Patience dear readers. You’ll be able to read the whole thing come February. 🙂
I awoke to a blood-curdling infant scream. (You might say I’m “not a kid person.”) I had a crick in my neck but a joy in my heart. I’d spent the past several years involved with a woman on and off who was no good for me, and was rarely good to me. When I wasn’t with her, I’d been mixed up with a woman twice my age, who was also not particularly good for me, other than she made me feel desired and cherished in a way the other woman did not. Yet here, here was Liza, a woman untainted by prior relationships with other women. This I could do. All of this, of course, went on in my head under the assumption that now, after making out and sleeping side by side, we were actually having a romantic relationship. I knew no other reality apart from that. Having met my first female lover when I was fifteen, I knew nothing about dating or getting to know each other, building a partnership and growing together. I had dated boys, but even when I was trying to do that I followed the same formula, it just took much less time for it to unravel.
So there I was, the morning after what I thought was simply a swell beginning, all the getting to know each other required had already occurred as far as I was concerned. I noticed that she wasn’t really paying all that much attention to me, barely making eye contact with me. I stayed anyway, desperate to be near her, and I had breakfast with Liza, her mom, and her baby, just like a family. Although she seemed distant and uncomfortable, I wrote that off as “Well, of course, she doesn’t want her mother to know she’s a lesbian.” Because she kissed me with enthusiasm, and more than once, I foolishly assumed she was a lesbian.
I held her in my arms while she cried and stroked her hair. For what seemed like a long time, neither one of us said anything at all. Then, without a word, she turned to me and kissed me. That was the first time I’d been kissed in a very long time, so immediately the floodgates were opened, emotionally, sexually, and every other kind of arousal there is. She climbed on top of me, kissed me some more, whispered my name. She paused for only a moment, and took off her shirt. In my one, weak attempt to do the right thing, I said, “You know, this is probably a bad idea.” I distinctly remember the sound of her breathing in that moment, and the soft “swoosh” sound her shirt made as it hit my tile floor. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “We’re already doing it.”