Outing of the Heart

by Lisa Ann Harper

  Devon began to rock her pelvis at a fast pace, to move her hand correspondingly so, inside Tenille. Soon both hand and body movements became frenzied and abandoned, until she let out a high groan and stopped, collapsing in a heap by Tenille’s side. She felt pinioned against the back of the seat, but if she tried to move Devon could be toppled to the floor. She stroked her damp hair and whispered that it was getting late and she must go. She roused herself and said: ‘Of course Pet, I’ll run you home.’

  They replaced their lower garments and once dressed, Devon kissed her again and told her how much she aroused her and what good climaxes she had with her. She inquired of Tenille regarding hers.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she lied, then quickly added: ‘I’m so glad it was good for you too.’ This seemed to satisfy her and after cleaning up, they left the apartment arm in arm.

  Driving over to #226, Tenille returned to the topic of Marissa. ‘How do you know she’s a … L … Lesbian?’ She stumbled over the word, it feeling uncomfortable and odd on her tongue, especially saying it out loud.

  ‘Oh, you can tell,’ Devon declared airily. ‘I’ve known for some time.’ She turned her attention to negotiating around a salt truck. She hated the Merc. to get sprayed by one of those.

  ‘You … you’re not … not one of them are you, Dev?’ She could feel her cheeks growing hot with the asking of such a personal question.

  Devon threw back her head and laughed out loud. ‘Golly Miss Molly. Not me. This little lady likes men. With me, it’s just I like sex with women too, but there’s no way I’m a dyke.’

  ‘A dyke?’

  ‘Yeah,’ pulling a face which expressed distaste. ‘One of those butch numbers, stomping all over the place in heavy boots and throwing her weight around; with hairy legs and no doubt hairy arm pits, too.’

  Tenille laughed. She wasn’t like that either. What a relief. Outside the house, Devon suggested they go to the rehearsal rooms together.

  ‘How about I pick you up about half past one?’

  ‘Okay, that’s fine.’ As she turned to leave, she knew a quick peck was all that was required in the way of a goodbye. The physical side of their relationship ended with the climax, after that it was like they were just good friends.

  ‘See you Sunday,’ she called out after she’d alighted.

  Devon responded with a: ‘Ciao Bambina,’ as she pulled away, looking happy.

  “Much better than last time,” Tenille thought to herself. She was really too tired to shower, after so much had happened to her, but she couldn’t go to bed in the state she was in. A refreshing glass of ice-cold mineral water was also needed. Would there be one left?

  She took the glass through to the bathroom and started the process. When the water was right she stepped into the tub. Her head felt too itchy, so she washed her hair too. Once in her PJ’s, she slipped between the sheets and, with a towel over her shoulders began to dry her hair. Bed was the warmest place in her room this time of night. Letting her mind wander over the evening’s events, her deliberations brought her once more to the contemplation of Devon. She puzzled her. She knew she did want to be physical, but somehow not like this.

  “Is this what lovemaking with a woman is all about?”

  What they did together was just how it was with a man except a woman used her hand. Why had she thought it would be different? She had expected she would feel more for someone like Devon. Now the rose-colored glasses were off. During lovemaking, she experienced that same non-involved, almost detached feeling she had had with Jerred

  A tangled knot brought her from her brown study to the snag, which had caught at her fingers. As she dealt with it her mind drifted back. A heart-sinking fear clawed at her insides. Was this to be her lot in life as far as physical intimacy went? She just wasn’t cut out to be one of those sensual women, transported to transcendent heights of pleasure by eroticism. Shaking her head vigorously, she laughed at her florid images. Shades of the French novella. So far in all her thirty years, she’d not experienced much ‘rapturous transportation’. She masturbated, but then she came so quickly – yes, intense, but she’d always thought there would be more to the act of lovemaking than that … when you were with someone you cared for deeply.

  The thoughts were startling to her, as she felt a burgeoning hollow ache inside. Perhaps that was her problem with Devon? She cared too much on the emotional level? No, that couldn’t be right. She did respond to her physically when they were close, especially when they kissed, she had this wonderful effect on her, it was just … ‘Oh dear, it’s all too much; I’m too tired,’ she murmured to herself, setting the dryer on the night table and removing the towel. “I’ll try to work it out another time,” she promised sleepily. These thoughts had boiled like a twister inside, leaving her feeling vulnerable and confused. She couldn’t think clearly and anyway, nothing would be resolved now.

  * * *

  Tenille’s days dragged tediously ’til Sunday. Mrs. Sandrelli had been very sweet over her disappointment; had tried to make her feel better, telling her her time would come. “Yes, when I’m old and grey,” she had thought ungraciously, but she knew she was only trying to help. Devon honked and, like Pavlov’s dog, she shot out the door.

  Los Flamencos were happy to see her. Not being in the show hadn’t changed their attitude. In fact, they commented they’d missed her at Sancho Panza’s yesterday. ‘Be sure to come this week.’ Stavros urged her cordially.

  Manuel would not be joining them ’til later so they got straight to it. There were a few changes Raoul wanted to make. He thought of them as improvements, but to Tenille they seemed so minor, the audience wouldn’t notice. Nonetheless, to him they were important and the others respected his wishes. She lost herself in their work, feeling with them, the power and beauty of the music; the hypnotic earthiness of the dances.

  At the break, Raoul took her to one side. He had her almost pinned against the wall, his body so close; his strong masculinity inescapable. She could smell the scent from his body like the grapes on sun ripened vines. His eyes bored into her and beyond, to the place of his own fantasizing.

  ‘You have some dances we can use in the show,’ he began by way of introduction. With his closeness he could see the tiny pulse in the vein that beat at the base of her neck. He was speaking the words but thinking: “She is all woman. What I could do.”

  ‘I suggest you work with me, Wednesdays. I bring you up to performance standard in them.’ His eyes flashed at her as he showed his teeth in a wolfish grimace: ‘We take one dance at a time.’

  Work with him every Wednesday. What about Devon? Her mind was resisting his influence. Did she want this? Her thoughts were speeding, almost to the point of panic … but he was continuing.

  ‘I have talked it over with the others and they agree. If you can develop a repertoire, it doesn’t have to be large, they would welcome you.’ She was hooked. Would she just. She had to ask how come, when she was so new.

  ‘I tell you,’ Raoul said complicitly. She could smell his breath now, garlic laden. ‘We will be losing Amaia.’

  ‘Oh,’ very much taken by surprise.

  ‘Yes. She is pregnant. We are of course happy for her, but she cannot perform when she begins to show. We have a few weeks yet, but we would like to groom you as her replacement.’ At this he reached out and rested his hands on the wall. Very Latin, but too close for her comfort. She wanted to duck under and away, but reason asserted itself. This was what Devon had meant by, playing her cards. She stayed put and looked back at him, her eyes not wavering from his intense face. The breaths were coming strongly through his flared nostrils, her mind working in double time. She didn’t have Devon’s skill in handling men. Could she keep him at arm’s length? She was being hopeless, but if she laid down some ground rules … so they both knew where they stood …? At last she spoke, her breathing deepening as she searched her mind, trying to find the words. Her eyes focused on him.

  ‘Raoul, thank you for inviting me, I�
�m flattered. I’d like to do all you say, but I need you to know that I look upon this as … as … a co-operative agreement, between dancing colleagues. There is nothing more in this than partners in performance. You understand?’ Had she been too forceful? Would he change his mind? She had kept her voice even although her cheeks were hot.

  “How beautiful she is when she speaks so earnestly and looks into your eyes,” he was thinking, barely following the words she spoke. ‘Of course, Tenille. This is true for all of us in Los Flamencos.’ He had the supreme male ego which assured him, no woman would be able to withstand the onslaught of his charms. In the end he would be the master of her. His experience told him he was hot stuff. Women couldn’t get enough of him, especially after he danced his Tientos. He flashed his sparkling, even teeth at her again and raked his hand through his thick head of straight black hair. It was a deal then. She nodded, feeling calmer, pleased with the turn of events. She looked across at Devon and gave a little smile. Devon returned it with an imperceptible nod. As they walked back to the group, Raoul elaborated.

  ‘You can continue with Belen, she is a good teacher of fundamentals and quite the purist. But for shows you have to have a little more of the, how do you say it, pizzazza?’ Close enough, she got his drift.

  ‘I can teach you that. With your natural talent and good looks we can do very well together.’ Here he put his arm around her waist and announced to the assembled group that he would be grooming Tenille to take Amaia’s place. ‘We will all help her, yes?’ He looked down into her eyes and gave her a little squeeze, already it seemed, exercising proprietary rights. Manuel had arrived by this time and he too joined in everyone’s agreement with enthusiasm. They made her feel so welcome, she would get past Raoul, for this.

  Time for Segurillas. She had her shoes and was already changed into practise clothes. Raoul wanted to bring out the darker, introspective side of the dance, an aspect of Flamenco which Tenille responded to with surprising depth of feeling. She liked being less flamboyant for a change. They needed to be restrained, as if holding back a tide of emotion which, if allowed to flow free would sweep all before it. An exceptionally intense workout was followed by rest.

  Manuel and Stavros used the time to perfect the phrasing in some of the more complex passages, after which they came together and danced to the singer, as a rehearsal for Saturday. Then Manuel was free to go and the dancers claimed the floor for Soleares. Raoul was keen to get Tenille into this new dance.

  Soleares was the perfect form of Cante Flamenco, where beauty and depth of feeling are in harmony. He knew she was right for it and this dance was right for her. Its rhythm, consisting of twelve beats to the bar, had its origin in a simple dance called the Jaleo, with the emphasis on the third beat. He explained to her that out of the twelve, the down beat came on three, six, eight and ten. This made for a flowing rhythm, which he felt would bring out her gracefulness and the unaffected elegance of her style. The contrast of this refined dance with the more flamboyant ones would provide an interesting change of pace to the program.

  At the end of the session, while they were winding down, he filled them in on some details of his future plans. He had received a nibble from a bar down in Key West for a gig this summer. With that interest expressed he’d made contact with some more venues in Fort Lauderdale. Now this could be a steppingstone to Hollywood. People’s interest quickened at the news. Not only work, but the possibility of talent scouts too. Who knew to what bigger and better things this could lead? Tenille’s head swam with the possibilities … and to think she could be a part of it.

  Devon drove her home but wouldn’t come in. She was going out later and had to get back to bathe and change. She would see her Wednesday if she dropped in at the studio, otherwise Thursday.

  ‘You see, I knew Raoul would want to work with you. What did I tell you?’ feeling good at having figured it all out. Tenille wanted to say she’d been looking forward to working with her, but now kept her silence.

  She mulled over her Devon problem between getting supper and getting ready for the week ahead. It was obvious there was something between them, but it wasn’t as serious a thing as she had thought. Something crumbled inside … and shrugging her shoulders resignedly, she told herself to face the truth. She would see Devon; be a close friend, but she could not hold her as the love of her life. A mock grimace as she recognized another florid rhapsody. But, she was what she was, a romantic. Well, she could not give Devon all that she desired. Men would probably always be foremost with her. Being bisexual, and that was probably the case, she would become involved physically, but her emotions were only superficially touched. Misery gripped her with a squeezing fist, as she came to understand.

  What a bitter potion. Her face was solemn and her eyes mirrored the ache in her heart. At least she had Devon’s friendship, or bits of it. At the moment she couldn’t ask for more, much as she longed to and felt the need. Again a sigh. Her heart was a heavy weight as her thoughts turned inward.

  “Surely there must be someone out there who is right for me,” she whispered in her mind. In the whole wide world she need only find one person. Overcome by a crushing sense of desolation, she choked back a doleful cry. She wasn’t looking for adulation; only someone to love and who would love her in return. Was there someone there for her? Who would that person be? She drew in a deep breath, her very heart seeming to gasp in her chest and her eyes became liquid with tears unshed. She was sure now it wouldn’t be a man. This dizzying truth momentarily shocked her and she bit down on her lip to gain control. Where were these dangerous musings leading? A cold fear ran through her body like a snake, but she would not allow herself to close off her mind; evade the realities. This was too important. Her thoughts raced on.

  She knew Raoul was nice. An attractive man. But she didn’t respond to him as she did to Devon. Not even as she had to Marissa, when they were first getting to know each other. Why wasn’t she like other women, turned on by a man? Was she a freak? A L-E-S-B-I-A-N? She didn’t like that word. Perhaps she was like Marissa? She didn’t fit the picture Devon had drawn of a dyke, yet she had said she was a Lesbian. Not all Lesbians were dykes then? An icy chill gripped her heart. What were the others? …and where were they? Too many questions and too few answers. If Marissa hadn’t gotten so upset, perhaps she could have approached her? Now it was too late. Their fences were beyond mending; the friendship over before it had really begun. Saddened by this, she knew too many things had gotten in the way. No, not things she corrected herself, Devon. Marissa had been jealous of Devon and there’d been nothing she could do about it. Now they were estranged. Perhaps time would heal the rift, she thought desperately, but in her heart knew this to be a futile hope. Devon would always come between them. She lifted her shoulders a little. It wouldn’t stop her going to Belen, but sadly, there their contact would end.

  * * *

  For the night of the show Devon had been able to get Tenille a complimentary ticket as the troupe’s dresser and ‘gofer’. She was most grateful, allowing her as it did, to be a part of it all.

  She had called Lindsay last weekend, albeit with great hesitation, but she couldn’t leave her parents in ignorance. Actually they had both been stalwarts about the whole thing, giving her encouragement to keep going. Even mother. They must have heard the note of painful disappointment in her voice.

  The evening was a great success. The dancers did Belen proud and although she wasn’t dancing herself, she felt pride for them too. The audience responded very positively to the men. Their Cana went over brilliantly, but they were dazzled by the Caracoles, the stage so colorful and the energy level … off the planet. She had never seen Belen so pleased. Her hard work had paid off.

  There were drinks afterwards at the Sheraton bar. Tenille still couldn’t get past her own dejection. Amongst all these people, she was alone. She shared in their happiness, but it wasn’t hers. They were flushed with their success and she was happy for them, but not for herself. Insid
e she was joyless, tasting a bitter gall. She wanted to be on the other side of the foot-lights. One day she would do it. This setback only served to strengthen her resolve. She blanketed her discontent and slowly the negative emotions subsided. She would not dwell on the ‘might have beens’. Indeed, her time would come; she would make the supreme effort. For now, the festivities were unfolding and the effervescence of the present was infectious. It was a wonderful night. Compliments flew and the dancers deserved all their accolades.

  * * *

  The next session with Raoul went very well. Far from having to worry about keeping him at arm’s length, she found he was nothing but focused on the work in hand. Recognizing this mood, when he asked her to join him at TGIF round the corner, she readily agreed.

  It seemed there had been a hidden agenda when he asked her out. After ordering, he launched into what was on his mind.

  ‘Tenille, a dancer needs stamina and strength to stay the course on a regular basis, without incurring major, or for that matter, minor injuries.’ His look, across the table, was direct and intense. Although only a weeknight, most tables were occupied and the decibel level quite high. She had to pay close attention to follow, especially with the added difficulty of his Spanish accent, which she actually quite liked. “Another reason Canadian women find him so irresistible,” she surmised.

  ‘This is what I wish for you my Tenille.’ He smiled his winning grin to bring her round to his train of thought. ‘I would like for you to join a fitness club.’ He held up his hand to stem any flow of argument at this stage.