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On the surface she led a quiet and conventional life, at least conventional for a woman in the 1980s. Adding that qualifier meant that her mother disapproved, and that qualifier had been added to more than a few things in her life!
She was divorced, had just turned thirty-six, and shared her suburban townhouse with two cats, Cassidy (frequently called “Mama Cass”) and Jasper, an undemanding, affectionate gray tom. A sedate dark green Honda Accord sat in the two-stall garage, recently paid off after three years of payments. Her closet was full of conservative sweaters, blouses, and skirts, emphasizing her role as a serious-minded, gainfully-employed professional. She was still a practicing Catholic – earning her mother’s approval for at least one thing! – and attended mass on most Sundays. Her freezer contained a carton of single-serving cheese pizzas for a quick-to-grab lunch or supper for those remaining Fridays during the current Lenten season. Until a couple of months ago, she had been a member of a Catholic Singles group which met on Wednesday evenings. The topic of annulment came up frequently at these functions, the only way a divorced Catholic could marry again and remain in good standing with the Church. Unless, of course, the ex-spouse had died. Hers hadn’t, the last she had heard. But, then again, she hadn’t spoken to the man in better than five years.
Peggy eased herself from underneath the covers and padded softly to the bathroom. She could sleep in a little this morning since she was not required to be at the clinic until 11:00. Unfortunately, her bladder didn’t like to sleep in much past 6:00! Jasper silently jumped off the bed and trotted behind her into the bathroom, knowing that enough weaving between her feet and meowing would probably secure his breakfast before his human companion returned to bed.
This had been part of her unchanging routine for a number of years. She facilitated a group therapy session every Tuesday evening and had for most of her years as a nurse-psychotherapist at Franklin Behavioral Health Center. She was almost never home before 10:00 on those evenings, and a later start on Wednesday was compensation for the late night before.
She made a quick trip to the kitchen to pour a cupful of kibble into Jasper’s empty bowl (the one with Psycho Kitty printed on the side, although it had been purchased with “Mama Cass” in mind) and then returned to the bedroom.
”‘Morning, love,” Randy murmured, reaching out to her as she slid in beside him.
It was still dark, wouldn’t be full light outside for almost another two hours, and the house was cool. The bed was comforting with the warmth of his body next to hers. She molded herself against him as he drew her close, pressing her buttocks into that perfect “chair” made by his hips and slightly-flexed thighs as they spooned on their sides. He tightened his embrace as she settled in, and she felt him begin to swell and lengthen, the growing firmness nuzzling her backside. She knew that this Wednesday morning would begin as so many had in the past: drowsy cuddling and whispers, warm fondling and caresses, his expert knowledge of her body bringing her to several effortless climaxes before he finally allowed his own.
All so conventional. All so routine.
But just on the surface.
Her mother didn’t know about Randy in spite of their longstanding relationship, and perhaps never would. Her pastor had been introduced to him as a “friend” after an Ash Wednesday mass several years earlier, a morning service that they had attended together before departing in separate cars to drive to the same office building to begin their workday. Randy, in fact, had co-facilitated that Tuesday evening therapy group with her for quite some time, and they functioned well as a team, consulting on cases with each other and acting as co-therapists in family counseling sessions. Their mutual coworkers realized that they shared a warm friendship, but given the nature of their jobs, that was hardly a surprise. It was not fodder for clinic gossip, and they were not considered a couple in the personal sense, just a well-tuned and sensitive professional team.
Mainly because Randy was gay. Openly gay. Out and proud! as the saying went.
She had encouraged his honesty when he came to work for the clinic as a young man with the ink still wet on his Master’s thesis. She respected him for his courage, his intelligence, his insight. Everyone there had accepted and liked him.
Likewise, he had supported her when she made the decision at about that same time to end her nine-year marriage. That had been a very tough time, and he had been there for her, with a joke, a funny card tucked in her desk drawer, pieces of her favorite candy planted in her coat pockets. Sometimes it was just his caring silence and the warmth of his hand in hers that comforted her. Unlike so many of her friends, he wasn’t afraid to just shut up and be with her!
He was different from the other guys she knew. He was different from the other friends she had. A part of her had attributed this difference, this breath of fresh air, to his gayness. She had never felt so open, so honest, so completely herself as she did when they were debating an issue, winding down after a late Tuesday night group over a chili-burger and a beer at Hinkel’s Grill, or improvising an upbeat piano duet at a coworker’s holiday party.
A gay man had become her closest friend. It was as simple as that.
Or was it?
(Continued here but password-protected to prevent sensitive individuals from unwanted exposure to adult situations, nudity, and frank descriptions of sexuality.)
Tucson Sunset 2-11-09
Skyhigh Saguaro
Created by Disney?
Unique Saguaro
On May 9, 2008, a reader of this blog introduced herself. I began to read her blog and she remained a consistent reader of mine. We became friends since miles do not matter when one is using the internet to communicate. She asked if I’d want to consider getting away from a cold, Minnesota winter and come to visit her in Tucson sometime. Well, I decided that sooner was better than later and took her up on her offer this winter. I flew out to Tucson on the morning of February 11 and returned on Monday of this week. (A day later… but that’s another story!)
The Tucson Symphony Friday evening was delightful. Watching the sunset from “A Mountain” overlooking Tucson was inspiring. Magpie’s Gourmet Pizza was just about the best pizza I’ve ever had and deserves “The Best Pizza in Tucson” award it has gotten for 19 years in a row. I enjoyed authentic Mexican food, my friend’s cats, and eating chocolate cake while watching riftgirl videos on YouTube. I met new friends, gazed at a starlit Sonoran sky, and received a personal guided tour of both the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum and the Amity Circle Tree Ranch by friends employed by each of these organizations.
But what I enjoyed most was the uninhibited joy of being accepted and loved for the unconventional, liberal woman I am. Those four days were the boost my soul needed.
In my day to day life here in the BiCities, I’m… well, my real name isn’t Kinsey. I’m in my early 50s, married for 35 years and happily so, and am professionally employed in a scientific, intellectually challenging field. I work with a bunch of other married ladies in a field comprised of at least 75% women, and they all know me as that coworker who has been married since forever, and they don’t know anything else about my personal life.
I leave it at that because bisexuality and polyfidelity are too complicated for most people to understand. In day to day interaction with people I work with, I don’t say, “Yes, I’m married, but I’ve also had female lovers throughout the years of my marriage, and I’d really, really like to have a long-term, intimate relationship with a woman.” No, no, I don’t go there, understandably! I’m out to two gay coworkers who know I’m far from straight and narrow, and that’s as far as that sharing of my personal life goes.
Other than those two gay coworkers, though, I’m just a conventional married woman to everyone else.
That IS part of me. The married part, the part that finds men attractive (well, okay, an occasional one now and then!), the part of me who has been in a long-term heterosexual relationship for most of my life now is a valid and recognized component of who I am. I’m not playing a role. I’m not cleverly disguised as someone I’m not. I’ve found fulfillment and pleasure in my marriage and I will continue to do so.
However, I am so very attracted to women as well. I love my friendships with them. I derive energy and emotional fulfillment from their laughter, their beauty, their gentleness and wise insights into the world, their valuing of relationships. I take strength from their resiliency. Physical intimacy with a woman takes me to places of exquisite joy. All of this is an important and vital part of me, intricately linked within the tapestry of who I am.
Can I bring this out for the world to see in the course of my daily life? Not too often! Perhaps if I’m out for an evening on the town with a LGBT friend. Then, certainly. If I’m at a meeting or a conference pertaining to a GLBT topic, then of course. If I’m at our Pride event in June, I’m OUT. Day to day, though, with people I work with, with straight friends who know only what I’ve told them, with family… no, not OUT so much. I’m that married woman, presumably straight.
But then there are these interludes: Pride, the BECAUSE Conference, a vacation away with GLBT friends and their allies; hell, a trip away to stay with my lesbian cousin in Pennsylvania! All these things bring out a sense of well-being, if not downright euphoria, because it’s acknowledging and embracing the part of me that doesn’t get much recognition and acceptance. It’s a bringing together of the pieces, a unifying of the whole. Exilarating?
Ya, you betcha.
Much love to my Tucson friends. Don’t forget about me now, you hear?
I had my first sexual relationship with a girl who was my high school best friend. We were best friends during 9th grade and until the very end of 10th grade. In May at the end of that sophomore year in high school, we made love for the first time, nervous about what it potentially labeled us but reveling in the pleasure nonetheless.
Early in our senior year of high school, after I had been engaged for several months, she wrote me a letter, written on stationery that I had given her as a gift. (Yes, it was somewhat of a gag gift. She had constipation problems, and I found this stationery at Spencer Gifts with a box of Ex-Lax printed on the header.) I remember that it began, “I love you. It is as simple and as complicated as that.” It went on to say, “I know that my life is meant to be with you, but if I can’t be with you, then I will marry Steve…”
The truth? Steve aside and Dave aside, we could not have made it together as a couple. We were both from heavily dysfunctional families. I was trying to keep my head above water and later earned myself the title “survivor.” She was going under for the third time, very depressed, periodically suicidal, turning to marijuana, alcohol and street drugs as self-medication, and refusing any encouragement to seek professional counseling. I would not have lasted long in such an intimate relationship. That’s the bottom line and the truth when people ask, “What happened to that high school girlfriend you speak of?”
I still do think of her from time to time, even though 35 years has passed since the last I saw her. Every now and then, something will trigger a memory. For me, it often is music. I was playing some CDs this evening after Dave went to bed, the headphones clamped on and the volume up. I selected some compilations that had hits from the 60s and 70s on them. One of Jayne’s favorite songs was “Cherry Hill Park” by Billy Joe Royal, and I remember being up in her bedroom one evening, pleasuring each other, while the phonograph played this 45 over and over again.
“Oh, Mary Hill sure was fun down in Cherry Hill Park.
Playing games with everyone ’til way after dark…”
I hope you’re okay, babe, and I really do wish that things could have been different.
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