by Lee Lynch
“How long has it been for you?” she asked, reaching to gently stroke my shaking hand.
“Over two years.”
“What happened? You flipped out?”
“It’s that obvious?”
“To me. I’ve done it too. Before I knew I was gay. Then again when I found out I was. That’s one reason I hold onto the marriage. Keeps me steady.”
We looked into one another’s eyes. “I understand,” I said, understanding a little more about me too. My marriage was to Edie and Esther.
“There’s something about your eyes,” she said, “and the lines of your face. It’s all there.” She’d been touching my face.
I touched hers, too, seeing the beginnings of the lines she was talking about. Lines of feeling. “I don’t regret them. Some of those times were the most intense of my life,” I said.
“Yet you don’t want to repeat them.”
“You never know if you’re going to come back.”
“I call this time, when my husband goes away, my crazy time.”
Our lips were almost touching, we were so close. “You want to go crazy with me, baby?” I asked.
She touched my lips with hers and I could feel how much she’d longed for this kiss. Even more, I could feel how much I wanted it. We just sat there, breathing on each other’s lips, afraid to kiss harder for the control we’d lose, yet not wanting to separate.
“Let’s dance.”
She wasn’t arguing. The bar had filled, but wasn’t packed — it was Monday night — but there were enough women to make it cozy and anonymous. We stepped together and the feel of her soft, needy body against mine was more delicious than all the Chinese food in the world. I wished I hadn’t eaten. I felt coarse and heavy where I wanted to feel light and charming. I pressed her to me and she sighed, like she was exhaling just enough to make herself fit against me. She felt too good to me to move. And for all her aggressiveness, I knew I’d be butch. She was so womanly, all soft curves in her ladylike clothes. You could tell, too, she didn’t belong in the bars. Maybe the cut of her clothes, the careful styling of her hair. I wouldn’t fall in love with her for life, she wasn’t my kind, but for a few days she was just what the doctor ordered.
We left at the first fast song and went to her hotel. A nice one, not too expensive, in the Village. She had taken a room already so there was no hassle.
“What do you tell your husband? Doesn’t he call you?”
“I say I go to the sea. That I can’t stand to be in the house without him.”
“And he believes you?”
“Yes. He knows I love the sea, that I’d spend all my time there if I could. We usually rent a place on the Cape in the summer, but I tell him I go to Maine for these trips, where it’s wilder.”
Wilder. The way she said the word, scared me. But just for a minute. Then I knew she was telling me how I should love her. She turned to me. I grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to me, kissing her harder than the first time. Not hurting her, but harder. I kneaded her arms and she wrapped them around me tightly, clinging as if I were holding her up in a strong sea. She bit my lower lip and sent a hot sharp message into my body. This first one would be fast, I knew. Neither of us could wait and I took her clothes off, quickly, then my own. We looked at one another. She was beautiful — full, pendulous breasts, a little belly just round enough — all womanliness. What surprised me was her body hair. There was so much of it, I hadn’t expected it on her. From between her breasts it traveled in a line to her navel where it widened and grew very thickly down onto her legs.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
I thought: how she must suffer, waiting for rejection. I wondered how much this had to do with her craziness, with staying with a husband who at least knew her. I knelt before her and began to kiss her through it, pulling tufts of hair with my lips, blowing at it, until I reached between her legs with my hand. Perhaps I did mind, a little, but only because I wasn’t used to it. My hand was so wet with her it was all I could do to overcome my excitement enough to ask, “What do you think?” before I tipped her onto the bed.
She sat on its edge while I spread her legs and began to touch her with my tongue. All that hair felt strange on my cheeks, but she soon fell back, gasping, and all I knew then was woman feel, woman sound, woman wet, woman smell. I didn’t tease her, I couldn’t, I wanted her to be coming and never stop this first, overwhelming time. It was powerful for her. She was lovely during it, too, moving so slightly and sensuously, crying so quietly to me, touching me so gently on the head all the while. What a beauty. When I joined her lying across the bed there were tears in her eyes and behind them, stars, just like there were supposed to be. It was very gratifying, knowing what pleasure I could still give a woman. I wiped her moisture from my face on her, laughing to myself about her natural towel, and I kissed her lips. She pulled me down to her and I could tell by her touch that it was me, now, she would give me what I’d just given her. For a second I longed for Frenchy, then she touched the sadness out of me. She was good. Not as much because she was experienced as from a real desire to please me.
“What do you like?” she asked, and the question turned me on even more.
“Show me my choices,” I whispered, teasing. Didn’t she trust herself to be able to tell? But I wasn’t getting away as easy as that. This wouldn’t be the fast and easy release I’d given her. She touched me everywhere, gently, hard, with her hands, her fingers, her lips, her marvelous breasts. She wasn’t choosing, she wanted me to tell her. I did and came the instant she touched me with her tongue, just lost, lost, lost in whirlpools of the feeling, one ring of sensation dying and another, just as strong, beginning. I don’t know how long it took, but I was downright embarrassed when she stopped. I was still feeling it, though faintly, and too wiped out to pull her back to me. I held her lightly.
Later, we turned on a radio. We danced, naked, to a Spanish station.
She’d never been with a Spanish girl before and I think she liked the idea. It made me seem sexier to her. I had to teach her love words in Spanish and that excited her. She made me tell her what I was doing as I loved her, in Spanish. Then she made me ask for what I wanted in Spanish, and I had to wait till she figured out the translation. Yes, she was a tease, a little kinky. She liked to hear the words of love between women. She had some other tricks I won’t go into, too, and after the second day I’d gotten pretty tired of it all, a little over-satisfied, if you know what I mean. I was glad I’d told her from the start I couldn’t stay with her the whole week.
I called into work Tuesday from a phone booth. Said I was still sick, that I might be in Wednesday, but certainly Thursday. And I called Edie Tuesday night.
“I’m sorry,” I said as soon as she said hello.
She was great. “Mercedes, I’m just glad to hear from you. Your note said it all. I’m the one who should be sorry. You didn’t need all this strain. And you’ve been taking it all on yourself.”
“Thanks for understanding. It took me a while to figure all that out.”
“I was glad of the time. I needed to start thinking and stop relying on you to do it all for me. Are you really having a vacation?”
“I think I’ve had enough. There’s something creepy about being cooped up in a hotel room with a stranger.”
“Oh, that kind of vacation.”
“I needed to, I couldn’t stand it any more. But, listen, I’m not sure I’ll be back tomorrow. I think I’ll stay one more night with her. She is good, you know.”
“No, I don’t,” Edie laughed wickedly.
“Then I’ll spend the day alone tomorrow. I should be home at dinnertime tomorrow night. Okay? And I’ll call if not. You’ll be all right alone tonight?”
“Fine. I haven’t finished what I’m working on. It’s a love letter. It may be too late, but at least I can try to put it all down. And I’m readier for bad news too. I know I’ll survive.”
“Yeah, me too.” I could tell she was gri
nning on the other side of the phone. Like me.
“So, go back to your creepy stranger and enjoy yourself.”
“I’m going to insist we go out somewhere tonight or I’ll be home sooner than I planned!”
“Then I’ll see you whenever!”
It was hard hanging up. She was all the plain regular normal everyday things in my life. Why couldn’t I fall for her? I almost dreaded going back to Candy and felt a chill down my back as I thought of her. That’s just what she was like, too, like candy, kind of sickly sweet. But then, she was beautiful and sexy and could be fun. If I could get some clothes on her and get her out on the street, I’d feel more normal.
When I got upstairs I realized I’d exaggerated her bad points. She was all dressed and ready to usher me out the door to dinner, a great little Mexican restaurant she just knew I’d love. This Spanish stuff was really getting to me, but that’s what I got for picking up a white dentist’s wife. I could humor her for one more night.
It was cooler than the night before, as if we were going backwards into winter. I put my arm around her and she snuggled into it. We walked along like any two women out for a night on the town, except it was only Tuesday. The part of the Village where she took me was interesting, all little criss-crossed streets, like the area Lydia had described where Frenchy lived. I wanted to run into every building and check names on mailboxes.
“How far is this place?” I asked, shivering.
“Around the corner. You’re not used to fresh air,” she said, leaning to kiss me.
She might be sickly sweet, but that didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the sweetness. I felt very sophisticated, walking with a beautiful woman in the night under a lavender sky turning to violet. We found the restaurant and I ate sparingly, not particularly liking all that hot food. Then we went on to the bar where we’d first met. It seemed smaller, smokier, shabbier. Candy was still a wonderful girl to dance with, to hold hands with across the table, but to tell you the honest truth, I was bored.
“Tired?”
“You wear me out.”
She laughed long and low. “We’d better get back to the room. I don’t want you to fall asleep on me the last night.”
“Is it the last night?”
“It feels like it.”
“I’ve been putting off telling you,” I lied. “They told me I had to come back to work tomorrow. One of the other kids has the same thing that they think I have. That means three of us are out —”
“I’ve really liked being with you and want to have this last night very much, but I understand it’s enough.”
What a strange girl. Flashes of kindness and intuition, then that awful stifling need of hers, stored up year to year. “And you? Will you go home now?” I asked.
She held a cigarette for me to light and I admired those gentle hands, insistent hands that even now made me throb. “Not yet,” she said, and I knew she’d be at a bar again tomorrow, ready for one more girl before she went back to sit in the dentist’s chair.
“Listen,” I said, “you ought to think about leaving him. You ought to find a girl you can get the same kind of setup with as you have with him. They’re around, you know, girls who want to settle down, support their lovers.”
The look of fear in her eyes shocked me. “No,” she said harshly, “I’m okay the way I am. Why rock the boat?”
But I knew I had to take my own advice. Even when I’d gone out with more than one girl at a time, I knew them, was friends before and after. “Let’s go back to the room,” I said, taking hold of her wrist, wanting to start the long night so that I could get some sleep and spend Wednesday alone.
She stood, in her graceful way, and took my arm. We played at love as we walked back to the hotel and played at love into the night. Then she let me sleep and in the morning she slept on. I kissed her goodbye. She didn’t wake. Or didn’t want to say goodbye. I took one last look at the disheveled room, at her lovely face, liking the new way I’d found of going crazy. Even though I had no regrets, it had all been kind of sordid. I had to do better for myself.
Chapter 9
Frenchy Goes to Florida
Late Spring, 1967
For the first time in her life Frenchy was on a plane. Excited and scared, she sat with legs spread, feet planted firmly before her, hands gripping her thighs. If she was going to die it would be now, on takeoff, over Flushing Bay. She just knew it.
“People live through airplane flights every day, Genvieve.” Her brother was flying high too, high and mighty with the money he was earning to be making long distance calls to New York and paying for her to fly down to see Maman in Tarpon Springs. “Gen,” Serge had said, “Maman misses you. It’s either this or she says she’s moving back home. You want to live with her again?” It sounded like a threat. Did he know what kind of life she was leading in the City now, by herself? Did he suspect?
Another engine roared and the cabin of the plane vibrated. Frenchy let go of her legs long enough to triple-check her seat belt. A stewardess hung over her, asking if everything was all right. “Sure thing,” Frenchy said, flashing her most charming smile.
Then the stewardess stood talking into a microphone, explaining how to escape a plane which had crashed. Holy Christmas, thought Frenchy, trying valiantly to pay attention.
“It’s safer than driving a car,” Pam had claimed. Did the driver of a car go through this every time she started the motor? Hell, no. Still, the stewardess treated it all casually. And she sure was cute.
The stewardess sat facing the passengers and strapped herself in. She was no fool either. The man on the aisle seat next to Frenchy scratched his leg and Frenchy eyed him suspiciously. Better not be next to any damn pervert, she told herself. Suddenly, the terminal began to slide away from Frenchy. Holy Christmas, she thought, it’s like the ferry only without the safe feeling of water under you. She began to pray, not knowing exactly who to pray to. “If anybody’s up there, I forgive all the crap I been through and all the rotten things that happen in the world, just let me live through this, please, let me get home safe to my little apartment in New York. I swear I’ll go to Fire Island with Lydia. I swear, I swear.” Satisfied she’d traded one large fear for another, she dared to open her eyes. The plane hadn’t moved any further. How long would this go on?
Now she had to go to Fire Island, she thought. No getting out of it. Maybe it would rain. Maybe Mercedes wouldn’t go. That damn kid was a troublemaker. Frenchy bit her tongue. I’m sorry, she prayed again. I didn’t mean that for real. I like the kid. I like everybody.
They were taxiing now, gaining speed. She held her breath, feeling as if she were in the elevator going up to the top of the Empire State Building. Her stomach turned over as they left the ground. She considered the throwup bag in the seat pocket, looked appraisingly at the stewardess, swallowed hard. The plane leveled out. Piece of cake, she said, smiling in the general direction of the stewardess, hoping the sweat on her forehead didn’t show. She was glad her hair fell over her forehead today — the first time she’d worn it like this since she’d transferred down to the Village. While there wasn’t anyone to pretend for in New York anymore, she would spend four days doing nothing but pretending. Perhaps she could slip away from Maman now and then ...
“You may now unfasten your seatbelts. Please note the non-smoking sign is still lit.” The man beside her took a briefcase out from underneath the seat. Frenchy left her seatbelt on, but slumped a little. She turned toward the window and looked out on huge white clouds. Holy shit, she breathed, shrinking back into her seat. She was on top of the clouds.
A few hours later, Frenchy arrived, shakily at the airport. She was alive. She was exhilarated. And proud of herself for surviving the first half of the trip. The stewardess’ warm smile had said goodbye. Was it especially warm toward her? She had read a gay novel about a stewardess. Then she saw her mother and brother and sister-in-law. She stood taller, and feeling like a visiting dignitary, checked her stride and walked
for Maman. What would Maman think if she reappeared walking like a Mack truck!
“Hello, hello, hello,” everyone was saying at once and kissing her. Her mother, tears in her eyes, was babbling in French.
Outside the terminal it was hot. Frenchy wished her brother could have arranged this trip for winter, when the New York streets were turning gray with snow and beginning to look like dog kennels. But still, she thought, trying to look everywhere at once out of the windows of Serge’s car, it was nice to get away for a few days.
She wasn’t exactly lonely in her small apartment. She saw Pam now and then, had been back out to Jessie and Mary’s, had seen Lydia once more. There was always the bar. And Marian from the Bronx A&P had been down to visit a couple of times. Still, at night, when she turned out the light, there was never anyone beside her.
Why she had no longer had any desire to sleep with girls, she didn’t know, but there it was. It was kind of nice in a way. Like she was waiting for the right one. Or the right time. Drifting.
Her brother’s kids were pointing out palm trees, the water that seemed to be everywhere, strange buildings. Frenchy had pictured Serge in a big old brownstone, or at the least, a three-story house like Jessie’s or Edie’s. But this house was weird — low and a pink color. Small from the outside, but huge inside.
What a new world — surrounded by strange trees and flowers, insects that seemed a foot long, and lizards. Frenchy wished she were here with someone, someone who counted, to share it all. She decided to write a letter, tell someone about it. But who?”
“Dear Lydia,” she wrote that night, sitting alone in the kitchen. The kid would get a kick out of a letter, hearing about strange places.
“It must be nice,” she wrote, “to live with people who know who you are. I mean, my family loves me, or they think they love me, but I know they’re loving a me they want me to be. In your house you know your mother is gay and you love her anyway. You can all be yourselves. I guess I wanted you to know how good that is in case you never thought about it.
