Another Kind of Love

by Paula Christian

Christ! Dee realized, I’m falling in love with someone who practically can’t stand me, and moreover, I’ve lost a damn good secretary!

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  The morning was cool and nippy with the preview of fall as she stepped onto the aluminum ramp and walked down to the metal-covered passageway leading to the terminal. She trailed behind the other passengers, letting them rush on ahead. She had nothing to rush for.

  As she came around the first bend in the walkway, she saw a girl standing against the wall. At first she thought it was just a girl . . .

  but as she drew nearer, she recognized Karen. In a moment of guilty panic, she wanted to turn and go back. But Karen had already spotted her and came running to meet her.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” Dee asked, shocked, pleased, and unsure of herself.

  They began to walk together, and as Karen talked and explained all that had gone on at the office, or asked questions about her trip, Dee couldn’t help but realize how happy she was to see Karen again. How easily everything fell into place when Karen was near.

  Or how Karen made her feel that she could handle any situation gracefully, intelligently.

  Naturally, neither of them said a word about Rita—or Karen’s letter. The airport was hardly a place to discuss something as delicate as that.

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  Dee cleared customs and met Karen next to the car-rental counter, and then they went outside to the cab stand. “How’d you get out here?” Dee asked, her as she held the door open for Karen.

  “Cab,” she answered simply.

  “That’s pretty expensive.”

  “My rent has been pretty cheap of late,” Karen smiled. It was the first reference she’d made to something besides work or the trip.

  “How’s Cho-Cho?” Dee asked, feeling stupidly introverted.

  Karen looked at her pensively. “She’s missed you. She wouldn’t be bothered with me during the day, but in the evening, around five-thirty or six she begins to yowl and rub against my legs.”

  Suddenly, Karen stopped. It was as if the reference to her legs were forbidden conversation. Of course, Dee knew from long experience, the moment someone finds out you’re gay, they conclude immediately that you’re on the make for them. So naturally, certain topics become taboo.

  “Anyhow,” she went on, “I finally got across to her that I wasn’t trying to replace you or . . .” Karen laughed nervously.

  You or Rita, Dee finished the sentence for her silently.

  “But we get along fine—it’s understood that I’m better than nothing and Cho-Cho allows me to stay. But she sure does want her little nip in the morning,” Karen laughed.

  “Well, at least you accept Cho-Cho as a personality and not just an animal. . . .” She wondered how long they were going to discuss banalities.

  Nothing of particular importance was said until they came to the Queensborough Bridge. Somehow this link with Manhattan jolted them into present problems.

  “I . . . I guess you’ll want me to move out as soon as I can now that you’re back,” Karen said softly.

  Dee felt her blood turn hot and wanted time to think out her reply. Unlike their previous relationship, if she asked Karen to stay on now, it would sound like a pass. The tires of the cab thumped and swished across the bridge like water-soaked galoshes on a dry rug.

  “Actually, Karen,” Dee began, “my plans are rather vague. I’d not really . . . expected you still to be in my place . . . that is . . .”

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  “Did you think I’d run out on you?” Karen asked in obvious surprise.

  “No! No, of course not,” Dee lied.

  Karen twisted in her seat and stared at her for a moment, then covered Dee’s hand with her own. “You must have been hurt many times by stupid people.”

  There was no reply to that one, so Dee let it go. “I was rather hoping that since this is Sunday you might not be committed elsewhere and be able to help me go over my notes from the trip. We could whip them into order and get them ready for the old man before the end of the week.”

  “Sure,” Karen said.

  “Look, Karen,” Dee said falteringly. “I don’t want you to get out or anything. I’m damn grateful for the company . . . particularly yours.” She could feel her face flush, and she hated herself. “But I know how complicated these things can be—I mean, maybe Phil would rather . . .”

  “Oh Dee! For heaven’s sake! Will you stop acting like Emily Brontë. . . . It’s my life—not Phil’s.”

  “Sorry!” Dee said, mindful to have a broad smile on her face.

  “Forgive me,” Karen said after a pause. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. But you can be awfully stuffy sometimes.”

  The cab pulled up in front of her apartment, and they got out in silence. The apartment house looked like something out of a childhood remembrance as they walked to the door of her place. They both fumbled for the door key in their purses, grinning inanely now that they were about to be alone, without outside interference.

  “I didn’t realize,” Karen said as Dee fitted her key into the latch,

  “how much I’d come to accept your apartment as my home. I mean . . .” She blushed slightly. The door pushed open, and Cho-Cho came bounding from the bedroom and in one motion leaped onto Dee’s shoulder, crying and purring at the same time. “Hello, sweetie,” Dee said softly, nuzzling her cheek against the cat’s soft face.

  Karen helped her carry the baggage in and put it in the bedroom.

  Cho-Cho wouldn’t stop yowling her vindictive reproaches while following Dee about the room.

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  “Oh, stop it, Cho-Cho,” Dee said in false anger, “you don’t look as if you suffered so much.”

  “That animal will outlive us all,” Karen laughed.

  There was something frighteningly domestic about the scene, and as if they had both sensed it simultaneously, the conversation ended.

  Dee hung up her dresses and coats but decided to leave the rest until later when she had rested. She picked up her bulging briefcase and led the way downstairs like a mother hen followed by her chicks.

  “Place looks great,” she said to Karen almost too cheerfully.

  “I’m a good housekeeper . . . if it’s someone else’s home.”

  “Did you do any darkroom work at all?” She didn’t really care if Karen had or not. It was the last thing she wanted to ask her.

  “I started to . . .” Karen replied. “But, I don’t know, it just didn’t seem right . . . using your chemicals and your things. It made me feel kind of lonely.”

  Dee put on some water for coffee. She wondered if Karen expected her to say something, but decided to let it go. She didn’t really understand why using her things would bother Karen, but didn’t want to go into it now.

  They spent a few silent moments setting up the cups and pulling out the instant coffee.

  “I hope your briefcase isn’t all work—it looks like there’s enough there for three secretaries.” Karen smiled slowly.

  “The bulge is due to a duty-free bottle of Drambuie I bought in Shannon. . . . The rest is work, and lots of it.”

  “Well,” Karen said slowly, “let’s get to it. Might as well get it out of the way so we can get to the bottle. I should think you’d like to relax a little.”

  Dee nodded. “It’s a little chilly in here. How about a fire before we start? Make the work seem less tedious.” She walked over to the fireplace and laid the pressed sawdust logs carefully over the kindling. Then she lit it and crossed the room to the divan, placing her briefcase on top of the coffee table on her left. Dee pulled out the bottle and set it on the floor.

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  with her front paws resting on Dee’s thigh. “There’s a steno pad i
n the drawer over there,” she said absently to Karen. “Pencils, too.”

  “Stealing company property, eh?” Karen said, laughing.

  “Uh-huh,” Dee said, her mind already at work on her notes and how to dictate them into memos. Without even trying too hard, she was again Karen’s boss, and they might as well have been in the office.

  The fire had burned down to an occasional tongue of flame darting out of the embers. Dee stood up, threw the papers in her hand into the fireplace, and placed another log on top.

  “Please, Dee,” Karen said in a tired voice, “I’m getting writer’s cramp.”

  Dee laughed sympathetically. “Sorry. But that’s all we’ll do for now. You can type them up tomorrow at the office.”

  “Are you coming in?”

  “I doubt it. . . . I’d like a day or two to catch my breath.” She stared at the log as it began to burn. “How about a martini? I could use one.”

  “You must be exhausted. Sure. I’ll have one with you.”

  In a few minutes, Dee returned from the kitchen, carefully balancing the two glasses.

  “I’ll have to get you a tray for Christmas,” Karen smiled as she accepted her glass.

  “That’s worse,” Dee grinned. “They slide all over the tray then.”

  Karen lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the air with a heavy sigh. “Well, at least the old man will know you weren’t just goofing off in Paris—not once he sees these memos.”

  “No. I was plenty busy,” Dee managed to answer. She felt her throat constrict and, for no particular reason, wanted to cry at the mention of Paris. “You’d like the French rep, Mr. Bizot,” she said after a moment.

  “I’d like Paris!” Karen raised her glass and smiled. “To better understanding . . .” There was a knowing look in her eyes.

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  felt its effects at once. She was much more tired than she had been willing to admit.

  Karen pulled her legs up under her and sipped her drink quietly.

  “You know,” she said finally, “I’ve done a lot of reading in the past few weeks.”

  “Anything worthwhile?”

  “Depends on what you’re trying to learn,” Karen said evasively.

  “I . . . well, I found your private reserve of nondisplayable litera-ture.”

  “Oh?” Dee stalled.

  “I couldn’t sleep one night after your . . . friend stopped by. I’d looked down here but didn’t see anything I really wanted to begin . . .

  so I looked upstairs. I’d remembered some books in that shelf next to the radiator in the bedroom.” She stood up carefully and went into the kitchen, then brought the decanter of martinis back with her and poured them each some more.

  Dee knew she should have thrown away those lesbian novels ages ago, but for some reason never was quite able to do it. “I’m afraid,”

  she said slowly after a prolonged and pregnant silence, “that those novels are not very indicative of anything but a desire to exploit for money.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Karen said carefully. “I learned a good deal from them.”

  “Like what?” She knew she shouldn’t have the second drink.

  “Like, this sort of thing is not nearly so shocking or so rare as I had thought . . . that it’s really quite a social problem, and yet sort of romantic at the same time.”

  “Yes to the first, no to the second,” Dee said guardedly. Here it comes. “These martinis are pretty potent,” she added, pushing Cho-Cho off the couch just for something to do.

  “And how lots of women are . . . gay and sometimes never know it, or learn about it too late to find themselves the right companion.”

  “Why should they want to find the right companion?” Dee asked her, wondering what the hell Karen was leading up to. Some sort of excuse for her?

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  “Love . . . romance . . . the whole bit.”

  “And do the books tell you that they never really find it?”

  “No . . . the women are usually cowards and throw themselves out of windows, or marry the first guy who asks them rather than face what they really are. . . .”

  “And this sounds romantic to you?”

  Karen stood up and crossed over to Dee, sitting down next to her. “But I’m not a coward, Dee. . . .”

  Dee could feel her pulse beat throughout her body, and she was afraid to think more than one sentence ahead. She could feel the warmth from Karen’s thigh against hers, was aware of her heavy breathing and the change in Karen’s voice. Christ! how she would love to take Karen in her arms and kiss her.

  “It’s beginning to rain,” Dee stated, feeling idiotic.

  Karen smiled slowly. “Rain, fireplace, martinis . . . and marvelous company. What more could I hope for?”

  “Karen,” Dee said slowly, “just what do you want?”

  “That’s a difficult question to answer, Mrs. Sanders.” Her grin was absolutely evil.

  “But answerable nonetheless,” Dee countered.

  Karen smiled seductively. “Who was it who said something about the emptiness of words?”

  Whatever question that had lingered in Dee’s mind about whether or not Karen’s closeness was unintentional was completely gone now.

  “And then,” Karen continued, “there’s the man who decided that action speaks louder than words.”

  Dee just had time to put down her drink, phrasing a reply in her mind, when Karen leaned across her and kissed her softly—yet purposefully—on the lips.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Dee asked, her emotions turning into a tornado of reactions.

  “It always surprises me that I seem to shock you—what kind of a hermit do you think I am?” Karen’s face grew serious again. She raised one hand to Dee’s cheek and ran her fingers over it, then across her lips. “I’ve never kissed a woman before. . . . It seems so strange.”

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  “Why on earth do you want to now?” Dee asked, trying to make sense out of Karen’s actions, wanting to hold her close, and yet trying to keep in mind that this was Karen’s first experience. But what for? If Karen was just “experimenting,” she was taking a big risk fooling around with Dee. . . .

  But she did want Karen! And here was Karen, making it so damn easy for her. She had not really realized before how very much she wanted Karen . . . wanted to love her, but had never had the guts to admit it—even when Martie had thrown the facts to her.

  Dee felt awful. Sure, the kid wanted to play around. But hell! She didn’t want this to be some kind of a “steam bath club” affair—just grab someone who’s willing. . . . Just because Karen was curious didn’t mean that Dee had to go along with it—what kind of an animal was she?

  “I love you,” Karen whispered without warning.

  Dee was so startled, she could only stare at her.

  “I guess I’ve loved you for a long time . . . but this kind of love never occurred to me. I always thought you had to be some kind of nut, but now . . .”

  This fantastic admission was more than Dee had figured on. She didn’t know what to do now. Karen placed her cheek against Dee’s, and the sweet scent of her youth and femininity was an irresistible temptation. Dee could feel her young, firm breasts pushing against her arm, then slide past to her own breasts as Karen shifted her position so that Dee could hold her near, could caress her, could love her.

  When Dee did not immediately kiss her, Karen again took the initiative and sought out Dee’s lips with her own. This time it was not a gentle, curious kiss—this time she meant it, and the blood rushed to Dee’s head until she thought she would explode.

  Dee could not control her warning mind any longer. She let her lips pass over Karen’s face and down to Karen’s throat . . . letting her teeth sink lightly into her soft flesh. Dee could feel every
pressure point in her body throbbing wildly.

  Karen sat up slowly. “You look so tired, darling,” she mouthed against Dee’s forehead. “Why not lie back and rest?”

  I shouldn’t; I shouldn’t, Dee told herself, but knew she would.

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  Karen maternally placed the throw pillows under her head. Yet why shouldn’t I? Dee thought. Karen’s an adult . . . she knows what she’s letting herself in for . . . she can take care of herself . . . I didn’t go after her. . . .

  She saw Karen’s face coming closer and closer to her own. . . .

  She lifted her hands and put them on Karen’s young face—so young and smooth. She pulled Karen against her, enjoying her weight as reassurance that it really was Karen and not a dream. She let her hands wander over Karen slowly, almost like someone blind trying to feel what a person looks like.

  Rita and Martie were as unreal as a science-fiction story to her now. . . . Karen’s response to her was neither forced nor proficient.

  It was warm, ingenuous, and beautifully candid.

  The softness of Karen’s arms wrapped around the back of Dee’s neck, the touch of her hand on Dee’s shoulder, the sweetness of Karen’s body resting against hers at once urgent and tender. . . .

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  Later, as she pretended to sleep,she could hear Karen’s footsteps padding softly up to her and covering her with a warm blanket.

  Then she felt Karen’s light breath as she leaned over and kissed Dee very gently on the mouth, then softly made her way upstairs.

  It took every ounce of her strength not to pull Karen down on her and engulf her with the sudden rush of love and tenderness Dee felt. But the years of self-discipline helped her now, helped her to keep her eyelids from making a move and to keep her breathing slow and heavy.

  As if Dee’s hands had a built-in memory of their own, she could still sense the feel of Karen’s body, the soft, womanly ripeness of the girl’s breasts. It still amazed Dee how her ego could work independently of her libido. She had wanted—still wanted—nothing more than to give in to her passion, to take this girl who met her desire with the same intensity. But she had stopped.