I married a man I thought I would be with forever. He was nice to me. He worked hard. I believe he was faithful. We had mutual friends. He rubbed my feet, was well endowed, and was a generous lover. He was nice to his mother. He was handsome and intelligent, educated, and street smart.
But he was a stranger to emotions outside of love and hate. He thought working harder could solve our issues. He thought money defined his identity as a man. I believe he became resentful of my education and success. We stopped talking. We stopped supporting each other. We stopped making love. We stopped sharing space and ideas. We distrusted each other. We turned to other people for our emotional stability. At least, I did.
I went on a much-needed vacation with a few of my best girlfriends. Toward the end of the trip, one of my girlfriends began flirting with me. This was a friend I was very close to, felt safe with, and who was aware of some of the marital issues my husband and I were experiencing. She was extremely attractive. Initially, I didn’t know how to interpret her attention, because this was the first time our platonic friendship boundary had been challenged. Steamy texts and the thrilling threat of being caught made the idea irresistible.
Before I seriously entertained the idea of opening myself up to her, I examined myself. How would I know if this was right? How did I feel about carrying on with a woman in this way? What would my friends and family say? What was my opinion of the gay world? Would this be just a fling and then we would go back to being platonic friends? How did I feel about cheating, if I considered this cheating? Would I be able to look myself in the mirror? Would this change my spiritual views? My answer was simple: Listen to your body.
I challenged myself: if you’re really this free-loving, liberal, and conscious person, open yourself up to receiving this experience. After she put her hand on my thigh, my body and soul electrified somewhere around the back of my neck. A prisoner of the flesh I may be, but it felt like no other touch I had ever experienced before. And it was just a touch! This moment could have been attributed to the thrill of seduction, the bad girl concept, or even a seed planted during a pornographic movie. It could have been subliminal media and video messages, or plain old curiosity. Either way, I consciously and willingly surrendered to it. I took my marriage vows very seriously, but I had always felt that honoring the Universe and its potential were important too. I knew, in that one instant, my life and views had changed.
My life had not changed so dramatically because I had cheated, but because I was privy to new facets of my sexuality and emotions. I felt lucky, like I was being included in a secret that had been hidden in plain view. Colors seemed to blink neon. I swore I could hear in new ranges. My creativity shot though the roof. Instead of seeing women, I noticed them now. I noticed their walks. I could read their confidence. I valued them more, family members included. I had understood intimacy as a concept, but I could count the number of times I experienced it up to this point. I now knew intimacy had layers, and sex wasn’t the prerequisite or the climax. Intimacy could be expressed as sitting at a table, lying in the bed, cooking, watching a movie together, or a special supportive touch. It could be a tone understood in a conversation, a compromise, a special trinket, or a simple text. It could be taking a bath, caring for each other’s pets, or confiding a secret. I couldn’t go back to acting as if seeing the basic colors was the most I deserved in life. I was adding new dimensions to my life, and I wanted to honor the place these new emotions stemmed from, without losing my husband—or myself—in the process. That didn’t mean I could.
My husband and I struggled to make love well before she laid her hand on my thigh. I felt lost in my marriage well before she made me feel at home in her house. My husband and I lived separate lives well before she supported me through literary and emotional endeavors. He and I separated emotionally well before I moved out physically. I lost my happiness well before the Prozac. I would hate to admit she fulfilled the emotional gap he could not, but she satisfied a place in me no one even knew existed before. She became an emotional and physical refuge. She was a safe place to fall. I struggled knowing that I had vowed to make my husband that safe place, but I no longer felt I could be vulnerable enough with him to do anything other than stand up straight.
It was stressful to feel cut off from my husband while I remained vulnerable with a woman. I became resentful that he wasn’t her. I became jealous that she was out and had freedom. In trying to please them both, I lost myself. Becoming comfortable with deceiving my husband changed me at my core. During the end of my marriage, I became a liar and a cheat. I am not proud of that. I learned to disguise my shame and guilt with him. I was never, ever able to let down my guard completely with her. I was always aware of my surroundings and who could see me. I wanted to be as comfortable with her as she was with me, but the truth is, I was scared to death. I felt transparent. I tried to cover my tracks. I wanted to be true to the moments with her, yet I was scared of situations that could get back to my husband before I could explain. I wasn’t ready to confront the consequences of my actions yet. I couldn’t return affection as naturally as she could. I made excuses to him about why I was late. I pushed limits with both. I became mean, stressed out, irrational, needy, immature, and depressed. I pride myself on being true to myself, and I put myself in a situation where I couldn’t be true to anyone.
Losing my freedom to explore who I was becoming was detrimental to my health. I wasn’t comfortable living life in the shadows. My obligation to my marriage and fear of hurting my husband were strangling my soul.
One thing is clear. I didn’t leave him for her. I left him for my sanity. Yes, I continued to explore myself with her, but these two things happened concurrently, not sequentially.
I knew I had shifted from being a straight girl. Where along the continuum I landed, I wasn’t sure yet. There was no confusion about what I liked about her. One of the things I enjoyed was her body. I liked her hips, thick thighs, breasts, and softness. Men generally weren’t built like that. I considered lifestyle as part of being a lesbian, and since I was still married and living with my husband, I didn’t consider myself a lesbian; although I was clearly doing lesbian things and attending lesbian-inspired events. Did I consider myself bisexual? If I had to pin down a label, I guess so. I think “open” is more accurate. I enjoyed having a physical outlet with her that wasn’t male-centered. Her time and mine weren’t measured by orgasm. We both enjoyed being women. No one was trying to be the man. As I mentioned, my husband was a generous lover, but things were just different with her. I wasn’t confused by both experiences; I was stressed out by the lack of freedom to express them both.
After a lengthy and dramatic fallout, my friend and I are still in each other’s lives; in fact, we are best friends. We scraped and clawed our way back to each other and we are proud of what we have reestablished. We created comfortable boundaries and we see each other often and talk many times a day. I have moments of confusion when I look at her romantically, but those pop-ups are few and far between. The depth and satisfaction of our current friendship is worth more than any fling we could have that might threaten it. I still feel a different kind of intimacy with her than I do with my other friends. My other friends and I are very close, intimate, and affectionate, but I have never crossed the romantic line with any of them.
On the outside, not much changed. I didn’t make any drastic physical changes. I locked my hair, but I had been working toward that for years. I was still most comfortable in sweats, jeans, and T-shirts. I was no stranger to heels and a short skirt either. Strappy heels and new wedges still excited me just as new tennis shoes did. I looked forward to the latest makeup colors. I coordinated my purses with my mood. I wore makeup as needed and rarely went without lipstick and earrings.
Inside, a part of me still wavered about whether my changing sexuality was sparked because of who she was, as my friend, or because she was a woman. I do still desire women and I am open to them romantically. I am just as choosy with wome
n as I am with men. The integrity of whom I choose to date is still just as high. If there’s no chemistry, there’s no match. And if I’m not treated well, they won’t last long. Dissecting the dynamics of my sexual spark has become less important to me over time. I am comfortable with where I am now.
An opportunity presented itself recently for me to open up to my friend Dianne about dating women. Up to this point, she had said that people needed to mind their own business when it came to other people’s love interests. She didn’t believe in judging gays or lesbians, although it wasn’t her preference and she didn’t understand it. I felt safe and the timing seemed appropriate. I wanted her to know that my choices weren’t a reflection of her. I hadn’t planned to, but I felt I needed to honor the moment. I took a deep breath. I was so nervous. My voice was shaking—and then I did it.
I told her I had started dating women since my separation from my husband. In the moment, she asked a few questions, and generally seemed to accept it. She said she wasn’t too surprised because of how often she’d seen my “friend” and me together. She commented that it wasn’t that far of a stretch for me, because I hadn’t ever really been very mainstream. She said that I was a good person, with many accomplishments, and that she didn’t love me any less. Those comments made me feel accepted, and I felt emotionally lighter knowing I had been honest.
A few hours later, it seemed her opinion changed. She wanted to know why it was such a big secret, and thought I could be emotionally unsettled—since I had much going on. I said that there wasn’t much to tell up to that point. I confided that I was afraid of disappointing her, and that was why I hadn’t said anything until then. I was fearful of her rejection and judgment. I don’t fear many people’s opinions, but honestly, I valued hers.
Later, I felt like a fool for bragging that I came out and that she was so cool about it. I didn’t know if she was initially only saying what she thought I wanted to hear or if this new opinion was the reflection of a conversation with a third party. This person had always been the kind who was up-front, so I was truly baffled and devastated at the change of heart. I realize I must honor other people’s process, but I was still shocked and hurt.
After I told her, we didn’t talk for three weeks. Normally, we connect at least once a week. During this time apart, I felt rejected and sad. A few days ago, we were able to smoothly resume some normal activity. I am thankful for this little bit of progress and feel we haven’t missed much of a beat. Her reaction opened my eyes, though. I had planned to tell other people because I didn’t see it as a big deal. I would hate for them to hear rumors from someone else and not feel free to speak with me about it. I am not ashamed of my choice to date women, but after this reaction, I decided that whom I had an intimate relationship with was nobody’s business. I wasn’t getting married to anybody anytime soon, and it was my private choice. However, if an opportunity presents itself with someone else, I will most definitely honor it.
I am still open to dating men, but I am more excited about dating women. There may be men out there with all of the emotional nuances that are quite comparable to the characteristics I like in a woman. If I find one, then maybe I’ll keep him. Until then, I’m open to what comes my way.
I opened up about my experiences to free myself and partly in defiance of the stereotypical myths. I am including women in my private life not because I was molested, am a man-hater, didn’t have my dad in my life, secretly wanted to be a man, was promiscuous, was confused, was raped, loved rainbows, didn’t receive enough hugs, am a feminist, had short hair, coached, preferred pants over skirts, liked sports, didn’t attend enough church, am running out of options, don’t have children, or because I am now over thirty-five. I welcome women now because my horizons have expanded. Women are beautiful. I listen to my spirit.
Memoirs of a Wanton Prude
Sheila Smith
Laughter, feasting, talking until midnight. I invited guests from my Unitarian Universalist congregation, my writing group, my dog club, my neighborhood, and my family to my seventieth birthday bash. My new love threw the party for me. Nothing unusual except at age sixty-nine, I’d fallen in love with a woman.
Sick! Immoral! Perverted! That’s what the psychiatric and religious authorities proclaimed homosexuals to be back when I was a teenager in the McCarthy years. Gays and lesbians were persecuted along with Communists and considered just as subversive. Since homosexuality was outside the range of my experience, I absorbed the experts’ attitudes. I expected to live a conventional life of marriage and children. Having a career outside the home was the most radical thing I could envision for myself.
Mother taught me that women need men to survive. That seemed logical. In those days, no one questioned women being paid less than men for the same job. It was perfectly legal to ban unescorted women from bars and restaurants. Personally, I wanted to be able to live well and have access to public accommodations.
My journey away from the prevailing ’50s views began at a girls’ high school. I fell in love with biology and I adored my female biology teacher. I hung around the lab looking for opportunities to wash glassware. One day I was railing to her about Mother’s efforts to turn me into a girly-girl. According to Mother, acting stupid and helpless was the way to capture the necessary man.
“You can be a girl and a scientist,” my teacher said, taking my hand. I still remember the warmth and acceptance it conveyed.
Girls’ high school meant little association with boys. Unlike my classmates, I wasn’t boy-crazy. I didn’t even socialize with boys. The one exception was when Mother persuaded her friend’s son to escort me to the prom. What would I say to Hughie? Turned out he didn’t know what to say either. That one endless, awkward evening of sweaty-handed dancing composed my high school dating experience.
My emotional life centered on other girls. My best friend, Margaret, wrote in my senior yearbook, “You know how I feel.” I felt the same about her; we spent a lot of time together and had a deep emotional connection. However, I had no sexual feelings for Margaret and we had no physical contact.
After high school, I worked as a counselor at a girls’ camp. I remember two of the counselors spending all their time together, which seemed altogether natural and right to me. I never speculated on what they did inside their tent. Looking back, maybe they were more than friends.
At college, I found myself a man. I expressed my rebellious nature by choosing one with a beard. After we married, I continued my love affair with biology by working in a fruit fly lab.
Although I enjoyed our physical relationship, the marriage lacked emotional intimacy. I sought close emotional relationships with other women. When I was a young mother in the early ’60s, I had a best friend I saw nearly every day. I could confide anything to Sarah. I loved her so much. I wished I could give her sexual pleasure, but at that time I believed only men could do that for women. I was so naïve I didn’t realize that heterosexual women don’t think such thoughts. In retrospect, I realize I was in love with Sarah.
We talked about living together when we were old ladies, although I had no frame of reference for women forming lasting partnerships with each other. The only all-woman household I knew of was that of my unmarried aunt who shared a home with my grandmother. After Sarah followed her husband to another state, she stopped writing or phoning. I grieved for years.
In 1961, there were anti-sodomy laws on the books in every state. Sometime during that decade, my husband’s department hired its first woman professor. She wouldn’t accept the job unless her woman friend was offered an administrative position in the department. There was talk that May and Liz were lesbians. I protested. How could such gracious women be lesbians? Looking back, I think they must have been life partners, and very brave women as well.
Ten years and one son later, my husband and I separated because he fell in love with his graduate student. Perhaps he was seeking emotional intimacy; I know I was. I still missed Sarah. Was there another woman with
whom I could be close? That summer, 1972, I was working in a greenhouse as a lab tech. I met a coworker twelve years younger than me. Caroline and I hit it off—we talked and talked. Our friendship grew intense. I cared for her as much as I had for Sarah.
One day, Caroline confessed she was gay. I was surprised, but I’d heard of gay people by then. I could accept whatever Caroline was, although I told her I was straight. Our relationship heated up as the sun poured through the glass roof of the greenhouse and sent the inside temperatures to steaming. We talked for hours, went for long car rides after work, and wrote poetry to one another. Soon she told me she was in love with me, and therefore wanted to go to bed with me. Aghast, I turned her down. I was a girl from the ’50s, a time when love didn’t automatically lead to sex. Caroline protested my edict, but we continued to see a lot of each other.
Late one evening, we were lying on big pillows on my living room floor, listening to a Joan Baez record. The beauty and yearning in Joan’s voice kindled a similar feeling between us. Caroline drew me to her and kissed me; I kissed her back. I wanted to go further but I wouldn’t. I was still married and I reasoned that I would be committing adultery, just like my husband. Although Caroline gave up trying to bed me and moved to San Francisco, I was a changed woman. My relationship with her, truncated though it was, had opened a door, but I wasn’t quite ready to go through it.
The following year, the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from its list of mental disorders, but my upbringing held sway. It was bad enough raising my son in a one-parent family, but saddling him with a lesbian mother? No way! I could lose custody of him if my ex found me out, even though Oregon’s anti-sodomy laws were off the books by then. I had to take the cure. I found a man to have sex with, responded, convinced myself I was “normal,” and married in haste—possibly to stave off those “bad” feelings about women.
Dear John, I Love Jane Page 14
