Dear John, I Love Jane: Women Write About Leaving Men for Women (17 page)

Over the computer, she said we should have coffee sometime, but when I messaged my phone number, she messaged hers back. My coworkers said, “You have to call her. She wants you to make the move.” But hadn’t I made the first move, finding her on MySpace? “Yes,” they said, “but she wants to know you are truly interested, she wants to know you’re sincere.” I was way out on the limb of discomfort already, and had to go even further.

I wanted so badly to be swept off my feet without having to do any work, because that’s the straight relationship myth, propagated in every fairy tale, movie, and storybook romance. I wanted to be found. It felt so strange to pick up the phone to call her and leave a message saying that maybe we could get coffee in the next couple of days. When she called back a half hour later, I saw her number on the caller ID and almost let it go to voicemail. My heart was beating so hard I thought I wouldn’t be able to say hello. But I answered—and it was so natural—as we talked about our cats and our holiday plans and made a date for two nights later. She called back an hour later and said, “I was thinking, would you like to come with me to my work holiday party tomorrow night?”

“It’s a friend’s birthday,” I told her. “I’m supposed to have a drink with her. Let me see when that’s happening, can I call you back?” I was stalling. I wanted to say yes immediately, but then, I didn’t want to look desperate, and I didn’t want to break plans with a friend on her birthday.

When I called, my friend said, “Of course you are going with her. If it isn’t going well, you can use me as an excuse to leave. If it does go well, we’ll get together some other time.”

That first night together was a revelation. Just sitting next to her on the couch, in a house filled with a hundred of her coworkers, it was as if we were the only people in the room. And later, back at her apartment in the quiet, kissing her for hours, barely being able to stand up to leave at 2:00 AM.

She swept me off my feet, and I reveled in our long nights together, our long looks and longer kisses. Every inch of me responded to her, my whole body, my insides; when she looked at me, when she touched me, it felt like every feeling, every emotion that I’d stored up for so many years, was surfacing. It was overwhelming, it was exhilarating, I was turned on, inside out. Within days I knew I was madly in love with her. Walking together in the snowy woods, surrounded by a mighty quiet, felt like a blessing bestowed: within two weeks I agreed to meet her in Paris a month later for a whirlwind tour of the city where she fluently spoke the language and love is magnified in every old building, every narrow street, every tiny, darkly lit restaurant.

Not to say there wasn’t doubt, worry, anxiety, reality impinging on our blissed-out state. Those things were there in the background, bringing up questions about my intentions, my past. More than once, she asked if I was sure I wanted to be with women. What if I didn’t like it? I could only tell her that I was certain. It had been a very long, careful decision to leave my previous relationship, and I had had several months of being single and considering my choice. I knew where my attraction lay, I knew I would always be unhappy and faking it if I were in a straight relationship. I was more certain of my decision than I was of anything else. I knew what I was giving up. I knew that despite the little bubble of Northampton, there would be (and always will be) the possibility of disapproval, or hate, or silent condemnation. I knew I was giving up my right to always hold someone’s hand in public, because in Northampton it is okay, but it isn’t okay in Boca Raton, or Houston, or Peoria. I knew I would have to use my intuition and keep my mouth shut in places where being a lesbian might make me unsafe. I knew that I might meet people who judged me and my lifestyle, people who would think there was something wrong with me. I knew not everyone would accept my life and love with the grace and equanimity that my friends and family do. I knew I was giving up the heterosexual privilege I had enjoyed my whole life.

I also knew, and still know, I made the right choice.

The Claim

Crystal Hooper

I
was a stable, married, twenty-nine-year-old mother when I fell in love with a coworker . . . a
female
coworker. There was no tangible affair to speak of, yet my heart became more emotionally attached to Zoe (not her real name) than it had ever been to my husband of six years. Songwriting became my outlet. I expressed my frustrations and confusion about my personal hell in my lyrics. Since I kept my feelings a secret, this escape granted me the release I needed. Words poured out of me as the beginning of yet another song.

I’ve been driving myself crazy trying not to go insane. I foresee the complications but I can’t deny the claim.

I loved my husband dearly. He was sensitive and sweet. Complicated and temperamental. And he was known to some of our friends as the “girl” in our relationship—a label he willingly accepted with humor. We were best friends who could share everything. I believed I had chosen the right companion, and would have never married if I thought otherwise. So I lived out my perfect suburban life with my husband, while I fell in love with Zoe in silence.

In college, I had never “experimented” with women, although I had wanted to. The opportunity just didn’t present itself. I began dating guys in seventh grade. It didn’t feel unnatural, though I could not relate to the term “boy crazy.”

I graduated high school still a virgin. But don’t get me wrong, everything that
wasn’t
intercourse was fair game as far as I was concerned. I racked up my fair share of rural, backwoods parking with my high school boyfriends. It was always very mechanical. I cared for my boyfriends as friends, but fooling around was never an extension of my affection for them. It wasn’t personal. Sexual experimentation is a basic part of growing up. And damn, it just felt good.

Ever since I was eight years old, I have known that my uncle was gay. I was raised to believe homosexuality was perfectly acceptable, and would get defensive if anyone stated otherwise. Before falling for Zoe, I had only dated guys and my attraction to girls was limited to hoping just to kiss one some day. So the thought never crossed my mind that I might be a lesbian. I thought my same-sex attraction was more a curiosity than a lifestyle. If it happened, the experience would be strictly experimental, and would not lead to a relationship.

I was drawn to girls who walked with confidence and wore tattoos as a mark of independence and nonconformity. Someone like that could overpower my shyness, and I would have no choice but to submit to her advances (as if succumbing to an aggressive admirer would exempt me from claiming any responsibility).

But I did get married without having ever kissed a girl. As a wife, I wasn’t the jealous type so it never bothered me if my husband said another woman was sexy or beautiful. In fact, sometimes I would agree (or disagree) with his opinions, and I spoke freely about different women that I found attractive. He thought he had the coolest wife ever, and we both thought our relationship was the pinnacle of bonds. We could tell each other anything. We always said that nothing and no one could ever come between us if we didn’t let it. It was up to us. I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else.

Then along came Zoe.

All my life I knew I belonged in Nashville. When I arrived as a teenager to attend Belmont University, it felt like home. And the music industry was the central reason for that feeling. I wanted to be a songwriter, and I knew this was the place to make it happen. But for seven years, the Music Row inner circle had been playing a most fierce game of Red Rover with me—I was never allowed to come over no matter how hard I tried. I knew some reputable contacts, recorded several demos at legitimate studios, and had the opportunity to meet with ASCAP and multiple publishing houses about my songs; but something just never clicked. So I spent my days collecting a pitiful hourly wage doing administrative work at a music publishing company. I took the job to get my foot in the door, and hoped it would lead to something more.

The company needed to hire someone, and I was given the task of interviewing candidates. Zoe was one of them. She showed up for the appointment dressed in dark slacks and a white button-down shirt. Her long wavy brown hair was parted down the middle and suggested she was low-maintenance, yet stylish. She smiled easily and radiated calm. During the interview, I assessed her personality. Laid back. Cool. Unpretentious. Slight sarcasm. Little did I know that this stranger, barely in her twenties, would soon rock the foundations of my personal world.

Zoe got the job, and we immediately struck up a friendship. She and I mirrored each other on a wide range of topics, including our humor, musical tastes, favorite foods, and a love of the same obscure television shows. Sometimes at work we would just look at each other and crack up, knowing we were thinking the exact same thing. About a month into our friendship, she revealed that she was gay.

I was shocked and secretly excited at her revelation. Shocked not because she was gay, but because I had never known someone who
looked
like her who was gay. To know that this beautiful, feminine woman was into other women was . . . sexy.
Really
sexy
.

She was so much like me,
and
she liked girls. That was almost too much for me to handle. My platonic affection for her shifted into a mild infatuation at that point. If only I could have looked ahead to see where I would be two years later. I would have celebrated that day—or cursed it—as the first in a series of days that were consumed with a confusing, enchanting, passionate, pure, deeply rooted obsession for another woman. I wanted to know more about this side of her. I had never heard her speak of any romantic relationships, so my curiosity ran wild. Did she have a girlfriend? Had she ever had a girlfriend? Did she ever have a boyfriend? Ever kissed a guy? Ever kissed a girl? Had she had sex with a man? Did she have sex with girls . . . and if so, how? I was getting visuals
.
I was intrigued by her and wanted to know all the details, but I restrained myself from overwhelming her with questions and settled for tidbits when she offered.

I soon learned she had never had a girlfriend. Never felt the touch of a woman.
Just like me.
She longed for this connection and I wanted to fill that void. I found myself yearning to be the person who got to kiss her . . . hold her . . . touch her. I wanted to guide her through her first physical and emotional experiences. And in turn, she could guide me. I knew it was wrong, but I wanted to be that person. The first way I admitted the attraction to myself was when I thought that if I had met Zoe before I met my husband, I could have fallen for her. And the thought of being with her slowly began to take over my mind.

After several months, these pleasurable, entertaining thoughts began to dominate my consciousness. It became difficult to function on a daily basis. She was a permanent resident of my mind. No matter the task—brushing my teeth, feeding my daughter, driving to work, watching TV, hanging out with my husband—I was always thinking of her.

On the surface, I appeared to be living the perfect life as a happy, young, married woman raising my first child. Yet, on the inside, my frustrations mounted daily and I felt unsettled. While grappling with my dilemma, I came to the conclusion that the key was control. There was no denying that I loved Zoe. And those were feelings that I could not shake. So I focused on what I could control, and that was how I chose to handle the situation. I chose at that point to remain committed to my husband. I did love him very much. He was my best friend and the father of my daughter, and we had seven years together. Hurting him was something I would strive to avoid at all costs, which meant not revealing my feelings to Zoe even though the stress of not telling her was taking its toll inside me.

One night I had the most amazing dream. In this dream, the room was quiet. The bed was soft. The colors were very pale and dream-like. And she and I were lying on that soft bed next to each other. Together. Cheek to cheek, looking up. And the only thing I felt was an overwhelming peace.

My morning alarm abruptly stole me from my oasis. But I woke up with a smile on my face. And after I turned the alarm off, that feeling of peace was very real. It lingered for several minutes. The sensation faded as I started my daily routine, but as always, the thought of her followed me.

When I left the music industry for a new opportunity, I grieved the loss of not seeing Zoe every day. She was one of my closest friends, and above all else, I didn’t want our friendship to change or lessen because of it.

On my last day working with Zoe, I promised to go with her sometime to a local gay bar so she wouldn’t have to go alone. She was beginning to get frustrated with her love life, or lack thereof. I was excited to accompany her to a gay bar, even if it was only to scope out potential girlfriends for her. Lipstick Lounge was considered to be the hot spot. And after our first night out at Lipstick, we liked it so much we made it a weekly ritual.

At first, Lipstick Thursdays were an excuse to see Zoe. It was a guaranteed, once-a-week fix for my addiction. But it quickly became much more. I began to need Lipstick Thursdays just as much as I wanted Zoe. My feelings were beginning to expand beyond her. I started to think that maybe even if I couldn’t have her, I could possibly be with another woman. I could have a
relationship
with another woman. It was the first time in my life that I considered that notion.

At Lipstick Thursday, I was free to be myself, without the pressure of fitting into a mold. It had a very welcoming, non-clique atmosphere that I absorbed like fresh air. Each week, I went home after work, spent some quality time with the family, and put my daughter to bed. After that, I put on fresh makeup and did my hair as my husband settled in for the night, rocking away in his chair and zoning out to his favorite music. My nights out were also his quality nights alone. He enjoyed solitude, and began to look forward to Lipstick Thursdays just as much as I did. And since I was going to a lesbian bar, there was no fear of me getting hit on by other guys. He did not anticipate that the downfall of our relationship would be my attraction to women. It was during that brief four-month run of Lipstick Thursdays that my two separate lives pulled me in opposite directions.

Zoe soon found a girlfriend, which affected me deeply. I was happy for Zoe, but found myself almost paralyzed from the pain of realizing I would never have a chance to be with her. Thoughts of her distracted me at work, leaving me to regroup in the bathroom so I could focus on the tasks of the day. This made me feel weak—and pissed me off beyond belief. I was stronger than this. I was committed to my husband and planned to be with him to the end, but I couldn’t stop thinking of Zoe. It was completely frustrating that she had such a hold on me. I had no power over my emotions.

I knew being with Zoe was not right. As much as I wanted to believe she felt for me even a fraction of what I felt for her, I was pretty sure she thought of me as a friend and no more. I was, after all, married with a child. I wanted so desperately to forget about her, and forget the knowledge that my love for her exceeded the emotional threshold of my marriage. But Zoe was in me. Meeting her introduced me to love in a way that I hadn’t experienced with my husband or other guys. And if this raw emotion existed, I knew there were greater emotions that he and I were not providing to each other. He could sense a change in me, and the tension in our house was evident to both of us.

I needed help sorting everything out. I invited Zoe and her girlfriend (who was now my friend as well) out to dinner in order to discuss, in general terms, the burden of my same-sex attraction. I listened to their coming-out stories, and their stories of discovering true identity. I related to their stories of grieving over the ideal of a traditional family, and the ability to create a new life easily with your partner. I analyzed every aspect. So far, I had stayed with my husband, and it wasn’t working. It never resolved anything within me. My feelings had continued to intensify and I could barely function. Something had to give.