by Deena Bright
When she takes her hand away and stops caressing my nipple, I have an overwhelming sense of longing. Sarah smiles, not taking her eyes from me. “But if a man were to fall into bed with another man, all viewpoints of his sexuality would change, altering him for life. Being a woman is so liberating,” she giggles again, putting her hand up my shirt, caressing my bare stomach, inching closer to my breasts.
“I’m not sure what to say to that. Should we stop? Do you think that I’m not into this?” Feeling my buzz begin to wane and beginning to question what and why I initially allowed this to start in the first place, I feel uncomfortable and unsure.
“Janelle, I’m having fun; you’re obviously having fun. Stop analyzing everything. We’re not going to do anything you’re not comfortable with or I’m not comfortable with.”
How did she get so smart?
So wise?
So sure of herself?
Hell, I was her teacher—maybe I had something to do with it. I’m awed and fascinated by her. I remember her being smart in high school, but this is extraordinary. She’s evolved. I’m proud of her and oddly jealous as well.
“We’re not going to fly back to Ohio on Wednesday and try to legalize gay marriage, for fuck’s sake,” she laughs, nudging me. She starts kissing my neck, licking my earlobe again. “I just want to have fun tonight, maybe not even do more than this, and go back remembering that I had a kick ass time in New York City.”
Okay, a month ago, I was happily (or so I thought) married to my college sweetheart. This month, I am fooling around with not one, but two of my former students. For sure, I’m breaking some sort of law. One thing is for certain, they’re a lot smarter than I ever gave them credit for. I wonder if I should find a way to go back in to the record archives and change their grades. They’re damn geniuses.
“You’re right. I’m having fun. We should keep having fun until we decide to stop or until one of us passes out.” I laugh, freely kissing her again. Kissing a girl is monumentally different than kissing a guy, different from kissing Briggs for sure. His lips are so strong, so needy, and hungry. Sarah’s lips are so delicate and full, but full of confidence and self-assuredness.
Sitting upright, Sarah removes her shirt and bra. I follow her cue, and quickly remove my shirt as well, not allowing my “what ifs” and “oh shits” to get the best of me. I am going to stay in this moment and enjoy myself if it’s the last thing I do.
Wearing only my underwear, I lie back down and kiss her neck, just below her earlobe. Her hands fist in my hair as a muffled groan escapes her lips.
Sighing, she says, “I think this will be good for tonight. I don’t want you hating yourself in the morning.”
“What? You’re cutting me off?” I whine, wrapping my arms around her, kissing her neck harder, sucking her flesh between my teeth. The sensation of our bare breasts, naked nipples touching, sends currents of electrifying desire throughout my body. I’ve never felt anything so sensual and erotic before, definitely never anything so forbidden. The feeling of our nipples massaging together dampens my panties and makes me moan with a newfound yearning and want.
She kisses my neck, biting lightly at my shoulders, traveling down my body. Looking into my eyes, Sarah whispers, “Janelle, believe me when I say that I really… really… want you. But we need to take this slow.”
As she tickles my stomach, she takes in my entire body—her eyes pausing on every exposed part of my skin. “I want to taste every inch of your gorgeous body. You are doing things to me that I thought died inside me months ago. I cannot thank you enough for that.” She licks my nipple, rolls the bud around in her mouth, and blows a cold breath on the dampened nub. I moan, pulling lightly on her hair, running my fingers along her scalp. She moves to the other nipple and massages the flesh, tugging softly on the nipple.
“Oh Sarah, this is so hot—so sexy.” I breathe.
“Thank you, I needed to hear that. And you, you’re going thank me tomorrow. You’re beautiful and worthy, and you deserve the world.” She travels back up to my lips, kissing me deeply and passionately. I reach around her, but not before she pulls away and sits up. “Good night Janelle,” she whispers, calmly, smiling happily.
It takes a moment for her words to register. I sit up, shocked. “You’re leaving?”
Still smiling, she pulls on her shirt, and explains, “Yes, because we need sleep for the gala tomorrow. Because this could turn into something real for one of us and because one of us is going to wake up tomorrow with all that Catholic-girl guilt. You know who is who too.” She kisses my head, grabs a bottled water from the mini bar, and leaves.
“Oh fuck.” I mumble before falling soundly asleep.
THE NEXT MORNING, I awaken exactly how Sarah predicted I would. What in God’s name am I doing? What the Hell is becoming of me? So now what? I’m a lesbian. I kissed and licked a girl’s body. And guess what? I liked it. I’d probably do it again. Shit, what did I do? Sarah’s right; I carry around way too much Catholic-girl guilt. Holy Mary Mother of God, I am sinning left and right. Someone better recite a rosary or two for me before I burn in Hell.
I lie in bed not wanting to face the day, to face her, or to face my guilt-ridden and shameful eyes in the mirror. I can’t believe I did that. What in the world happened to Janelle Garrity-Flowers—good girl extraordinaire? Anxiety is setting in. I’m losing it. I can’t spend the day with her. I hope she didn’t fall in love with me last night. I don’t want a relationship with her. Holy fuck.
My phone rings. It’s Sarah. I refuse to answer it. Panicking, I hit the “decline” button at the same time I hear her through hotel room door, “Janelle, open up you predictable little freak-job. I know you’re in there.” I’m afraid to move, to make a sound. Maybe she’ll go away, fly back home, forget what we’ve done.
The door rattles and Sarah walks in. “When I left last night, I took your key. I knew you’d be too ashamed to face me.” What’s with all of my students taking my keys, stopping in, deciding what’s best for me? These kids need knocked down a few pegs. Aren’t I supposed to be the evolved adult around here?
Sarah flops down on the bed, handing me a Starbucks cup. She looks great. Her hair is in two French braids, cascading down her back. She’s wearing workout gear and tennis shoes—as if she just finished a quick workout. Wasn’t she as drunk as I was last night?
“Aren’t you hung over or anything?” I ask. Then she reveals how alive she feels for the first time in a long time.
Sarah woke up happy, full of life and renewal, not because she was in love with me, but because she knew she’d be able to love again. She was no longer afraid. Sarah had actually gotten up and gone running in Central Park, fully rejuvenated. No wonder she and Jasper got along so well. A love of running! Fuckers. Vivian turned Sarah into a runner while they were dating. Jasper probably loved that about her. They probably run their asses off for fun every day after work. No fucking thank you.
Apparently, there’s some woman at Garrity Advertising who Jasper has wanted to fix her up with for a while now, but Sarah has been too heart-broken, too gun shy to agree. But when she woke up today, she knew that she wanted to go out with her, try something new.
“So get up, stop beating yourself up,” she pulls on my arm, forcing me to sit up. “You helped out a friend, no more, no less. Let’s catch the ferry and go see the Statue of Liberty; that bitch rocks!”
Wow. She’s a ball of life and energy. I’m quite jealous. I wish I woke up so sure of myself, sure of the decisions that I make each day. I spend the majority of my life second-guessing myself.
“Really? Statue of Liberty?” I joke, trying to shake myself out of my depression. “Are you sure we’re okay? You don’t think less of me?” I really can’t squelch this feeling that I’m disappointing everyone around me, letting everyone down.
“Think less of you? Oh for God’s sake! You got me out of my funk, and I fulfilled a seven-year fantasy last night,” she replies, smiling triumphantly.
I look at her questioningly. “Seven-year fantasy?” I ask.
“Yep, ever since you wore that baby—” she admits.
“Shut up, don’t say it!” I scream, pulling the covers up over my head, blocking out the words.
She screams louder, “That baby costume, I so wanted to see your tits and that’s crazy, because I was full-out hetero then.” Laughing and trying to pull me up out of the bed, she adds. “Not only did I get to see those babies, but I got to touch them… and lick them… and hold them…”
“Oh my God, kill me now. Did you just say ‘tits’?” I admonish. “That’s disgusting! Girls aren’t supposed to use that word.” I laugh, throwing my pillow at her.
“Yep, now get ready. Tits. Tits. Tits.” I jump out of the bed, holding my hands over my ears.
SARAH AND I had a great time sight-seeing and being the typical tourists. We hit all the trademark touristy spots. She’s great company and quickly turning in to a good friend. I’m glad she kept my key and forced me to see the truth. If it were up to me, I’d probably still be in my hotel room looking for ways to avoid her for my misconduct and poor decisions. But she’s right, it’s healthy to explore and experiment. Our “hookup” last night gave her clarity and made her realize that it’s time to reopen her heart; it gave me clarity as well. I spent the entire day thinking about Briggs and Leo. Yes, Leo too. Exploring my sexuality was definitely number one on my to do list. The first two things that I want to do: Briggs and Leo.
Both!
Hell, maybe even together.
WALKING IN TO the fundraiser, I feel gorgeous. The plum-colored backless dress was an immediate confidence booster. I know I look sexy. Sarah keeps pointing out men who are ogling me. I’m enjoying the attention. I crave the attention. My self-esteem is out of whack and going haywire. One minute, I feel gorgeous, carefree, ready to take on the world; the next minute, I doubt myself, hate myself, and don’t know where I’m going in life. Maybe these are typical emotions for a victim of infidelity. I just don’t know. I don’t know anyone who ever experienced this before. I make a mental note to hit some book stores back home about coping with lechery and getting over my feelings of inadequacy. I never thought I would be one to need “Self Help” books, but damn, I certainly need them.
As we approach our table, Sarah stays back, forcing me to walk to the table alone. There’s a lone woman at our table, her back to me. I approach the table, not believing my eyes, hoping I’m not imagining things.
“Mom?” I choke, tears welling in my eyes.
“Oh Janelle, I’m so sorry. I’m here. Marcus is a stupid, stupid man,” she soothes, holding me tightly, rubbing my back. I cling to her, sobbing into her shoulders, ruining my hair and makeup.
“But how? How are you here? Why?” I can’t believe the one person that I need the most is right in front of me, holding me, protecting me. I never want to let her go.
“Jasper and Joz thought you could use your mom.” Oh God, they were right. They knew. Neither one came here either. They weren’t making me share her. “Jasper flew me in for the night. That boy has some serious money. We need his money,” she jokes, laughing and directing me to the chair.
I sit down, staring at her. She’s beautiful. She looks younger, happier, so full of energy and life. Jesus, when did that happen? How did that happen? My mom hasn’t really been there for me since I was 20 years old. Now, when I need her the most, at 29, when my world is crumbling around me, and I’m making bad decision after bad decision, here she is. I can’t stop the floodgates of tears that are soaking my face and dress.
“Janelle, I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you.” My mom shakes her head, putting her hand on mine and squeezing it lightly. “I know this is tough for you, but you’re a rock honey. You’re going to get through this.” She seems so sure, not wavering at all.
“Mom, I just… I just don’t know what to do.” I feel my lip quiver and my tears spilling out again. “I feel like such a fool—such a failure.” I put my head in my hands. She rubs my back, like she used to do when I was child home from school with the flu.
“That’s ridiculous!” she exclaims. Turning her head, she says, “You must be Sarah.” Sarah approaches the table, gives my back a quick pat, and sits on the other side of me.
“Yes, Mrs. Garrity, Jasper’s told me so much about you and your husband. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”
Sarah leans over me and shakes my mom’s hand. Did Jasper really talk about my mom to her? How close are they? I wonder if I can convince her to marry my brother. Sarah would be perfect for him—all except for the whole lesbian thing. Damn.
“Call me Sue. Jasper exaggerates, but it’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” My mother takes a sip of her wine, and asks us if we want a drink. My mom knows all about Sarah, too? How often are my mom and brother communicating? I thought that we only talked to them once a month. Hmmm, someone’s holding out on me.
“I’m on it. You two catch up.” Sarah gets up and says, “Janelle, martini?”
“Not tonight; just a glass of white wine please.” I can’t drink like I did last night. If I keep this business up, I’ll be in AA in no time. I can’t wallow in alcohol for the rest of my life.
“Did you girls have fun last night?” my mom questions. I’m not about to answer her truthfully. How can I tell my mom that we got loaded up and then made out in my hotel bed? Hell, in her newfound euphoric state, she’d probably be proud of me. Is it possible that the world isn’t judging me as harshly as I’m judging myself?
“Yes, Wicked was amazing.” I rave about the show and Nobu until Sarah returns with our glasses of wine.
“Sarah, I cannot believe you got this girl to try sushi. She never tries anything new,” my mom casually announces.
“I know, I’m going to work on her trying new things and opening up a little more,” Sarah says mischievously, holding up her glass, and then adds, “To new beginnings.”
We clink our glasses and sip our wine. I can’t believe my mother flew all the way to New York to be with me. I haven’t felt so loved in… in… well… ever. This night is truly magnificent. Writing the check, Jasper’s check, to the March of Dimes feels more than philanthropic; it feels therapeutic. How can I sit around feeling sorry for myself when real suffering, human suffering exists in the world?
My mother talked a little bit about the children in the orphanage and the connections she was making with them and the breakthroughs they were having. My parents really were remarkable. Nearing 60 and she seemed younger than I had ever known her. Growing up didn’t have to be synonymous with growing old. I could learn from this mess without making myself old, angry, and bitter, without hating and mistrusting men. If my parents could start over, then I could certainly start over at 29.
“Men aren’t the problem Janelle. Marcus was the problem; he isn’t every man,” my mom explains.
She’s right. I know that. My mom continues, “Marcus was never the man for you. You were never yourself with him. He grounded you. He was like an anchor; you couldn’t fly with him.” Wow, just last night I said that I needed to “defy gravity” and my mom is now saying the same thing. She wants me to fly. Moms just know what to say and how to say it to make it count.
Going on, she says, “You latched on to Marcus when your dad and I left, so you’d have someone, the wrong someone, but someone nonetheless. You basically went straight from that adorable boy from high school to that ass.”
She shakes her head disapprovingly. “Janelle, it’s important for women to date, learn what they really want in man, or a woman.” She glances from Sarah to me. She really must have talked to Jasper about Sarah—unless my mom has the keenest “gay-dar” on the planet.
“Amen,” Sarah concurs. “I read once that the average woman sleeps with seven to ten men in her lifetime. So how many is it, Janelle?” she asks, innocently. I redden immediately. This is not a topic that I’ll ever talk to my mother about.
M
y mom laughs, “Janelle would like us to believe that it was only Marcus, but we knew she slept with her high school boyfriend.” She grabs my hand and squeezes it affectionately. “They weren’t as sneaky as they thought.” Smiling and shaking her head, appearing entirely amused, she stands up to excuse herself. As she walks away, I realize that I’ve never felt like an adult around my mom, but tonight I’m starting to feel like it for the first time in my life. How can a 29-year-old woman still feel like a child around her parents?
“Is she right, only two?” Sarah asks, incredulously.
“Well, I mean, I’ve fooled around with guys, frat boys in college, hooking up and crap, but if we’re talking sex-sex, like penetration, then yeah. Two,” I admit. “There was Todd in high school and Marcus.”
Suddenly, I feel embarrassed, humiliated by my innocence. I can’t figure myself out. Sometimes I’m proud of my innocence and naiveté; other times, I’m embarrassed by my lack of experience and knowledge.
Cracking up, Sarah squeals, “I’m a lesbian, and I’ve slept with more men than you have.” She’s laughing and pushing against me. Apparently, Sarah slept with her high school boyfriend and a few guys in college before she met Vivian and realized that she wanted something completely different.
“Shut up, that’s just because you were searching for something else,” I shove her back. “Something those boys didn’t have.” I tease.
“No, because I don’t have your crazy hang-ups about sex and what’s right and what’s wrong.” She’s dead on. Man, if I ever get her and Char together, they’ll gang up on me and kill me with all their “Janelle-rightness.”
“I don’t have—” I try to argue.
