When I Was Your Girlfriend

by Nikki Harmon

  WHEN I WAS

  YOUR

  GIRLFRIEND

  NIKKI HARMON

  All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  WHEN I WAS YOUR GIRLFRIEND

  Copyright © 2015 Nikki Harmon

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, electronic, or digital form without permission from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  As I pull up in front of the office, I see they are already there, hopping around, snuggling, rubbing noses, and laughing at their private jokes. I love them. I hate them. It’s complicated. Leslie and Laurie are seemingly the perfect couple. They are smart, good-looking, employed, and deeply in love. Together for four years, they are three months pregnant and they sought me out to be their midwife.

  Of course they did. We could all be best friends and maybe we will be after the baby is born. I am the only black lesbian midwife in the Philadelphia area. Mt. Airy Midwives brought me in as soon as I got my CNM degree from Georgetown University. One of five midwives with two OBs on staff, we stay fairly busy. This is a great area of the city to work—full of conscientious, middle-income, well-educated families. I smile at the couple, park my hybrid (I am also conscientious, middle-income, and well-educated) and climb out trying to look composed and not spill my coffee.

  “Hi guys! I hope you haven’t been waiting long. Let me just get my keys …”

  Laurie, the pregnant one, takes two steps back. “The smell of coffee still gets to me,” she says.

  Leslie steps forward to help with my bags. She is that warm cocoa brown color, just ever so slightly butch, like maybe she just has a hint of biceps under that tailored blouse. But it’s her voice, a voice you could sink into like a warm bath. Her laugh is deep and hearty like a woman full of confidence and love. If she wasn’t married and I wasn’t a professional … ah well. I thank her and give her my heaviest bag, which she swings over her shoulder with ease.

  Looking past her, I see our receptionist, Tracy Ann, strolling up the street jingling her huge ring of keys as though she has all the time in the world. Seeing my look, she shifts into a trot and puffs up to us.

  “Oh, hi! I didn’t realize there was an early appointment today. I’m so sorry. Little Larry was such a handful today, threw all his Cheerios on the floor.”

  As she prattles on and opens the door, we all file inside and try to get ourselves situated. I rush to my office, turn on the heater, and get ready for “The Perfect Couple.” Uh oh, I hope I’m not getting bitter. The heater is for the comfort of my half-clothed patients. I love the briskness of this time of year. It’s still chilly, but the hint of spring is there. The morning light is warmer, softer. If I squint, I can see round scarlet buds on the trees outside my office window. Spring is coming and that makes me happy.

  Laurie comes in first. She is one of those women who, though over 30 years old, could still be described as adorable. She has round dimpled cheeks, she never stops smiling, and she gives enormous, totally uncalled for long, hard hugs like it could be the last time she ever sees you.

  “Dee! Oh, my gosh, I’m still so excited to finally be pregnant!” She giggles and reaches to engulf me. Leslie comes in next. I see a camera in her hand.

  “We need a picture of you for our pregnancy album!” I smile and put on my stethoscope. Click!

  After a successful visit, baby is fine, Laurie is fine, and Leslie is nervous but fine. I sit back and put on some Erykah Badu. I put a note in Laurie’s chart and check my schedule. I have 30 minutes until my next appointment. I retrieve and finish my tepid coffee. I know it’s corny, but I love my job. Since I was 12 and found out how babies were born, I’ve always wanted to deliver babies. I thought it would be the coolest thing in the world to assist with bringing life onto the planet, into a family. Who knows whom that baby will grow up to be—another Einstein or Dickinson or Ghandi, an inventor, a peacemaker, or just a really good person. Of course, I have no control over the babies. But I love taking care of pregnant women the way they should be taken care of, and bringing their babies into the world with love and patience. It’s one of those things that is absolutely mundane and absolutely miraculous all at the same time.

  In college, I almost changed my mind. I got political and decided that I should try to help people who really needed help—poor people, oppressed people, disenfranchised people. I decided I wanted to go and work in South America and help dig wells for clean drinking water for the villagers there. I told my mom my idea during a Christmas break.

  “Mmmm hmmm. That’s nice, dear,” she said.

  The next day I happened upon my student loan statement casually sitting out on the dining room table. Forty-five thousand dollars and I was just a junior. The following day I noticed a newspaper article about college students moving back home with their parents because they couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. By the end of the month, random relatives casually forwarded emails about the low efficacy rates of non-profit organizations, the dangers of working in the jungle—gangs, militia, disease, etc.

  The day I was leaving to go back to school, my mom suggested we stop at Fran’s Used Book Store to see if we could find anything interesting. Somehow I stumbled upon Spiritual Midwifery by Ina May Gaskin, the classic midwifery book, and picked it up for three dollars. My mom drove me to 30th Street Station, hugged me goodbye, re-wrapped my scarf, pulled down my hat, tucked $20 in my pocket and drove away with a smile on her face. By the time I was back in New Haven, I was re-thinking my South American adventure. Mom is no fool.

  I hear a knock at the door, quickly turn down the music, and glance at my daily schedule. It’s time for Beth and Josh. A sweet couple, in their second trimester, I can’t wait to see how they’re doing.

  Seven hours later, my day is over. None of my patients are in active labor or anywhere near it. I’m not on-call until the weekend and my evening is wide open. Despite being done for the day, I hang around to chat with Meadow, one of my fellow midwives. We’re like family and it’s been a while since we’ve caught up.

  Meadow looks exactly as you would imagine, probably because her parents waited until she was six months old to name her. You can do that kind of stuff on a commune. She has sandy blond, curly hair, occasionally tied back with yarn or ribbon. Of course she has freckles and widely spaced green eyes, a perfect hippie child who took the lifestyle to heart. But don’t think she’s soft or stupid. She’s one of the smartest people I know. Insightful and intuitive, she can read me like a book.

  “So Dee, why are you still here?” she asks. “It’s a beautiful day. I figured you might have something fun planned for you and Pepper.”

  I cringe. Right, Pepper. Let me say right now that I hate her name. I do. It
sounds stupid. No, not stupid, ridiculous. However, I am an open-minded woman. How could I justify not dating someone just because her parents had no common sense and gave their daughter a stripper’s name or a dog’s name? Can’t blame the child right?

  We met at Marlene’s, the only lesbian club in Philly. It was dark, I was slightly drunk, and she was so sexy and funny. “Pepper” sounded good at the club. It sounded good that night, all night long, it even sounded good the next morning. I had Pepper with my eggs. Oh, it was all good until I had to introduce her to my friends a few weeks later, then, not so good. They made jokes, of course, and then I got defensive.

  Now I’ve been dating her for six months. In lesbian terms, that’s almost married. I like her, but I don’t love her even though I told her I did. She’s a good woman. Smart, fun, kind, and she has a plan for her life. But for some reason, I just don’t see myself with her. I know this. I’ve known it for five and a half months. As if on cue, my iPhone rings. It’s Pepper, of course.

  “Hey babe! We’re having dinner downtown tonight with my friends then heading over to the club, OK? Can you pick me up by 7 p.m.? Wear something hot!... It’s karaoke night.”

  Pepper is 26, only five years younger than me. But sometimes it makes a big difference. It’s not the evening I had in mind, but I agree to it. I smirk at Meadow as she greets her patient, wave good-bye at Tracy Ann, and head on home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After trying on my fifth outfit, I go back to my first choice, club jeans that make my butt look cute, and a white button-down shirt with a black tank underneath. I believe this is universally understood to be the never fail, lesbian going out look. In the summer, it could just be a white t-shirt. Back in the eighties, it was all about a black t-shirt, but times have changed and laundry detergent has gotten better.

  I check myself out in the mirror. Do I still look as hot as I did in my twenties? (I know it wasn’t that long ago but 31 has hit me hard!) Hmmm, maybe I’ll add a touch of lipstick. Nah, maybe just some gloss. Fluff the hair, make sure the afro-curl thing is curling just right. It takes work making effortless look effortless. Twist here, tuck there, pat it all in place, do a practice dance to make sure my jeans still stretch, and I’m ready to go.

  It takes me 15 minutes to get to Pepper’s place. I plan to wait in the car, but three cell phone calls later, I reluctantly climb out and go to wait in her house. I’m not early; she is late, as usual. I know we as a people are not the most punctual bunch, but there is a time when it just gets downright inconsiderate and disrespectful.

  I go in fussing and sighing about how she is always making me wait. She stops tweaking her hair in the mirror and walks over to me smiling. She kisses on my neck slowly, softly, giving me chills, she coos in my ear about how she thought about me all day, and then we kiss. It’s fifteen minutes of making out that make me forget about all about my earlier indignation. I happily let myself be manipulated – literally and figuratively – and by the time she slides her hand out of my jeans and I slide myself out of the corner of her living room, I’m starving and content. I think I purred. Now I’m really hungry. Her cell is blowing up – her friends are feeling the inconsideration. I wonder briefly how she keeps them complacent.

  By the time we make it to the restaurant, everybody exchanges knowing glances, nudging elbows and somehow it’s assumed that our lateness was my doing—whatever! At least they ordered the food already. While she chats with her friends, I eat and listen. I watch her in her element and wonder how I fit in here. I think I catch them looking at me too, wondering the same thing. Pepper is beautiful to behold—not classically so, but her energy is contagious and she dominates the conversation. Like the bright red scarf draping over her shoulders that keeps drawing my eye, the conversation always turns back to her. She is the punctuation to every sentence and the motivation for each new topic. Her hair is cut extremely close to her head, almost a baldy but just a smidge shy of radical. But it’s her eyes, those smoky, slanted, I’m-always-thinking-about-sex eyes. I think that’s what keeps all of us hanging on her every word. It’s like she’s just about to start talking dirty any minute now.

  “So, I just enrolled in a graduate program. I have to get back to school to get the lifestyle I deserve! You know what I’m saying?!?” she says.

  Oh, she could be talking about a new apartment, car, or jewelry. Her eyes say she’s talking about a trip to Victoria’s Secret or the sex shop. It’s the eyes.

  We finish up our meal, pay the tab, and head out to Marlene’s on 13th Street. It’s a short walk, but the air is still cold in March. The conversation is lost in puffs of breath and clacking of heels on concrete. Nodding and smiling at the butchy bouncer at the door, we flash IDs and head straight for the bar with the best view of the little stage. It’s Wednesday night, the unofficial “black women” night at the bar. Even amongst lesbians, there are cultural differences and they matter when you are hanging out with your friends. One cannot underestimate the importance of music when going to a club. If the music is irritating or boring, you are not going to have a good time and buy lots of drinks. So the owners of Marlene’s have designated Wednesdays as Urban Night – R & B Karaoke early on and rap and hip-hop for the baby dykes with no jobs who can stay out til 2 a.m. on a weeknight. We take our seats, order our drinks, Jack and Coke for me, while Pepper starts scanning the sheet for what she will sing. I will not be singing. I cannot sing, not at all, not even one little bit. Trust me, I’ve tried.

  “Pep,” I ask, “why don’t you do Natalie Cole? You have the voice and she’s one of my favorite singers.” Pepper looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “I’m singing Rihanna. You know she’s my favorite singer.” I pout and stick my lip out. “Please, how about “This Will Be”?

  “No,” she says, “No-ella, ella, ella.”

  She cracks herself up, takes a sip of her Manhattan, and kisses my cheek. I reach around to hug her and look into those eyes. We kiss. She’s really quite intoxicating.

  As Pepper pulls gently away to get back to her friends and her list, I see something out the front door of the club. It’s two young girls. They look like high school girls. One is waving an ID; the other is cowering behind looking as frightened as a rabbit. She is tugging on her friend’s hand, but the bold girl is really trying to argue her way in. I admire her tenacity. The bouncer is not having it, not on black night! The girl finally gives up and walks away. Her friend looks relieved and they fade away into the night. I take a sip of my drink and think back to my first time at a gay club. It was not pretty.

  ~~~

  It was my senior year in high school, early spring like now, and my best friend, Vivian Dupree, and I were venturing downtown one Saturday afternoon. There wasn’t much for teenagers to do on the weekends in Philly. But we walked up and down South Street, bought some wristbands at Zipperhead, had some cheese fries at Ishkabibbles, and eventually got bored despite the good people watching. We ambled north up 3rd Street until we crossed Market Street and she stopped.

  “Well, here we are,” she said mysteriously.

  “Here we are what?” I replied. This was before all the art galleries took over, when Olde City just looked old and grimy.

  “Look up,” she said.

  I looked and saw a tiny swinging sign that read Sneakers. I gasped. I took a few steps back. She laughed. I knew Sneakers was a gay club. I had never been to a gay club. I don’t think I had actually ever been to any club.

  Let me explain something about Viv. Vivian was one of those girls who seemingly knew everything about everything. Next to her I always felt like a country bumpkin. She spent a lot of time in that fabled and magical place New York City, she “knew” people, and she had famous friends (well, at least one). She had been gay before I even knew what the word meant, and she was glamorous, sophisticated, and experienced.

  In high school, we were friends but we were not equals. I trailed in her wake hoping to catch up. It was Viv who figured me out, called me out,
and kept my secret for two long years. When we were in school, every gay girl was a closeted gay girl, and she was my one friend who I could talk to about anything.

  So Viv, being funny like she was, took me to a gay club, unknowing and unprepared. I was not amused. I was terrified.

  “Come on, let’s go in,” she said casually.

  “WHAT!!!” I whispered and hurriedly looked around. I started to walk away hoping nobody I knew would see me.

  “Oh stop,” she said. “It’s not a big deal. Let’s just see if we can get in. It’s early. I bet the door person is not even on yet.”

  “Are you crazy? I’m only 17! I’ll get carded! Or worse, someone will see me!”

  My imagination was running wild. I would walk in and all of a sudden a news crew would burst in and I would be on the news. Or maybe I would run into the aunt I’d always had suspicions about or a neighbor or my English teacher!

  My heart was beating frantically. Viv just laughed at me. I kept creeping down the street away from the club. Viv grabbed my hand and tried to pull me towards the door. Across the street two young Latinos were watching. They must have known what kind of club it was because they started yelling, “Don’t do it!!” “Don’t go in, don’t do it!” Viv laughed and yanked on my hand. I planted my feet like a dog and pulled back. Then I fell. Now I was embarrassed. The guys laughed and Viv laughed too.

  “Fine! Let’s go!” Humiliated and red-faced but with my head held high, I stalked over to the door, grabbed the heavy brass handle and pulled.

  Inside it was dark, cool, and almost empty. No door person and no news crew, but I was paranoid and freaking out all the same. We sat at a booth with smooth red leather seats. Viv ordered ginger ales and I tried to collect myself.

  Then the worst happened. A woman asked me to dance. A lesbian. A butch lesbian! Short fro, I think a Gumby actually. She was quiet, she was confident. I was flabbergasted. Viv urged me on, the woman was patient, and I went. I stepped into her arms and danced with her. Viv danced with a heavy-set white woman, and our eyes met across the small dance floor. It was all very civil, but it was a big moment for me. I danced with a woman I did not know, and in public! I finally felt like a full-fledged dyke.