The Greek Persuasion

by Kimberly K. Robeson

  But Jane will always have my heart, my all-time favorite heroine and novel, a love story like no other. Had Zeus separated Jane and Edward, too?

  I am thinking about all this when Jessica slides a book off the shelf and reads the back cover.

  “So, what did you think of this?” I see she is holding Manifesta, my comprehensive guide to feminism.

  “I loved it. I know some stuff about feminism, but I thought it was very insightful. I think for many women the idea that there are waves of feminism gets kind of confusing. One thing for sure, this book made me grateful for all feminists, how they worked and continue to work to get us to where we are today, to where we can be tomorrow. It’s too bad that many people have such an aversion to the word feminist; almost as if it’s a dirty word when really it’s feminists that we should thank for all that we, women, have today in regard to choices.”

  I see Jessica looking at me. I can’t tell if it is a pensive or blank expression.

  “I’m sorry, Jessica. You probably already know all this. I am sure you have a lot of interesting conversations in class about these issues.”

  She doesn’t respond, just says, “Hey, would you mind calling me Jess?”

  “Sure … Jess.”

  “So, ready to go?” she asks while slipping the book back onto the shelf beside my collection of Wonder Woman comics. When she looks my way, I instantly feel safe. With men there was always a sense of worry what will happen at the end of a date. Will they expect a goodnight kiss, a make-out session? Sex? Maybe it’s the same way with women, with Jessica, but for some reason, there’s a sense of comfort. But still excitement.

  We walk out my blue door and take the elevator down to the indoor garage. The conversation flows easily. I have decided to drive tonight, so I won’t go over my one-drink limit because I really want to be lucid for this date.

  After I unlock the car with the automatic alarm, I walk over to her side of the car, and open her door. She laughs, “What a lady you are,” she says, sort of teasing, as my chivalrous gesture does not go unnoticed. Once we are in the car, I find myself sharing my ideology of the importance of still opening car doors. I have probably said this speech to countless men, but it’s really weird to say it to a woman.

  “I don’t mean to seem old-fashioned, but there is a part of me that loves tradition.”

  For years, I have had a hard time dealing with mixed emotions I would feel on first dates. I did want the guy to pay, and I did want him to open the door, but did that make me a hypocrite? Of course, I believed that women and men should have the same rights, so why were these gestures still important to me? I pretended to be someone I wasn’t. It’s only lately that I am finally coming to understand and accept myself, realizing that these seemingly contradictive ideals—wanting equality while still wanting to be treated “like a lady”—really aren’t contradictions at all. It’s okay for modern women to be an amalgamation of ideals; we just need to be clear regarding what we really want. Because when it comes down to it, we don’t all want the same thing, or necessarily want to be treated the same way.

  As I pull out of the garage, we are talking about a variety of topics. I end up sharing my Greek girl story and admit that I have never been with a woman before except for that one isolated experience.

  There are a few moments of quiet, and I start to think about all kinds of strange things. I am a girly woman, admittedly, and have always relied on men to do chores like take out the garbage and change light bulbs. If Jessica and I start dating, who will do these tasks? I kind of like the duties-divided scenario, but I’m sure things will be different.

  Suddenly I catch myself: I just recently met this woman, and I am already thinking about a relationship. Is it because I really like her, or am I just kind of lonely? It’s only been a few months since Ravi and I broke up, and maybe what I need is to be by myself for a while. Become Oprah-healthy. Complete on my own.

  Jessica starts to tell me about her life and how difficult it was for her to come out. I listen intently to her story, my heart opening as she speaks. She tells me about prominent figures and how they are trying to change marriage laws, about the marches she attends, and about the lives of gay authors. Then, suddenly, I’m anxious, like a little girl, almost like a student. I know very little about the gay and lesbian world. Do I even capitalize “lesbian”? I mean the island of Lesbos is a proper noun, and “lesbian” is a derivative, so should the “L” be capitalized? Like the island of Fiji; if you are from there, you are Fijian—capital “F.” I feel like I am treading in murky water. Capital letters may not be an issue. What if someone asks me what I am? What will I say? “Bisexual” doesn’t feel right. “Fluid” seems too sexually charged. Maybe I will just say Confused; oh, and with a capital “C.” Truth is, I’m not that confused though I do feel a bit stressed. My hands are sweating, so I turn on the air-conditioning even though it’s cool outside.

  Jessica is staring at me, her intense eyes tilted downward, watching me. I have no idea what she is thinking. She takes her hand and gently puts it on my thigh, “Thair, will you do me a favor?”

  “Yes,” I manage to squeak in a pathetic voice.

  “Will you, please, just relax?”

  A nervous laugh escapes me. Am I that obvious? Then a deep sigh, “Okay.” I guess I am completely transparent. “So, tell me more about this place where we’re going.”

  “Well, this is a place I frequent a lot. There are not too many lesbian bars in the city that I really like, and this one has great music, the ambience is relaxing, and I know some of the bartenders quite well. It just doesn’t feel like the typical pick-up joint, though I have to say,” she states with a smirk, “it’s probably the best place to hook up with a girl.”

  Hook up with a girl? Gosh, all of a sudden, this conversation sounds cheap. I guess I thought a woman, an educated woman no less, would be above talking about “hook-ups,” but I am soon realizing that lesbian, gay, straight, bisexual, transgender, transsexual, whatever label people use nowadays, it’s all the same shit. Going to a bar, looking for a “hook-up.” I find myself getting unnecessarily irritated. So we are going to a girl bar where she knows a lot of people. How well does she know these women? Will we be meeting her ex “hook-ups”? And why is she taking me there? My inner voices start tormenting me.

  I glance over at her, now looking straight ahead, I see her strong jaw line and her soft skin; such a strange contradiction of a woman, strong, a bit masculine with fleeting moments of girlishness when she smiles. I need to calm down. Why does any of it matter really? Who cares if we meet her exes? She obviously has no problem introducing me to people she knows, so maybe I am someone significant to her. But then I think, maybe this isn’t a date after all. Maybe I am just a friend? A bit of incomprehensible jealousy and insecurity envelops me. Then a little voice unsettles me: maybe I’m just a hook-up? I thought dating a woman would be simpler, but all of a sudden, it seems the rules of engagement are even more confusing. This is a whole new world for me, and somehow, I don’t think I like it any better. I can’t help but wonder: how would I have felt if a guy took me to a bar on our first date? I know I would not have liked it. BUT if I were with a man, and we had chemistry, our choices for a first date would be limitless. With a woman, it is so different. What if we went to a nice restaurant, what if we shared a bottle of wine, would we be able to reach over the table and hold hands, give each other a kiss? The answer is clear. Two women in a restaurant sharing a kiss would still cause a bit of scene here in conservative San Diego. Even in somewhat-liberal California, people still stare when they see two women together.

  Jessica, physically, has a hard edge, and I am such a girly-girl, so would people look at us holding hands and think, oh what a sweet couple, look at how in love they look. I don’t think so. If two women want to be together and show some affection, where do they go? I guess we could have stayed at my place or hers and just had dinner and wine, but I also know where that probably would have led.
And the truth is, I don’t think I am ready for that yet.

  Thoughts swirling in my head, reaching a vortex, I hear her words, sucking me out: “Thair, are you okay going to The Burn? If you want, we can go somewhere else. There are a lot of cafés and restaurants in Hillcrest where I think … you might feel comfortable.”

  Again, I hear that softness and real concern in her voice as if she is reading my mind, so in tune with my uncertainties.

  “No, I think The Burn sounds fun. Let’s stick with the original plan.”

  “Okay, good.” She squeezes my leg, gives me a big smile, and looks forward.

  After parking, we walk a few blocks to a club that has a large red-orange neon sign in front. Outside The Burn, a handful of women are talking, some smoking, some kissing; an overweight woman stands in the doorway.

  “Hey, Jess,” she says as she gives, I decide, my date a warm hug. “Two tonight?”

  “Yes, please,” Jess puts her hand in her back pocket and pulls out a small black wallet. I reach for my purse at the same time, though I know I am just going through the motions. I do want her to pay. I want to feel like she is taking me out.

  “Don’t worry about it. I got it.”

  As we walk in the door, she takes a hold of my hand, our fingers interlaced. I’m a bit nervous in this place but love the fact that she is in control. Funny. With a man, I hated it when they felt like they owned me, but with a woman, the control feels good. No patriarchal archetype dictates who is going to be “boss,” just two women together, one taking the role of being more dominant (at least in this situation) than the other.

  I overhear someone make a comment about the “lipstick lesbian and her dyke.” It doesn’t come across as nice. Jess is greeting someone and doesn’t hear the woman’s comment. I guess from the outside, with my long hair, miniskirt, and high-heeled boots, I look quite feminine. Jessica fits the description of “dyke,” so I guess I’m “lipstick.” Great. I can’t help but wonder, why categorize at all? Why label? Isn’t it this type of categorization that has caused so many problems in the world in the first place?

  Then the questions start again. What was I? Who am I? What am I doing in a lesbian bar with a woman? Who am I fooling? It feels godawful, weird. It feels weird, but not wrong. Part of me wants to leave the place screaming, but a larger part of me feels stuck to the chair, and the part that feels the strangest, the part that I cannot ignore, is that I am hugely drawn to Jessica, in a way that I never was to James or Ravi.

  “Hey, Thair, where are you?”

  “Sorry. I guess, I am just taking in the surroundings.”

  “Do you want to leave?”

  Here’s my opportunity.

  “No, let’s stay. Can we get a drink?”

  “Sure, what would you like?”

  “Do they have Tanqueray?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure they do.”

  “With tonic and twist of lime, please.”

  “Sure, I’ll be right back.”

  I open my purse and pull out a $20. This time the gesture is genuine. I hold it out to her as she smiles and says, “Save it. The next date can be on you.”

  When I hear these words, my heart leaps a bit. So, it is a date, and she expects a second one. A lightness encapsulates me. Then I wonder, how would I feel if a man had said that, expecting a second date?

  I have to stop! Stop comparing. Stop analyzing. Just relax.

  Jessica walks up to the bar, says something to a ravishing redhead bartender; then she leans over and they kiss on the cheek. My stomach burns. Gosh, am I jealous? Are lesbian relationships even more challenging than straight ones?

  I have been telling myself that the last few months I have been growing and changing, learning to be genuinely content in my own skin, but tonight my growth seems stunted. I am uncomfortable, jealous, and insecure. I also feel though that I am stretching. Maybe discomfort will be good for me? My thoughts vacillate from negative to positive, from confused to content.

  Jess notices my quiet and asks me again if I want to leave. But I don’t. After my gin and tonic, I relax. To get closer to the dance floor and music, Jessica and I move from a table to the bar. There we chat a bit with Tawny, the bartender. Turns out, Tawny was one of Jessica’s star students. She’s a striking woman, probably in her mid-twenties with piercing turquoise eyes that offset her flaming red hair. Scissors are tattooed on her neck, and a tiny diamond nose stud decorates her face. I want to ask Jessica if she ever went to bed with her, but I know it is really none of my business. “Sweet Child O’ Mine” comes on, so I grab Jessica’s hand as we head over to the dance floor. Amidst a bunch of women, we sway our bodies to Guns N’ Roses. For the first time all night, I am not thinking, just having a great time. We stay on the floor when AC/DC follows with “Highway to Hell.” We dance for at least an hour and then go back to the bar, take a short break, then dance again. When we finally sit down, I look at my watch, and it is almost 1:00 a.m. The music is loud and it’s hard to talk, so I ask her if she’s ready to go.

  Back at my place, I invite Jessica in. I am not ready for her to leave, and since I only had one drink all night, I’d like a glass of wine. She follows me in and sits down on the couch, making herself comfortable as she slips off her shoes and crosses her legs. I sit down on the ottoman and unzip my boots, my feet killing me. We must have danced at least a couple of hours, and she likes shaking as much as I do. I had told my mother just weeks before, Mama, I decided I will not be in a relationship again if the person doesn’t dance. Who cares about degree or job or intellect or humor? My next partner needs to love dancing! Of course, part of what I said was in jest, intellect and humor will always matter. I remember my mother’s reaction, just a simple humph.

  I wonder what she would have thought if she saw me shaking flirtatiously with another woman, now entertaining that same woman in my home—a woman who I was certain would soon be my lover.

  After I take off my boots, I wiggle my toes, jump to my feet, and grab a bottle of wine from my bar. “Would you like a glass of Cab, Merlot, or Pinot Noir? Sorry, don’t have any white wine. I have Corona if you prefer a beer.”

  “A glass of Cabernet sounds excellent.”

  After I open the bottle, I pour it in my Riedel decanter to aerate while lighting the many candles in my living room. Then I take the decanter, set it on the coffee table, kneel on the floor, and begin to pour the wine into the glasses. I love watching the way the deep red falls into the crystal. Swirling it a bit and tilting it to one side, I watch the tears stream down. I don’t know that much about wine, though I did take a class at one time, but mostly I just love the ritual of wine. Opening the bottle. Smelling the cork. Watching it fall into the decanter. I bought this decanter a few years ago, a bit pricey, a superfluous purchase. It’s hard to clean because of the sediment that gets trapped at the bottom, but worth every cent for its beauty. This is one of the rituals that provides me with a sense of calm, a sense of joy. I think many must encounter this feeling when they enter a church, yet I find it in pouring, smelling, and drinking a good glass of wine. It’s almost like I make love to each bottle of wine I open, often giving this ceremony more attention than I did the men in my life. I am thinking about all this as I swirl the glass one final time and take a good swig. The liquid rests in my mouth for a second; then I move it around, feeling it on my tongue, in my cheeks.

  I stand up and make my way to the fridge and get some Trader Joe’s truffles, set them out on another crystal dish, and bring them over on a tray with two glasses of water. I know trays seem so out of fashion—too ladylike, too much a reminder of the ’50s housewife—but I love them. I often buy my trays from craft fairs. My latest tray is made from a Duran Duran album cover that has lots of acrylic poured over it, slippery and wet to the touch, but very useable.

  As I set the tray on the table and see John Taylor smiling at me with his sultry eyes, I am sixteen again, screaming uncontrollably at a Duran Duran concert. Now, I feel a bit silly as I put i
t down and Jessica sees it.

  Jessica sits quietly, taking in her surroundings. Beside the couch are a rustic side table and the book I am currently reading, some mindless bestseller, a tool for escape. She picks it up and a photograph falls out—shoot, a black and white picture of me and Ravi at the Del Mar Fair from one of those photo booths. I have been using it as a bookmark, and since I still feel a lot of warmth for him, it serves its purpose with little emotional turmoil connected. Just a picture of a man I once kinda loved.

  “So, who is this? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “He’s my ex-boyfriend, a nice guy I dated for a little more than a year.”

  “Handsome fellow. What happened?”

  “Well, it’s kind of complicated.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I look into my wine, not sure if I really have it in me to talk about Ravi.

  Sensing my silence, Jess says, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, but I’ll admit I’m a bit threatened to see that photo in your book. If your heart is still somewhere else, and I know this sounds forward, but I would like to know.”

  I get up from the floor, where I am sitting, and as if I am watching a movie, I see myself moving towards the couch, sitting beside Jessica, and looking at her deep in the eyes. “No, the only place I want to be is right here with you.” I take my hands and place them on either side of her cheeks and kiss her long and tenderly.