Dear John, I Love Jane: Women Write About Leaving Men for Women (15 page)

As the years went by, I started to meet new people who had never known the heterosexual me, and as her ghost faded it became easier not to fret about my sexuality. I stopped expecting people to laugh out loud in disbelief when I told them I was gay, although I did start to dread the inevitable questions that straight people feel it’s okay to ask: “How long have you known?” “Have you
ever
been with a man?” I missed the immunity from these questions that heterosexuality affords, but as time went on I was more prepared to meet them head-on.

As I became more comfortable with my new sexuality, I started to feel more comfortable in gay spaces. I no longer expected to be stopped at the door, to be denounced as an impostor the moment I crossed the threshold; rather, I felt a sense of inclusion. After a while I was delighted to discover that in my circle of friends, nobody seemed to give a toss whether I was gay or straight. I felt like I had earned my stripes.

Lo and behold, as if to prove a point, it was at this time that I met Cassie, the love of my life. I was finally comfortable with myself and my sexuality; and because of this our relationship fell into place like the conclusion of an Agatha Christie novel. All the clues suddenly made sense, and the culprit was unmasked at last. We’ve been together for three and a half years now, and I’ve never been happier. At this point, I cannot imagine how my life would have been had Terry’s car not hit that horse, but I equally cannot imagine not falling in love with Cassie if I met her in another life.

I think now that Leo was both right and wrong. Sexuality is an important part of who one is, and it can be unsettling to feel unresolved about it. But it
shouldn’t
matter; it’s only the perception of others that makes these decisions difficult. The biggest adjustment for me was the realization that if I weren’t straight, people around me would always demand an explanation; they would never allow me to be uncertain. It was only by shutting out their voices that I was able to find myself in a place beyond male and female, beyond gay and straight, beyond sexuality.

Love and Freedom

Aprille Cochrane

I
spent the first thirty or so years of my life as a heterosexual female. I thought women were beautiful, but I rarely thought of them in a sexually gratifying way. I thought the only thing another woman could do for me would be to join me in a drunken, unexpected threesome and leave immediately afterward. I admired Pam Grier for her strength and sex appeal. I thought Halle Berry had beautiful skin and the most radiant smile ever. I appreciated Vanessa Williams’s exotic blue and green eyes, but I never saw myself falling in love with women.

I grew up in an attractive family with high standards. There were no traumatic events that made me form a negative opinion of males, females, or sexuality. From an early age, I embraced alternative views. I took a white boy to my first Sadie Hawkins junior high dance, and defended my interracial relationship against slurs. I thought nothing of fighting for my right to do as I pleased with whomever I pleased. Back then, I didn’t consider it controversial or defiant. I was just being me.

I married a man I thought I would be with forever. He was nice to me. He worked hard. I believe he was faithful. We had mutual friends. He rubbed my feet, was well endowed, and was a generous lover. He was nice to his mother. He was handsome and intelligent, educated, and street smart.

But he was a stranger to emotions outside of love and hate. He thought working harder could solve our issues. He thought money defined his identity as a man. I believe he became resentful of my education and success. We stopped talking. We stopped supporting each other. We stopped making love. We stopped sharing space and ideas. We distrusted each other. We turned to other people for our emotional stability. At least, I did.

I went on a much-needed vacation with a few of my best girlfriends. Toward the end of the trip, one of my girlfriends began flirting with me. This was a friend I was very close to, felt safe with, and who was aware of some of the marital issues my husband and I were experiencing. She was extremely attractive. Initially, I didn’t know how to interpret her attention, because this was the first time our platonic friendship boundary had been challenged. Steamy texts and the thrilling threat of being caught made the idea irresistible.

Before I seriously entertained the idea of opening myself up to her, I examined myself. How would I know if this was right? How did I feel about carrying on with a woman in this way? What would my friends and family say? What was my opinion of the gay world? Would this be just a fling and then we would go back to being platonic friends? How did I feel about cheating,
if
I considered this cheating? Would I be able to look myself in the mirror? Would this change my spiritual views? My answer was simple: Listen to your body.

I challenged myself: if you’re really this free-loving, liberal, and conscious person, open yourself up to receiving this experience. After she put her hand on my thigh, my body and soul electrified somewhere around the back of my neck. A prisoner of the flesh I may be, but it felt like no other touch I had ever experienced before. And it was just a touch! This moment could have been attributed to the thrill of seduction, the bad girl concept, or even a seed planted during a pornographic movie. It could have been subliminal media and video messages, or plain old curiosity. Either way, I consciously and willingly surrendered to it. I took my marriage vows very seriously, but I had always felt that honoring the Universe and its potential were important too. I knew, in that one instant, my life and views had changed.

My life had not changed so dramatically because I had cheated, but because I was privy to new facets of my sexuality and emotions. I felt lucky, like I was being included in a secret that had been hidden in plain view. Colors seemed to blink neon. I swore I could hear in new ranges. My creativity shot though the roof. Instead of seeing women, I
noticed
them now. I noticed their walks. I could read their confidence. I valued them more, family members included. I had understood intimacy as a concept, but I could count the number of times I experienced it up to this point. I now knew intimacy had layers, and sex wasn’t the prerequisite or the climax. Intimacy could be expressed as sitting at a table, lying in the bed, cooking, watching a movie together, or a special supportive touch. It could be a tone understood in a conversation, a compromise, a special trinket, or a simple text. It could be taking a bath, caring for each other’s pets, or confiding a secret. I couldn’t go back to acting as if seeing the basic colors was the most I deserved in life. I was adding new dimensions to my life, and I wanted to honor the place these new emotions stemmed from, without losing my husband—or myself—in the process. That didn’t mean I could.

My husband and I struggled to make love well before she laid her hand on my thigh. I felt lost in my marriage well before she made me feel at home in her house. My husband and I lived separate lives well before she supported me through literary and emotional endeavors. He and I separated emotionally well before I moved out physically. I lost my happiness well before the Prozac. I would hate to admit she fulfilled the emotional gap he could not, but she satisfied a place in me no one even knew existed before. She became an emotional and physical refuge. She was a safe place to fall. I struggled knowing that I had vowed to make my husband that safe place, but I no longer felt I could be vulnerable enough with him to do anything other than stand up straight.

It was stressful to feel cut off from my husband while I remained vulnerable with a woman. I became resentful that he wasn’t her. I became jealous that she was out and had freedom. In trying to please them both, I lost myself. Becoming comfortable with deceiving my husband changed me at my core. During the end of my marriage, I became a liar and a cheat. I am not proud of that. I learned to disguise my shame and guilt with him. I was never, ever able to let down my guard completely with her. I was always aware of my surroundings and who could see me. I wanted to be as comfortable with her as she was with me, but the truth is, I was scared to death. I felt transparent. I tried to cover my tracks. I wanted to be true to the moments with her, yet I was scared of situations that could get back to my husband before I could explain. I wasn’t ready to confront the consequences of my actions yet. I couldn’t return affection as naturally as she could. I made excuses to him about why I was late. I pushed limits with both. I became mean, stressed out, irrational, needy, immature, and depressed. I pride myself on being true to myself, and I put myself in a situation where I couldn’t be true to anyone.

Losing my freedom to explore who I was becoming was detrimental to my health. I wasn’t comfortable living life in the shadows. My obligation to my marriage and fear of hurting my husband were strangling my soul.

One thing is clear. I didn’t leave him
for
her. I left him for my
sanity
. Yes, I continued to explore myself with her, but these two things happened concurrently, not sequentially.

I knew I had shifted from being a straight girl. Where along the continuum I landed, I wasn’t sure yet. There was no confusion about what I liked about her. One of the things I enjoyed was her body. I liked her hips, thick thighs, breasts, and softness. Men generally weren’t built like that. I considered lifestyle as part of being a lesbian, and since I was still married and living with my husband, I didn’t consider myself a lesbian; although I was clearly doing lesbian things and attending lesbian-inspired events. Did I consider myself bisexual? If I had to pin down a label, I guess so. I think “open” is more accurate. I enjoyed having a physical outlet with her that wasn’t male-centered. Her time and mine weren’t measured by orgasm. We both enjoyed being women. No one was trying to be the man. As I mentioned, my husband was a generous lover, but things were just different with her. I wasn’t confused by both experiences; I was stressed out by the lack of freedom to express them both.

After a lengthy and dramatic fallout, my friend and I are still in each other’s lives; in fact, we are best friends. We scraped and clawed our way back to each other and we are proud of what we have reestablished. We created comfortable boundaries and we see each other often and talk many times a day. I have moments of confusion when I look at her romantically, but those pop-ups are few and far between. The depth and satisfaction of our current friendship is worth more than any fling we could have that might threaten it. I still feel a different kind of intimacy with her than I do with my other friends. My other friends and I are very close, intimate, and affectionate, but I have never crossed the romantic line with any of them.

On the outside, not much changed. I didn’t make any drastic physical changes. I locked my hair, but I had been working toward that for years. I was still most comfortable in sweats, jeans, and T-shirts. I was no stranger to heels and a short skirt either. Strappy heels and new wedges still excited me just as new tennis shoes did. I looked forward to the latest makeup colors. I coordinated my purses with my mood. I wore makeup as needed and rarely went without lipstick and earrings.

Inside, a part of me still wavered about whether my changing sexuality was sparked because of who she was, as my friend, or because she was a woman. I do still desire women and I am open to them romantically. I am just as choosy with women as I am with men. The integrity of whom I choose to date is still just as high. If there’s no chemistry, there’s no match. And if I’m not treated well, they won’t last long. Dissecting the dynamics of my sexual spark has become less important to me over time. I am comfortable with where I am now.

An opportunity presented itself recently for me to open up to my friend Dianne about dating women. Up to this point, she had said that people needed to mind their own business when it came to other people’s love interests. She didn’t believe in judging gays or lesbians, although it wasn’t her preference and she didn’t understand it. I felt safe and the timing seemed appropriate. I wanted her to know that my choices weren’t a reflection of her. I hadn’t planned to, but I felt I needed to honor the moment. I took a deep breath. I was so nervous. My voice was shaking—and then I did it.

I told her I had started dating women since my separation from my husband. In the moment, she asked a few questions, and generally seemed to accept it. She said she wasn’t too surprised because of how often she’d seen my “friend” and me together. She commented that it wasn’t that far of a stretch for me, because I hadn’t ever really been very mainstream. She said that I was a good person, with many accomplishments, and that she didn’t love me any less. Those comments made me feel accepted, and I felt emotionally lighter knowing I had been honest.

A few hours later, it seemed her opinion changed. She wanted to know why it was such a big secret, and thought I could be emotionally unsettled—since I had much going on. I said that there wasn’t much to tell up to that point. I confided that I was afraid of disappointing her, and that was why I hadn’t said anything until then. I was fearful of her rejection and judgment. I don’t fear many people’s opinions, but honestly, I valued hers.

Later, I felt like a fool for bragging that I came out and that she was so cool about it. I didn’t know if she was initially only saying what she thought I wanted to hear or if this new opinion was the reflection of a conversation with a third party. This person had always been the kind who was up-front, so I was truly baffled and devastated at the change of heart. I realize I must honor other people’s process, but I was still shocked and hurt.

After I told her, we didn’t talk for three weeks. Normally, we connect at least once a week. During this time apart, I felt rejected and sad. A few days ago, we were able to smoothly resume some normal activity. I am thankful for this little bit of progress and feel we haven’t missed much of a beat. Her reaction opened my eyes, though. I had planned to tell other people because I didn’t see it as a big deal. I would hate for them to hear rumors from someone else and not feel free to speak with me about it. I am not ashamed of my choice to date women, but after this reaction, I decided that whom I had an intimate relationship with was nobody’s business. I wasn’t getting married to anybody anytime soon, and it was my private choice. However, if an opportunity presents itself with someone else, I will most definitely honor it.