoy the hell out of you sometimes. But you still love me. Admit it.”

“I don’t love you,” the blonde replied. “I don’t even know you.”

“Baby, come on.” Jordan grabbed the back of the blonde’s neck and pulled her into a lip-lock that lasted approximately three seconds before a sharp voice intruded on the intimate moment.

“Brooke? What the hell?”

Whirling toward the angry tone, I peripherally saw Claire’s head spin too, and we stared upon a woman with shoulder-length dark hair and an incredible amount of attitude.

“It wasn’t me, Sam,” the blonde replied quickly. “I was just standing here.”

Sam stepped toe-to-toe with Jordan, and putting her hand gently on my arm, Claire pulled me a step back from the possible throw-down.

“Why are you kissing my girlfriend?”

“Your girlfriend?” Jordan replied. “Your girlfriend? Um no, this one’s mine.”

“Oh, I will cut a bitch,” Sam responded and the blonde, who apparently wasn’t the one named Lu, but one named Brooke, stepped forward and put her hands on Sam’s shoulders.

“Come on, Sammy. Relax, I think she honestly thinks I’m someone else.”

“I don’t care if she thinks you’re a Playboy playmate,” Sam pushed toward Jordan, who looked less than worried as she took another drink. “She just had her lips on my girl.”

“I love it when you call me your girl,” Brooke returned.

Snapping right to attention, Jordan took a step forward. “What in the hell is going on? Did she hit you over the head or something?”

“Jordan?” a voice snapped from behind them.

All heads whirling the opposite way, we saw the blonde. Again. Or the other blonde. Shaking my head a little, I tried to reconcile the blonde and the blonde, who clearly didn’t know each other, but looked freakishly alike.

“What’s going on?” Lu’s eyes were glued to Jordan.

“Lu?” Jordan breathed.

“Yeah,” Lu replied, her eyes drifting to and locking on her twin. “Wow,” she breathed.

“Wow,” her twin replied.

“Wow” the feisty Sam added, looking between the blondes.

“Wow,” Jordan said, backing away from Sam and Brooke slowly. “Sorry about that. You see how it could have happened. Have a good time. I love your gloss, by the way. It tastes really good.”

Jordan backed into Lu, and rotated with an anxious smile.

“Hey,” she said slowly. “I’m so glad you’re back. “

“What are you sorry about?” Lu crossed her arms. “What did you do? Why do you know what her lipgloss tastes like?”

“Oh, Lu,” Jordan sighed. “Look at her. Obviously, I thought she was you.”

“She looks a little like me,” Lu conceded.

“A little?” Jordan argued. “You two were clearly switched at birth.”

“Our dresses aren’t even the same,” Lu returned.

“They’re close enough,” Jordan shrugged.

Looking between the two women, I could see the small differences between their just-above-the-knee black dresses, but it was with my fashionista’s eye. Not any non-fashion-savvy person could be expected to notice the differences. At least when the dresses weren’t side by side.

“You are so full of it,” Lu ground out. “You are totally commitment-phobic.”

“I am not!”

“Yes you are!”

“Hold up,” I said over them. Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I thought someone needed to inject some reason into the situation.

“Jill, stay out of it,” Claire sing-songed beside me.

“I wish I could,” I returned, before facing the arguing couple, turning specifically to Lu. “I’m not getting behind anything that just happened here, but you do look exactly like this girl, and most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between your dresses.”

“Okay, sorry,” the other blonde cut in from behind me. “But this is Chanel, and that is clearly off a rack.”

“Okay, Princess,” Sam grumbled, as if annoyed that her girlfriend was throwing around label names. “They get it. You like designer clothes. That’s doesn’t mean hers is off the rack.”

“Actually,” Lu glanced down at herself. “It is off a rack.”

“See,” Brooke smiled, and Sam rolled her eyes harder than a teenager.

I’d said my piece and didn’t know what else to say. Beside me, Claire looked as if she wished I’d never opened my mouth in the first place.

Rounding on Lu with a conciliatory expression, Jordan spoke softly. “I downed this drink really fast, and we know that sometimes drinks don’t do well with me. Remember when we both thought I killed Pollack?”

“Yeah,” Lu returned grudgingly.

“Remember how we found out it was a mistake?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, so was this,” Jordan slid her arms around Lu’s waist with a smile.

“Okay,” Lu grumbled.

“Maybe we should just…” I tugged Claire’s arm, and she followed me away.

“Nice work… Sir,” Sam called at our backs.

Claire’s eyes turned to me. “What in the hell was that about?” she asked.

“I’m more concerned with the murder suspect,” I stated, leading Claire to the door through which I’d seen the two women disappear when we first came in. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Claire nodded in agreement, and we pulled the door open together.

But it wasn’t a door out. It was a door in. To a utility closet. Where the auburn-haired woman, who’d lost her glasses along the way, and the petite blonde, previously in pink, were in the process of retrieving clothing from every available surface and pulling it hastily on.

“Oh my God!” Claire yelled. “We’re sorry.”

“Oh, hey, ya’ll,” the petite blonde returned. “Thanks for the invite, but we gotta run. Big case back in LA.”

“Well, don’t let us bother you.” I tried to close the door.

“Don’t be silly,” the blonde returned. “It’s no bother at all. This is Sharon. She doesn’t really speak unless spoken to.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Claire said, staring at a spot on the back wall of the closet.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Sharon returned with quiet strength. “Now, would you leave us alone so that we can get dressed?”

“Absolutely,” I said and pulled the door closed.

“Sharon, that wasn’t at all hospitable,” the blonde chastised.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Chief, I’m a little naked here” was the last thing we heard as the door closed.

a

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

Resigned to making the best of the wedding/OCNA party, Lindsay and Cindy started making the rounds, meeting the other members of their support group. Penis-happy as I was made, even I had to admit what an incredibly tempting group they were.

How hot these women were together! Why would anyone choose not to acknowledge them?

Claire and I made the rounds as well, and that’s when things started to go awry. More so than they had already.

Not long after Lindsay and Cindy split from us, a new couple came in.

“Sorry, we’re late,” the tall blonde said. “Jordan has no sense of timeliness.”

“Actually, I can be perfectly timely,” the tall blonde’s darker-haired partner responded, tipping onto her toes and thrusting her hands into the back pockets of her jeans in a casual manner that seemed to drive the blonde crazy. “Lu here is the one who wanted an orgasm before we left.”

“Oh my God,” the blonde returned. “Do you have no filter at all?”

“Yeah,” the darker-haired woman returned. “I like to keep it in the off position.”

The blonde rolled her eyes and the darker-haired woman seemed particularly proud of herself.

“You’re not late,” Claire assured them. “The party’s just getting started.”

“Oh, cool,” the relaxed dark-haired one said, sliding her arm around the blonde’s waist. “So, which two are you?”

“Which what are we?” I asked in confusion.

“What are your screen names in group?” the blonde asked.

“What?” Claire’s eyes went wide. “No, we’re not… I’m married. Jill’s…” Claire cast her eyes to me, “well taken care of. We’re not um…”

“We’re not an obvious couple nobody acknowledges,” I finished for her, and Claire nodded her agreement.

“Right, of course,” the darker-haired one said, and slid her arm from the blonde’s waist to pull her away by the hand. “Let’s get a drink.”

“You would at least think they would acknowledge it,” the blonde whispered as she was led away.

“Hey,” a voice called before I could explain to the woman that Claire and I were not a couple, obvious, unacknowledged, or otherwise. “Come here a sec.”

Turning to find the woman in the leather jacket, the possessor of the strange seductive aura, standing alongside a striking blonde and beckoning us forward, I moved toward her on automatic, Claire right at my side.

“Yes?”

“I’m Bo,” the woman put her hand out.

I took it and felt a jolt of electricity from fingertips to naughty bits. Suddenly, I wanted to fall into the woman’s arms, build her a house, and dump Denise. Hold up a second, my mind supplied fuzzily, did that mean Denise and I are an OCNA?

“This is Lauren,” the woman said, sliding her hand from mine. “Could you go get us some drinks.”

“Sure,” Claire was the first to respond and started a direct line for the food table.

“No,” the blonde named Lauren reached out to stop Claire’s mission, and turned her eyes to the brunette in leather. “Bo, that is so wrong. You can’t misuse your power like that. We can get our own drinks.”

“But I’m happy to do it,” Claire responded, and I felt a surge of anger break through the haze on Claire’s behalf.

“What power?” I demanded, grabbing Claire to keep her from running off.

“It’s nothing,” Lauren tried to minimize the bizarreness of the situation.

“You weren’t saying that last night,” the dark-haired seductress replied.

“You should go.” The blonde’s words were almost a warning. “She’s hard to resist.”

“What are you saying, Lauren?” Bo turned to the blonde, and Claire was suddenly released from the hold the strange woman had on her, “That you would resist if you could?”

“No,” Lauren replied. “I knew what I was getting into. Dyson is what you really want. I’m more of a consolation prize. But, you’re a succubus and I can’t help wanting you, so I have to take what I can get.”

Turning to Claire, I found her wide eyes already staring at me. ‘Succubus,’ we mouthed in unison.

“It is not like that,” Bo stated emphatically.

“Really?” Lauren tossed back. “Because it often feels that way.”

“Well, is there someone you’d rather be with?”

“I don’t know,” Lauren shrugged, but her face remained pained. “Sometimes I think Kenzi and I would make a cute couple.”

Bo, the succubus, gasped, and I reached out for Claire’s hand, wondering if we might all be sucked into some supernatural portal. She lunged at Lauren, her hands thrusting into the other woman’s hair and pulling her head back just enough to make sure she had her full attention.

“Dyson could never replace you,” Bo said softly, her lips hovering over Lauren’s. “I wouldn’t want him to.”

“Dammit, Bo,” Lauren murmured and, suddenly, they were kissing. Really kissing. Like all out, explicit, never-to-be-seen-on-network-TV tongue dueling.

“We’re just gonna…” I heard Claire start to say, and then, against my will, I was dragged off.

a

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

“How did this happen?” Lindsay continued her interrogation, after we’d explained that we didn’t know any of the people in the room, but that they all received invitations and were all ready to celebrate their marriage.

“I don’t know…” I tried to explain. “It makes no sense. We had almost all of the email addresses we needed, but we had to get a few. So, when you were out interviewing witnesses, we got on her computer.”

“You got on my work computer while I was out?” Lindsay cut in. “Did Tom allow you to do that?”

“Lindsay, please,” Claire stopped her. “We’re trying to work this through.”

“So,” I continued. “While we were there, we forwarded your email lists to my computer. Then, we went upstairs to send out the invitations…”

“But Denise interrupted us,” Claire reminded me. “So, we had to send it fast. Now that I think about it, didn’t we send two different lists from Lindsay’s computer?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Standard contacts and some weird acronym.”

“What was it?” Claire wondered aloud. “CNOA?” She shook her head. “ONAC?”

“OCNA?” Cindy asked, her face suddenly as disbelieving as Lindsay’s.

“That’s it!” Claire said, her face falling as she turned to me. “Oh, you don’t think we accidentally sent the invitations to the wrong list.”

“You sent invitations to our online support group?” Lindsay asked sharply.

“Wait, you’re part of an online support group?” I asked.

“Yes, okay? And it’s none of your business,” Lindsay seethed.

“Come on, Linds,” Cindy said, cooing in a way that made Lindsay soften instantly. “Everybody’s already here. We may as well tell them the truth.”

Looking very much like she didn’t want to, Lindsay finally sighed. “We’re part of a support group, okay? We share virtual space with women like us.”

“Lesbians?”

“You really don’t think we could find other lesbians in San Francisco?” Lindsay returned sharply.

Putting her hand on Lindsay’s arm to calm her hot-headed soon-to-be-wife, Cindy smiled softly. “Not just lesbians. Other women in the same very special circumstances we’re in. You know, OCNA…”

When neither Claire nor I picked up on the inference, Cindy sighed almost as deeply as Lindsay had.

“Obvious couples nobody acknowledges,” Cindy explained.

“Oh, right…” Claire nodded.

“Sorry,” I cut in. “We are so sorry. It was an accident.”

“Well, maybe it’ll be good to meet some of these women. Find out how they deal with the situation,” Lindsay finally warmed up.

“So far,” Claire started slowly. “Two of them made out in the middle of the room, two disappeared behind a closed door, the cat-like woman keeps trying to mount the woman in the wheelchair…”

“And one tried to pick a fight with me,” I felt it imperative to add.

“I don’t think she was trying to pick a fight, Jill,” Claire soothed. “I mean, she was telling the truth. She probably did get an invitation.”

“Still…” I pouted. “She’s so defense-lawyery.”

“So, what do we do now?” Cindy asked, grinning over at Lindsay in a way that put Lindsay right back into happy-mode.

“We celebrate,” Lindsay responded and kissed her.

It was a sweet moment. Everything seemed to be working itself out.

But we would soon discover there is a lot of drama in OCNA.

a

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

Claire and I made it to The Box about thirty minutes before Lindsay and Cindy were supposed to arrive. And, no, the appropriateness of the venue name was not lost on us. We just didn’t realize how appropriate it truly was until we walked in and saw the slew of women loving women – dressed to dazzle – leaning against walls, tables and each other.

Looking to Claire, I could feel the panic setting in.

“Did they double-book?” Claire asked me in a strained voice.

Shrugging helplessly, I looked around at the guests. They were smiling, visually-pleasing, and just as clueless as we were.

One domineering-looking woman with long auburn hair and black-rimmed glasses grabbed the petite blonde next to her and laid a kiss on her that would stop criminals. Holding tight to the pink lapel of the blonde’s jacket, she pulled the blonde off and they disappeared behind a door.

Clearly, they weren’t an inappropriate crowd. Just not the crowd we’d invited.

“Hello, uh… people,” Claire finally spoke. “I’m Claire. I’m not sure what’s going on. We booked this venue for our friends’ wedding party, and we’re not sure what happened.”

“You’re Claire?” a dark-haired woman with a smaller, leather jacket-clad companion stepped forward. “Of Jill and Claire, the party hosts?”

“Yes,” Claire responded in confusion.

“Then you invited us.”

“We didn’t invite you,” I returned, feeling suddenly as if I were standing in a courtroom.

“Yes, you did,” the woman returned. “Come celebrate the wedding of Lindsay and Cindy. We got an invitation.”

“So did we,” a classy redhead  backed the brunette up from her state-of-the-art wheelchair, though she struggled to be heard past the lithe brunette attempting to climb feline-style into her lap.

“We did too,” a woman with a British lilt chimed in.

“Indeed,” the buxom woman beside her added with a sexy Italian accent. “And we traveled a long way to help you celebrate this great love.”

“You don’t have to fake the accent, Sophia. I know you’re not Italian,” the British woman seemed to be reminding her.

“But they didn’t!” the Italian accent gave way to punchy English.

It might have turned into a fight, if the woman who’d spoken first didn’t reach across the space between them and caress the other woman’s cheek. “Please, just be yourself,” she said softly. “I love who you are.”

The fake-Italian lunged at the other woman and planted their lips together, and Claire and I lost the attention of the majority of the room. The brunette with the attitude, though, stood steady, staring me down with a steely glare.

“What’s your name?” I challenged her.

“Alicia Florrick.”

“We don’t even know you,” I argued.

“See,” the smaller brunette purred, rubbing against the combative woman’s side unashamedly. “This is why I told you we needed to get out of town. No one even knows you here. No one cares who your husband is.”

“It is a nice change.” Alicia smiled, but it was directed solely toward the other brunette, and I knew that I’d lost her too.

The only members of the crowd not watching the fake-Italian and real-Brit make out in the middle of the room broke off into their own conversations and groups, as if none of what was said had any impact on their abilities to have a good time.

Claire didn’t seem that upset about it. She actually seemed almost amused. I, however, felt as if I’d just been beaten at trial, and it annoyed me to no end.

“What kind of people show up at a party for people they don’t even know?”

“Free booze? Lady-love? What’s not to like?” a cocky, and second leather-jacket clad, woman responded.

Something about her was inherently mesmerizing to a point that I was almost willing to let her get away with anything. But then the blonde beside her drew her attention, and I was released from the spell.

“This is bad,” Claire stated beside me, and I started to nod in agreement.

Before I could get in the first full bow of my head, though, I heard footsteps and turned in sync with Claire to find our gorgeously-dressed, height-disproportionate friends behind us. Both were smiling, even as they looked up and surveyed their unknown guests.

“Hey,” Cindy said first. “I thought we were just going out for a nice dinner.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t really true,” I returned. “It was more of a surprise party. For all of us, apparently.”

Turning back toward our guests, I gestured to the happy couple. “Hey everyone, this is Lindsay and Cindy.”

The announcement broke through the murmur of the room, and the strangers put on bright smiles. “Surprise!” many of them shouted, now that they knew that this was, in fact, the party couple.

Turning back around, I was met with the slowly fading smiles of two sets of lips, the furrowing of Cindy’s forehead and Lindsay’s one raised eyebrow.

“Who are these people?” Lindsay asked in her low ‘I mean business’ voice.

Aside from Alicia Florrick, whom I yearned to knock down a peg or two, I couldn’t answer her. But, thankfully, Claire spoke up first.

“Surprise,” she exclaimed.

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And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

So, this thing happened.

After Lindsay proposed to Cindy over Christmas when marriage wasn’t so legal here, marriage became legal in New York. And it was a discussion, over martinis of course. Not quite half-drunk, but completely coherent, Lindsay suddenly decided she was tired of waiting and re-proposed to Cindy in the middle of Papa Joe’s.

Cindy thought Lindsay was joking, since she had, after all, been wearing a ring for more than two years, and nothing had changed. Not really. But, since Cindy liked New York and Lindsay was falling more in love with her everyday, Lindsay was adamant about her plan – even dropping to one knee to prove to Cindy that she wasn’t joking. She was ready to marry her, right at that moment, she declared in a very public way, and she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Cindy’s face changed then. When she realized that Lindsay wasn’t joking. Suddenly struggling with both laughter and tears, she managed to hold both back to reply, “You know you won’t be off the hook just because they won’t recognize our marriage here. You marry me, you’re stuck with me for a very long time.”

“I’m counting on it,” Lindsay murmured instantly, and Cindy stopped fighting the tears and the joy. They both burst from her as she toppled forward into Lindsay’s waiting arms.

I looked at Claire. She was wiping away tears. But since she looked blurry, I knew I couldn’t tease her about them.

Anyway, that’s how it all started.

Simply enough.

It was quickly decided that Lindsay and Cindy could get married on a long weekend in New York, Claire and I would be their witnesses, and we could take in a few shows and cocktails while we were there. And shop, of course.

Lindsay and Cindy were ridiculously excited, but they worried about people feeling left out. Claire told them not to let it worry them, but then, behind Lindsay and Cindy’s back, we decided an engagement party was in order. Or a pre-wedding reception. That way, no one (Jacobi) got their feelings hurt about getting left at home, and Lindsay and Cindy wouldn’t have to feel guilty later.

So, Claire and I planned it. Down to the last detail.

Everything was perfect.

Until we got there.

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White men scare very easily. Sorry, white men, but, as a collective unit, you do.

History proves it.

And the fear of white men has never benefitted society. In fact, white men’s fear has been a greater cause of bloodshed and social injustice in this country than any other force.

Does it seem like the US has been on a steady decline since 9/11? Anyone who lives here would have a hard time pretending that it’s been on an upswing. 9/11 was a truly tragic event. It struck fear into the hearts of many. Inside the borders of this country. Beyond the borders.

The world was on edge.

What made 9/11 such an effective hit on the American psyche, though, is that it instilled white men with fear. And, as it always does, that fear immediately began to manifest in ways that affected all of us.

Does this seem like an unfair assessment? After all, I’ve already acknowledged that the world felt the impact of 9/11. What makes white men’s fear so different? Why am I picking on them?

Well, there are two reasons -

1 – White men hold the power in this country. They have always held the power in this country. So, it’s hard to know how the fear of other groups might manifest to worsen the state of the nation, because, historically, no other group has been in a position to change policy based entirely on their own fears.

2 – Other groups in this country live with fear, or have lived through fear, right here within our own borders. We don’t require external threats to know what terrorism feels like. 9/11 reminded white men that danger lives amongst them. Other groups have never forgotten.

There is a reason Native Americans don’t trust the government, a reason black Americans don’t trust cops, and a reason that women don’t trust a group of men walking down the sidewalk toward them, even if those men are dressed in business suits and look like choir boys.

White men used terror to take this country, to keep slaves in line during slavery and ex-slaves in line after, and they have used it on women since the beginning of humanity. Because the word ‘terrorism’ – with its root set firmly in fear – describes an emotion, not an act. We use it to describe, not any random event, but those that cause us true anxiety, those that make us feel under the constant threat of attack. It’s a mentality. And, if terrorism is a mentality, if it’s intention is to make a group feel under perpetual threat, then rape is the most prevalent, widespread form of terrorism in the world.

See, the majority of the US population knows what back-burnered fear feels like. We know what it’s like to look at innocent people with suspicion. It doesn’t take someone getting onto a plane in a turban to set off our alarms. The wrong kind of smile in a hotel hallway will do it. We’ve learned to live with it.

White men have never learned to cope with fear. To some extent, this isn’t their fault. After all, there has never been an overhanging threat to them. To some extent, this is entirely their fault, because, whenever possible, they have eliminated perceived threats before those threats could come to fruition. They have never lived under fear, because they frighten easily and attempt to destroy that which frightens them from the moment it shows any momentum.

When threats – either real or imagined – have broken through the glass ceiling of white male rule to touch the lives of white men, they have quickly retreated to their bunkers, brainstormed plans – ranging from poorly thought-out to horrific – and gone on the offensive.

That’s what happened after 9/11. A true threat made it to American soil. White men discovered that they were not immune to these threats. They got scared. They suspected everyone. They gave themselves access to private citizens’ lives to an extent that they never had before. They went on the offensive, and decided everyone was an enemy.

Then, after seven years of decline in the rights of Americans, in the privacy of citizens, in the world’s respect for this country, and in the nation’s cohesion – at a time during which the cohesion really should have been at its peak – white men got scared again.

Because, for the first time in the history of this country, white men lost the major seat of power.

It didn’t matter that President Obama is half-white. It didn’t matter that white men still held the majority of seats in Congress. The election of Obama challenged the status quo – a status quo that has survived throughout the entirety of this country’s existence. And in challenging that status quo, he challenged white male power and white male supremacy.

After the status quo was challenged, we went from one of the most moderate Republicans to run for office in decades as the Republican presidential candidate in 2008 to navigating the minefield of some of the most right-wing, conservative, anti-minority Republicans in the country through much of last year.

This is fear-based backlash.

The status quo in this country has always favored only one group – white men. Should that status quo fall permanently, it will not hurt white men. White men will not fall with it. The rest of us, however, will rise up. We will gain ground. Our positions will improve. Our lives will improve.

The achievements of other groups do not threaten white men, but, as with other false fears of the past, they perceive our advancements as threat. They have become so accustomed to their own power, they fear what will happen should that power slip away.

Equality doesn’t threaten them. But it feels like a threat. When you are standing as the victor on the top podium and the two podiums at either side of you are raised up to the same level, you haven’t lost anything. From that point of view, it just looks that way.

Although no one is threatening white men, the fact that they feel threatened is becoming increasingly clear with each passing day, each bit of rhetoric and each unprovoked attack.

Here are seven signs that white men are scared.

7 – They are exerting their authority.

I’d like to take just a moment here to apologize to women in general. Because what’s happening to you right now – the current legislation attempting to control your rights and your bodies – it may be our fault.

In just a short time, a lot of minorities have gained a lot of ground. White men haven’t been able to stop it. So, they’ve turned their attention to you. It’s a trickle down effect. Things are getting out of their control, and, before you go asking for more rights – like equal pay or the right to walk safely from class to your dorm room – white men need to go ahead and cut you off at the pass. They need to remind you that they have authority over your bodies. They need to remind you that you should be expecting rape.

These are threats. But they are not really against you. And they are threatening nothing new. It’s simply a last-ditch attempt to keep any group that they can down. While they still have the power to do so.

Did you know that, when the federal government stepped in and made interracial marriage legal in 1967, a majority of Americans opposed it? Did you know those Americans used the Bible and many of the same arguments they are using against gay marriage right now to justify this belief? Did you know that, right now, at this moment, a majority of Americans are in favor of same-sex marriage?

White men know it’s only a matter of time. And as equality grows, supremacy dies. They are exerting their authority over you, straight women, because it’s been largely calm waters with you lately. You haven’t really been causing major recent stirs.

Until now.

Honestly, they probably thought you’d be more passive about it.

6 – They are making preemptive strikes.

Early white leaders intentionally infected Native Americans with smallpox. Those who lived, they herded onto reservations.

At the end of slavery, white men lynched first and asked questions later.

During World War II, white men rounded up Japanese-Americans and interned them. Then, after 9/11, they made the rounds again on a smaller scale, rounding up those of Middle Eastern descent.

Historically, white men have made preemptive strikes when they’ve felt threatened. They have murdered without conscience, and they have always been able to come up with a slew of negative consequences to societal advances.

Women’s rights would destroy family. Desegregation and interracial marriage would corrupt society.

Now, it’s gay marriage that will destroy family and corrupt society. It’s fear-mongering. That’s all it ever is.

5 – They are name-calling.

Slut. Bitch. Prostitute. Feminist as an insult.

Sometimes, it’s not a name, but a label.

Immoral. Ungodly. Gay.

Or, rather, not gay.

Tennessee’s ‘Don’t Say Gay’ law is perhaps the strongest form of name-calling that white men have ever used. The subtext here is, “If you are gay, you are something so bad that it shouldn’t even be spoken.”

Forcing a word underground is an attempt to force a people underground.

That’s why Rush Limbaugh dubbed Sandra Fluke a slut and a prostitute. Because those words already have negative connotations. We put negative labels on people to weaken their side, while labeling ourselves positively in an attempt to strengthen our own.

And scared white men always return to the middle school playground.

4 – They are creating alliances.

There’s nothing wrong with companionship and common goals, but, too often in the past, it’s been a bad thing when white men have formed new groups.

The KKK are a group of white men. So are the neo-Nazis. So, by and large, is the Tea Party.

3 – They are attempting to legislate their own superiority.

One reason that white men have been so successful at maintaining their iron grip on power in this country is that the government and law enforcement – run by other white men – have been on their side. During past power struggles in this country – when they have felt threatened by the equality of others – white men have done terrible things. They have lied, cheated, stolen and killed. Without retribution.

They have also used the arenas in which they hold power to legislate their own superiority. They have attempted to use their power in these arenas to block the advancement of others. Often, they try to legislate the stoppage or roll-back of time.

Today, they want to legislate women back into a position of subservience by blocking access to information, resources and healthcare. They want to legislate gays back into the closet by taking preemptive strikes against their rights and even the word itself.

2 – They are patting themselves on the back.

From the earliest days of the United States, white men have found ways to justify their bad deeds. The American concept of ‘Manifest Destiny’ proves that this nation’s Founding Fathers came to its shores with a firm belief in their own entitlement. This land was theirs for the taking, and a few dead Indians and Mexicans along the way was their God-given right.

Now, white men are lining up behind talking heads, like Newt Gingrich, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Santorum. They follow men who tell them what they want to hear – that they are superior to everyone else, which makes fighting against every other groups’ rights their true purpose.

They say things like the suicides of gay teenagers are due to bad parenting. They send their own bullying children to school to pick on everyone who doesn’t meet the status quo. They congratulate themselves for raising good white men.

1 – They are casting themselves as the victims.

White Christian men attack gays. When gays respond, white Christian men say Christianity is under attack.

White men attack women. When women respond, they say “Feminists hate men and…”

White heterosexual men compare homosexuality to bestiality and pedophilia. When gays respond, these “family men” proclaim their own marriages are under attack.

White men oppress black people for nearly a hundred years, limiting their abilities to thrive in the world. When a workplace ruling goes in the favor of the minority, giving them an opportunity to actually catch up, white men think they are being discriminated against.

White men have a bad habit of picking fights and oppressing people, and then declaring themselves victims when that oppression starts to lift.

But white men are not the victims. They never have been. They never will be. Though, I trust that’s what they fear.

Perhaps, if they hadn’t sufficiently legislated themselves the power, wealth and resources in this country to a point that they won’t be relinquishing power any time soon, their fear would be justified.

After all, if – when entrusted with the lives and well-being of others through your own actions – you show your wards to a safe room, give them a comfortable bed to sleep on, provide for them to the best of your ability, and treat them with respect, you needn’t be afraid when you open the door.

If you, however, throw your wards in cells, give them nothing but floor on which to sleep, starve them, beat them, berate them, humiliate them, threaten them and make them work for you just to survive you, I’m certain you live in fear of them one day getting free.

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Also, hatred sucks, love is power, our president has done us proud, and there are now two baby birds nesting in the gutter outside my window.

I was asked the other day what I’m working on now, which was almost psychic, because I had already created this very post to post, though I hadn’t gotten it posted yet. Because I’m oddly excited about some of my current projects, though some of them are just rewrites and most will spend their entire lives on my flash drive, wondering why they never got their chance.

“I coulda been a contender.”
Could’ve been a contender

Here are seven projects I’ve been working on -

7 – Choosing a Place to Live

We’re moving again. Because that’s what we do. Because we don’t particularly like anywhere. Well, anywhere that the air won’t kill me, that is. But we especially don’t like here. So, we’re outtie.

Where to?

Why, straight to “no gay marriage” North Carolina, that’s where.

And, no, I’m not kidding. We’re headin’ on over to Raleigh to show how gay we can be. (I’m considering asking Shawna for an open relationship for the express purpose of asking people if they voted “for” and then sleeping with their wives.) I’m not happy with the results of yesterday, of course. It hurts to see just how much hatred and bigotry thrives in this country. But it hardly sets North Carolina apart. We are living in Texas, home of mega-churches and some of the biggest bigoted idiots to ever run for the highest office in the land, lived in “don’t say gay” Tennessee for several sporadic years, and were even living in California when Prop 8 passed. As far as anti-gay sentiment goes, we have first-hand experience that it’s widespread. Only the cities are havens, and not always. And hopefully we’ll like Raleigh. At any rate, it gets us closer to things we like. We were seriously underestimating how much we were going to hate living in the middle of the country.

We did get to see San Antonio and New Orleans, though.

6 – Short Idea

I have a lot of ideas for short films. Most of those ideas have a very specific audience or costly premises. This one I like a lot about a badass chic crash-landing in a small, dusty western town would blow your mind. But it’s a long, expensive shoot in the making. The other day though, randomly, as I washed my hands in a Starbucks sink, I had a sudden brain jolt. I came up with a truly universal short idea that doesn’t have to be expensive and is ripe for celebrity cameos. If it’s in the cards to film it this year, that would be tight.

5 - Best Women

Written last year for the Fox Comedy Script Contest, to which I submitted my sitcom pilot script Our Parents… the Haters instead, I have given my Best Women sitcom pilot script – adapted from my Best Women movie script – a pretty kickass rewrite and submitted it to the Fox Comedy Script Contest for this year. Perhaps, this year, the world is ready for committed lesbians with a squirt gun.

4 -  A Special Gift from Gram V

When it comes to complexity of plot and execution, I have written two screenplays that I feel lead the pack of the forty or so odd scripts I’ve written over the past decade-and-a-half. Gram V is one of them.  More than once, it’s been compared to Love, Actually, which I take as a major compliment. The movie is, as you’ve likely guessed, holiday-themed. And it’s uplifting. It received a decent rewrite, not so substantial as to have changed anything, but substantial enough that it worked out a few kinks where I used to get hung up while reading it. Now, it’s submitted to the Nicholl Fellowship and the Page Awards.

3 – Portland Shanghai

Along with A Special Gift from Gram V, one of my most complex scripts – though perhaps a tad more so than Gram V – Portland Shanghai isn’t my favorite movie I’ve written in terms of plot, but it is hands down my favorite in terms of writing. Not my usual fare, the script is based on the shanghaiing practice rampant in Portland, Oregon – and other port cities – in the late 1800s. It’s been submitted before, it’s gotten a rewrite for this year, but it’s largely the same scenes and same set-up. What makes me proud of this script is the way that it ramps up in intensity. I feel like it comes through on the page. Submitted to the Nicholl Fellowship and the Page Awards.

2 – Paradise Found

An idea I’ve been playing with for a couple of years, without actually getting it written, Paradise Found has finally been put to paper (or, more accurately, screen) as an hour-long drama pilot. It’s spiritually and supernaturally-minded, offers a picturesque location, and one of my favorite leading characters I’ve ever written. I don’t know how it will do, bit it’s submitted to the Scriptapalooza TV competition.

1 – Dr. Feelgood

A screenplay that has been largely written and waiting for – wait for it – the LAST SCENE for about a year and a half, Dr. Feelgood finally got that scene and a solid rewrite and finally moved from my “Movies Working On” to “Completed Movies” folder. It’s a romantic comedy with – GASP! – straight leads, and, amazingly enough, it turned out exactly how I wanted. Rare, to say the least.

The thing about Dr. Feelgood is that, while it’s definitely a romantic comedy at its core, it also has a strong message about physical beauty and the damage caused by societal expectations. And anyone who has ever attempted a message movie can tell you that it can be difficult to get your point across without getting heavy-handed. Just ask the writers of Happy Feet.

So, that’s what I’ve been working on. And working on. And working on.

It may be a whole lotta work for nothing. But no one can say I’m not trying.

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