by Deena Bright
“Told you so,” she says, smiling proudly. “You never know.”
Luckily, Sarah doesn’t mind sharing our meals. The scallops just can’t cut it compared to the sushi sampler. The fact that I am now chowing down on spicy eel and octopus is mind-blowing. Char’s been begging me for years to go to our local Sushi joint, and I’ve always refused. She’s going to be thrilled.
“Yeah, growing up in Ohio, we don’t get introduced to much more than fried chicken and pizza. Vivian turned me on to sushi, and to well, quite a lot of other things.” Sarah’s becoming a little more loose-lipped. I want to pump her for more details, but we need to get our check and head over to the theater.
At the theater, I want to make sure we have time to use the restroom and find our seats before they dim the house lights. Sarah stands in line to get our wine, while I run to the restroom before the show starts. I can’t believe how far my students have all come, how much they’ve grown and matured. I feel complete satisfaction, knowing that I gave them some of the courage it takes to reach goals and realize their dreams. I have to admit, I’m feeling pretty fucking proud of myself. I’m so impressed with how much I’m learning about them as adults and even about myself. Hell, I just ate sushi. No one thought that would ever happen. Life is full of surprises.
“ARE YOU OKAY Miss Garrity?” Sarah asks, concerned. I can’t move. That was the most amazing first act of a musical I’ve ever seen. I’m bawling and completely speechless. My Madonna musical would never reach such emotion. Defy Gravity? Metaphorically and literally, it’s profound and inspirational. I’ll never be able to find the words to illicit such feeling from a musical.
“Yeah, I’m just… just… blown away by that last song.” I know now that I want to be better, to live my life to the fullest, to make sure that I’m not going to get old and die with a lifetime of regrets and what ifs. For seven years, I’ve had a poster on my wall in my classroom with a quote from John Greenleaf Whittier, “For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been!”
I always knew that I liked the poster and the quote, but I just realized that I need to live the quote. I need to ensure that I don’t have a lifetime of regrets. My parents—they get it. It took my aunt’s death and my mom’s lump to understand it, but they get it now and fully embrace all the things they’ve always wanted to do.
Jocelyn probably understood it the moment she had kids; Jasper, I don’t know about him. But me, I just now figured it all out. Char’s right (again); this Marcus business is a life bump. I’m going come out of this, all of this, a better person. I have things to do, time to do them. No more regrets. No more worrying about what everyone thinks. It doesn’t matter. It’s my life. My life to live. Life is flying by. I need to fly too, “defy gravity.”
To think, I spent my entire life hating the Wicked Witch of the West, and now? It’s amazing how my opinion can change so drastically. I believed one thing for so long, only to realize how truly wrong I am. The Wicked Witch of the West just inspired me to fly, defy everyone’s expectations, and be who and what I want to be. Wicked. Wow. I can’t wait for Act II.
“OKAY, SO IT was by far the best, the best musical ever.” Sarah and I are at the hotel bar, drinking more martinis and enjoying one another’s company. “I mean, Grease is good and all, you have to love Sandy and Danny, but Wicked, nothing could compete.” I cannot stop talking about it.
“I know, I know. I’ve agreed with you a hundred times,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes and losing patience with my newfound obsession with Wicked. Granted, I’ve been talking incessantly about it for nearly two straight hours. It’s only a matter of time until she silences me—or offs me. I’m getting pretty drunk and quite thankful that we just have to stumble to the elevator to our rooms and not worry about driving or getting cabs.
“Alright, I’ll stop. Tell me about Vivian. What happened?” I’ve wanted to know all night, but hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask. The alcohol’s giving me a little more confidence than I’m accustomed to, and I’m glad. I want to know—to pry into the details of Sarah’s love life.
She doesn’t hesitate at all; she wants to talk, to open up. “Well, we fell in love, head over heels, in love.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. Then her face clouds with painful memories. “She taught me so many things. She was worldly, open-minded, and so spiritual too, but welcomed all sorts of religious and spiritual beliefs,” Sarah explains, looking sad, forlorn. “She was the smartest, most enlightened woman I’d ever known.”
The suspense is killing me. “I don’t get it, so what happened?”
“Turns out, she was a fraud,” she shrugs and quickly bites her lip. Then finally adds, “She couldn’t practice what she preached. She kept telling me to open up, be myself, be proud of who I am.”
She takes a long drink of her martini and closes her eyes for a few seconds, shaking her head slowly. “Then, right after graduation, when we were deciding where we wanted to live, where to spend the rest of our lives, she dropped the bombshell.” Sarah bites on her lower lip, twisting her straw around her finger, over and over, cutting off the circulation, making the tip turn blue.
I grab the straw from her, and throw it under the table, away from her sight and grasp. “What bombshell, what happened?” I know it’s still painful for her to talk about, but I’m fascinated and quite honestly freaking curious.
“She confessed that she’d never told her parents that she was gay and that she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to. I told her that we could do it together. She refused. She said that she’d rather let me go than admit what she was to her parents,” Sarah explains, shrugging her shoulders. It’s heart-breaking. I can see the heartbreak in her eyes.
“So that’s it? That’s how it ended?” I can’t believe it. How can people be afraid like that of their own parents? It isn’t right. Aren’t parents supposed to love their children unconditionally?
“We tried for a while. I tried to convince her the same way she convinced me. But truthfully, I lost respect for her, and by losing that respect, that awe, I started to fall out of love with her.”
Sarah’s so honest, so forthcoming. Vivian’s stupid—despite that Sarah thinks that she’s so intelligent. For this Vivian chick to let someone like Sarah go, then she must be as dumb as my martini glass. And my glass is pretty dumb, the way it sits there staring at me—all empty and lonely. Dumbass glass should be full and fun, ready to take on the world. Huh, I think I just fucking compared myself to a dried up, used up, martini glass.
Motioning the server, I ask for another martini—pronto. “Have you dated anyone else?” I want her to find someone new, to be able to love someone openly, freely.
“Nah, I’m not ready, not looking. I just want to work… keep my mind off her,” she shrugs again, and gets up to get more popcorn out of the machine.
I notice that when she walks back to the table, guys and girls both stare at her. Sarah’s adorable. She’s small, petite, with long red hair that she has in a sophisticated pony at the nape of her neck. Her skin’s lightly freckled with big green doe eyes that shine when she laughs. Her lips are full, perfectly defined, and dark pink, all natural. She’s always reminded me of someone who should be on Disney channel or a Clearasil commercial, just cute, fresh, and wholesome all around. I hate Vivian for hurting her.
Vivian. What kind of name is that anyway? I’m picturing Richard Gere through the sunroof of his limo coming to get the trampy-ass whore he decided was finally worthy of his overblown, bombastic bullshit.
“So, what about you, Miss Garrity? What’re you going do about your cheating husband?” she asks, bluntly.
“What? How do you know about that?” I ask, taken aback and completely caught off guard.
“Jasper. So, what’re you going do?” She takes a drink of her martini, a long drink, probably giving me time to process my answer—an answer I do not have.
“I don’t know. Ummm… you can call me ‘Janelle,’ especial
ly now that you seem to know all my secrets,” I laugh nervously. “I guess, I have to leave him.” Wow. That did not sound too convincing. I, Janelle Garrity-Flowers, am leaving Marcus. I guess I have no intentions of anything else. Admitting it is hard though, not just to myself, but to others. Admitting failure sucks; I’m not used to it.
“Good. He sounds like a douche. You should date my ex, Jake. He was… actually still is… the best,” she compliments, smiling “Do you want me to call him for you?” she inquires, laughing, picking up her phone, and pretending to dial.
“No, thanks. I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I laugh. I’m having just as much fun out with her as I do with Char. Almost as much. Char would love Sarah, and Char really doesn’t like female competition out at bars. Sarah would be a great addition to our twosome, because she wouldn’t dream of taking guys or attention away from Char.
“So what happened with you guys, did you have to come out to Jake?” I ask, still full of curiosity.
“We broke up before I left for college. We didn’t want to try the long-distance thing,” she explains, her eyes dropping.
“I’m sorry if I’m bringing up painful memories.” I don’t want to hurt her more than she’s already hurting. Clearly, Vivian did a number on her. I know, because looking at her face is almost like looking in a mirror. Two shattered girls, who are trying desperately to put the pieces of their broken hearts back together, sit in a bar drowning their sorrows in martinis.
“No, Jake and I left things amicably. He’s a great guy, wonderful really.” She’s now beaming, full of respect and love for him still. “He was actually the first person back home that I came out to. Once I convinced him that he didn’t ‘turn’ me gay, he became a great support, a great friend,” she explains.
“So, did you guys ever… ummm…?”
“Have sex? All the time. Nonstop my senior year,” she admits, laughing.
I don’t know how to ask her the questions that I want to ask, don’t know if I’m going to offend her or hurt her. She must sense my hesitation, because she laughs, and says, “What? What do you want to know?”
“Well, when you were with Vivian, did you ever miss, you know, a…” I can’t finish my question. I’m too mortified to be asking a former student about her lesbian lifestyle.
“A penis, a thoroughly good, deep-dicking?”
My eyes widen. My cheeks blush, and my jaw drops. Sarah explodes with laughter, loud, room-filling laughter. I laugh too; it’s a contagious laughter, an alcohol-induced laughter. The kind of laughter that only happens when sadness and tears are on the verge of falling too.
Once we calm down, she confesses, “There wasn’t one moment when I missed a penis, not ever. My ability to reach climax, to have an orgasm, has very little to do with penetration.” She answers so matter-of-factly. Suddenly, I feel very cold. Or maybe its my frigidity that’s chilling my veins.
I have such difficulty talking so openly about sex with anyone other than Char. Why am I so inhibited, so afraid of my own sexual exploration and sexuality? I need to stop being so afraid. I just need to relax and allow myself to grow and explore.
“Defy gravity.” God, I love that musical.
“Okay, I guess I get that. But doesn’t it get a little boring with women… kind of like… ummm… I don’t know, like glorified masturbation?” I wonder.
“Oh wow, no! Lesbian sex is so incredibly intimate. To an outsider, it may seem like one would have to please the other separately, take turns, but that isn’t the case at all,” she explains, taking the last drink of her martini and leaning in closer to talk.
She continues, quietly, “The emotional connection between two women is completely different than it is with a man. A woman feels what you feel, knows what you know. It’s easy to please a woman, because I am a woman.”
Sarah looks away, pensively, searching for the right words, the description to explain herself more clearly. “With lesbian sex, there is no defined start, middle, or end, no pressure to ‘perform’ or ‘fake it.’ Lovemaking can truthfully go all night long and well into the next day,” she explains, full of conspiratorial excitement. “There were nights that we’d make love all night long and well into the next day, exploring each other, devouring each other… always without an end in sight.”
“Okay, okay, hold up, let me get another drink,” I say, finishing off my drink and chuckling nervously. “Am I supposed to be getting turned on here, because I am?” I smile, trying to be funny. “Damn. No wonder Jasper wanted to hire you for his advertising firm. You can sell the Hell out of a product. Shit. Hold on.” I say, fanning myself.
I get up and order us another two drinks. I eye the men in the bar, wondering if any of them would be interested in taking care of the desires Sarah just stirred in me. Walking back to her at the table, I say, “If Vivian could hear you now, she’d video tape the two of you together and send it to her parents with a ‘fuck you’ note attached.” I laugh, setting the drinks down.
“It’s just so different when making love to a man,” she recalls. “When I was with Jake, I always felt so distant, so disconnected. My mind would wander.” She looks remorseful. I wonder if she feels badly for not loving him and not connecting with him. Jake must have loved her unconditionally. Who wouldn’t? Sarah is just so easy to be with, to be around.
Sighing she explains, “I wasn’t really with him when we were together. I was a million miles away. With Vivian, I would find myself getting lost in her, wanting to find a way to get even closer, become one with her.” She takes a sip of her drink, and leans in closer to add, “I was connected to her so intimately, so entirely, it was hard to distinguish where she stopped and I began.” I can see how much she still loves Vivian, and I feel badly for her loss, her pain.
IN THE ELEVATOR up to our floor, Sarah leans against the far wall of the elevator, and asks, “So back in your sorority days in college, did you ever kiss one of your sorority sisters, ever hook up with one of your roommates?”
I laugh and admit, “You know, I always heard that was the thing to do in college, but I never heard of anyone who’d actually did it—not even Char.” I spend the rest of the elevator ride and walk to my hotel room door, explaining who Char is and why that’s monumental news. Laughing, Sarah says that she wants to meet Char. Who doesn’t?
Sarah follows me inside my hotel room, opens the mini bar, and grabs us each a small bottle of vodka. “To a great night, and defying gravity!” she toasts, opening the bottles and handing me one. I take a small swig, not wanting to puke in my new pants suit. I really did enjoy my time with her. Who knew a former student could become such a good friend, a true confidante?
Admittedly, Sarah stirs feelings in me, curiosities in me that I never knew I possessed. I watch her flip through one of my magazines; she really is attractive. She plops down on the chair while I start my nighttime routine. We chat like old friends. I wash my face, change my clothes, and brush out my hair. I do have a great deal of difficulty handling my routine. I’m pretty drunk, pretty wobbly and unfocused. During the summers, I drink way more than normal, but this summer, I’m coming close to breaking some college records I set many years before. Sarah notices that I’m done getting ready for bed and stands to leave.
“Janelle, thanks again for getting me this job. I had so much fun tonight,” she leans in to hug me. I hug her tightly. I catch a scent of her hair. It smells feminine, fresh, and light.
“Did you just sniff my hair?” she asks me, trying to hide her smile.
“It smells so good,” I say, leaning in to smell it again. My nose brushes her ear, smelling her neck. She tries to stifle a moan, but I hear the sound, stirring deeper feelings inside of me, curiosities I can’t deny. Curiosities I didn’t even know I had.
Sarah’s eyes meet mine, her eyes questioning me. I nod. A look of surprise shows in her eyes as she leans in. I meet her at the midpoint. My lips brush hers. The touch is light, soft. She moves in closer, slowly and delicately wrap
ping her arms around my waist. My arms carefully clasp around her neck, settling softly on her shoulders. Our mouths open; our tongues intertwining, exploring one another’s lips, mouths, tongues. I’m torn between the pull of this sensuality and the incredulity that it’s actually happening. I can’t deny how delicious she is, tasty and so soft and careful. Sarah trails her lips down my neck; I whimper, feeling my insides begging for more. She pulls back, looking at me, questioning me.
Surprising myself, I take the initiative and clasp her hand, leading her to the bed. She crawls in beside me; our arms find each other, holding the other close. She nestles into my neck. I stroke her back and hair, still surprised by my actions and my desires. Her fingers brush my nipples, softly tickling them through the fabric of my nightshirt. They hardened immediately at her touch; she giggles.
“What’s funny?” I ask, feeling slightly offended and unsure of myself.
“Sexuality. It’s so gray with women. It’s not just black and white,” she explains, tracing my collar bone with her fingernail. “With men, well most men, sexuality is black and white. You’re either gay or straight, nowhere in between.” She continues to tease the bud of my nipple, keeping it hard and aroused. “Women don’t see sexuality as one or the other. It’s something to explore, to experiment with, making it so much sexier.” Her tongue darts out of her mouth, licking my nipple through the fabric of my shirt.
Still playing with her hair, I say, “I don’t get it.”
“Like earlier tonight, I invoked feelings in you, feelings that you decided to explore. That’s wonderful. Curiosity got the best of you,” she explains, smiling, looking at me with awe. “And that is so hot, so sexy, but tomorrow, when you wake up, you’ll still be the heterosexual female that was checking out the single men in the bar and nobody would dare say otherwise.”
