Writings

I knew I was different from the start. Boys were no problem for me. The world told me I would inevitably meet one, marry, have his children. On some level that bothered me--weren't they going to be my children, too?--but once I was in high school and got to feel the warm embraces and sweet kisses of boys, well, young men, really, I figured I could deal with whatever I had to. Then things became really fucked up. Met Donna. Heart stopped. Rumor had it that she was a lesbian. Everyone said that was a sick and dirty thing to be, but I secretly thought it was cool, that Donna was cool. And when, in our junior year--a really tough year of adolescence for me--she signed my yearbook, she touched my heart. She wrote, "You seem like you're paddling on a raging river riding a raft of bamboo. Know that I love you." My mother, having heard the rumors, had the willies. But I was smitten.

Of course, Donna never knew. And she may have suspected that I was "family," and maybe even that I had a hellacious crush on her, but I never, ever told her. I was too scared. Too many of my friends--even my senior-year boyfriend, with whom I'd considered going all the way--were confiding to me that they were gay. And I was too busy consoling myself in the smoldering, but ultimately meaningless embraces of ardent young men.

I finally gave in to one, a beautiful, androgynous free spirit who teased and tormented me, and eventually took me to tremendous heights. They say the first time--I was 23--is supposed to be awful, but this was heaven. I was in love. He loved me too, but he loved his freedom more. There were others, but none like this one. Until Jamie. I actually married him, but right after the ceremony, he was killed by a drunk driver. So it goes. And then came Steve, an exercise in massive consolation. All wrong.

But then everything changed. I met a woman, a delightful pixieish woman, while acting in a theater company in New York. Gisele. Even her name sounds like love to me. We sensed a kinship immediately upon meeting. We shared a subway one night, and she whispered to me that she thought I was hot. She told me she was bisexual. God only knows where this came from, but I chimed in, "Really? Me too." And knew I was being completely honest--for the first time in my life, even to myself--when the words tumbled from my lips.

We hung out quite a bit after that, flirting in rehearsals, stealing glances around street corners. One day we ended up walking around South Street Seaport and held hands. I was so gone. We ended up in her apartment one day--she lived right off of Prospect Park. Gisele regaled me stories of her wild past, her long list of boyfriends--including one who was apparently very special to her--and the girls she'd loved. All I wanted was to feel her lips on mine, so I kissed her. She responded eagerly, but moved away after a bit, saying we should wait. The lady protested too much. We made love like thunder shortly thereafter, gale force winds dancing a passionate pas de deux in her tiny bed. My first time with a woman... it was like taking that first breath of life-giving air. Sex with men had been okay, with one man phenomenal even, but this intimacy with Gisele made me feel alive. It was what I needed and where I needed to be. She was where I needed to be.

Unfortunately, for me anyway, she needed her old boyfriend, the special one. Maybe the force of our passion frightened her; I don't know and never asked. But after a while, she walked away from our affair and into the arms of that man. They married; I heard they have four kids. It was what was expected of her. I miss her to this day and dearly hope she is happy.

I was distraught, but soon lost myself in the consolation of a yet another beautiful, androgynous man. We never had sex--which I still regret to this day--but everything else was romantic and fiery. Of course, that was until I realized that he had a lover. And his lover was a man.

I wound up pregnant. Not long after, I was married and the mother of two. The kids are gifts from heaven, but the marriage was a huge mistake. I knew it almost from day one. He knew it years later when I moaned the name of a woman I had a crush on when he was making love to me. Yes, our marital relations had gotten to the point where I had to imagine other lovers in order to even fake interest--and the people I imagined were all women, women I knew, women I wanted, women I craved, women I could not have.

My husband did not react well. Ours was always a bad relationship. He was emotionally abusive. He hit me once during our first year of marriage--it was during his sleep, and he apologized profusely, but his rage, which flared white-hot and without warning, frightened me. Though he never hit me again, he attacked property and made me believe that he could hurt me at any moment. I still believe he could. After the moaning incident, things became dangerous--I wanted to die. My self-esteem was gone. I contemplated killing myself. He told me constantly that I was a bad wife, a bad mother, a bad person. I was worthless, a loser, the albatross around his neck. Later he would apologize, but the words never left my mind. And the next time I screwed up in his eyes, those words would fall from his sneering mouth again. I went into therapy and joined a new church--he harassed me until I saw no way of surviving unless I left them. He began stalking me around the house--I had to lock myself in the bedroom to protect myself and one night even called the police for help. Ultimately I won a protection order--soon I'll have a divorce. And maybe then, I'll have a measure of peace.

Throughout this hellish experience, however, one measure of peace has been found. After years of trying to figure out what the fuck I am, it occurred to me. I am me--a mom, a writer, a lover of music and beauty and love. My primary relational desire is to be with a woman. Although right now, my love is a man--go figure. He's also largely unavailable and lives four thousand miles away, but we've stolen a few incredible kisses and shared some intimate though nonsexual moments. I miss him dearly, but hope to see him within the next few weeks.

Still, my feeling for this extraordinary individual aside, it doesn't change who I've realized I am: a lesbian-identified femme dyke Kinsey 5. If the man is incredible--and there are damn few of those--I'll go to a Kinsey 4.5. Chances are, if I end up with anyone, it will be a woman, and it will be glorious. But if this man becomes available, I'll make an exception... And not because he's male--if anything, that's a strike against him. No, it's because of the person he is. And the person I am judges by the quality of the individual, not by the gender. Do I sound confused, like a crazy mixed-up dyke? Really, I'm not--I'm just open-minded. And isn't that the beauty of being open to the fluidity of sexuality?

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