Rubyfruit Jungle (20 page)

“Latin teachers have a way of getting ossified.”

“Mine is pickled! Have you made any movies yet?”

“A two-minute flick last semester. I have a hard time getting to the equipment, because I’m the only woman in the class and well, the men
don’t like that much. Since other men control the equipment sign-out, I always get screwed.”

Polina’s eyebrows went together. Wrong word, I guess. “That’s disgraceful. Isn’t there anything you can do about it?”

“I file complaints with the head of the department with clockwork punctuality. But he hates women. He brings me into his office, reads over the complaint. Then he says he’ll check into it and nothing happens. Naturally this doesn’t make me feel great, but worse. All through his lectures he makes rotten cracks about women. You know, the stud routine about the reason there haven’t been any great women directors is because we have brains the size of peas—and he looks right at me when he says that. Makes me want to cram a can of
Triumph of the Will
right down his throat.”

Polina sighed and traced a circle on the edge of her coffee cup. “It doesn’t get much easier when you’re out. This year I should have been made an associate professor, but they’re still keeping me at assistant.”

“Oh Mom, you’ll get it. You’re the best there is. These twentieth-century Victorians have to give in sometime.”

Polina stroked her hair and smiled at her. “We’ll see.”

After that dinner, Polina and I began to see each other once a week. We’d go to galleries, museums, lectures, and every now and then she’d take me to a play. Polina detested musicals so she’d only take me to see straight drama. Mostly it was awful except for the APA Repertory.
Polina took me to
School for Scandal
. It was so quick, light, and well acted that we left the theater stoned on the joy of it.

“That was wonderful, simply wonderful. Makes me want to dance,” Polina giggled.

“I know a place where we can dance if you want to?”

“And stand around waiting for some buffoon to ask us to dance? Never.”

“You can dance with me unless, of course, I fit the buffoon slot.”

“What?” Her hair flew around her head as she turned to eye me.

“Oh, you really think I’m a dolt. Aha, the truth comes out.”

“Not at all. Where can we dance together?”

“In a lesbian bar, where else?”

“How do you know about a lesbian bar?”

“I’m a lesbian.”

“You—but you look like anyone else. Molly, don’t be silly; you can’t be a lesbian. You’re joking. I’d know if you were such a thing.”

“Madam, I am a full-blooded, bona fide lesbian. As for the way I look, most lesbians I know look like any other woman. However, if you’re hot for a truck driver I know just the place.” I couldn’t resist giving her that little dig.

For two entire blocks we walked in silence. Polina’s bouyancy had evaporated. “If you don’t mind, Molly, I think I’ll go home. I’m more worn out than I suspected.”

“Of course I mind. Why don’t you tell the truth? You’re upset because I told you I’m gay.”

She avoided my eyes. “Yes.”

“What difference does it make? Tell me. I’m
the exact, same person you knew before. Jesus Christ, I’ll never understand straight people!”

“Please, let me go home and think this through.” She darted into the subway station at 42nd Street and I walked the whole way home. Walking helps me calm down, but when I put the key in my lock I was as upset as when I started. Why does it get to me? Why can’t I just write off those people the way they write me off? Why does it always get through and hurt?

For three solid weeks Polina kept her distance. No Thursday visits to the office, no phone calls, no anything. Just blanket silence. I was determined not to call her. She told me that she had a male lover. Paul Digita, who taught English at New York University. Out of curiosity I decided to see what he looked like. I knew beforehand that he was crippled. His left leg dragged after him and he had to use a cane. He had balked on the pole vault at Exeter in 1949 and bent his leg permanently out of shape. Even so, I wasn’t ready for him when I laid eyes on him. The leg was the least of his problems. He was myopic, had a wicked case of dandruff, and it looked as though he was hosting an algae colony on his teeth. Paul was a living study in human debris. How could she be turned on to this? What could they possibly have in common? After his lecture on
Yeats’ use of the semicolon, I forced myself to go up to him and tell him how much I enjoyed it. The flattery nearly knocked him over; he held on to the side of the podium or maybe his leg was giving out. Anyway, he offered to take me to tea and I accepted although it took nerves of steel to look him right in the face, algae and all.

Over a cup of overpriced tea, Paul told me he was a misunderstood genius. In fact, Paul spared me no detail of his life. He didn’t ask me anything about myself. Two hours later exhausted from his endless personal narrative, he asked if he might see me again.

I actually told this ugly blob of protoplasm, yes. God. So we set a date for next week. Polina had no idea to what lengths I was willing to go and neither did I.

Before my date with Paul, Polina called. She was sorry. Naturally, my lesbianism shouldn’t make any difference and after many visits to her psychiatrist, who after all saved her emotional life back in 1963, she came to the earth-shattering conclusion that it was okay for me to be whatever I wanted to be as long as I had adjusted as a mature, healthy human being. She complimented me on being a mature and healthy human being and would I like to see a movie with her this Friday?

We saw
Wait Until Dark
and it scared the bejesus out of both of us. My apartment was right by the Elgin Theater so I asked her if she wanted a drink before going home. Polina hesitated for a moment then her courage got the better of her and she said that would be lovely. She was appalled but too polite to say it as she huffed her
way up my rickety, unlit, tenement steps. And when she saw my apartment with only a mattress on raised milk cartons and more brightly painted milk cartons all over the place, she was astounded.

“You’re so imaginative. You’ve made charming little bookcases and chairs out of milk cartons.”

“Thank you. I have an unopened bottle of Lancer’s wine that I’ve been saving for a special occasion—why don’t we open that?”

“That would be fine.”

The wine went directly to Polina’s tongue and she told me how freaked out she was and how secretly she thought lesbianism attracted and frightened every woman, because every woman could be a lesbian, but it was all hidden and unknown. Did I get into it because of the allure of the forbidden? She then went on to say what a wonderful relationship she had with her husband. They had an understanding about Paul, and wasn’t heterosexuality just grand?

“It bores me, Polina.”

“Bores you—what do you mean?”

“I mean men bore me. If one of them behaves like an adult it’s cause for celebration, and even when they do act human, they still aren’t as good in bed as women.”

“Maybe you haven’t met the right man?”

“Maybe you haven’t met the right woman. And I bet I’ve slept with more men than you have, and they all work the same show. Some are better at it than others but it’s boring once you know what women are like.”

“You can’t sit there and say a thing like that about men.”

“Okay, then I won’t say anything. Better to shut my mouth than lie about it.”

A disturbed pause. “What’s so different about sleeping with women? I mean, exactly what is the difference?”

“For one thing, it’s more intense.”

“You don’t think things between men and women get intense?”

“Of course they do but it’s not the same, that’s all!”

“How?”

“Oh, lady, there aren’t words for it. I don’t know—it’s the difference between a pair of roller skates and a Ferrari—ah, there aren’t words.”

“I think the lady doth protest too much. You wouldn’t promote such blatant lesbian propaganda if you were sure of yourself and your sexual identity.”

“Propaganda? I took a few minutes to try to answer a question you asked me. If you want to see blatant propaganda then look at the ads in the subways, magazines, t.v., everywhere. The big pigs use heterosexuality and women’s bodies to sell everything in this country—even violence. Damn, you people are so bad off you got to have computers to match you up these days.”

Polina began to get angry, but then she took some time to think about what I had laid on her. “I never thought of it that way, I mean about advertising and all.”

“Well, I sure have. You don’t see ads of women kissing to get you to buy Salem cigarettes, do you?”

She laughed. “That’s funny, that’s truly funny. Why the entire world must look different to you.”

“It does. It looks destructive, diseased, and corroded. People have no selves anymore (maybe they never had them in the first place) so their home base is their sex—their genitals, who they fuck. It’s enough to make a chicken laugh.”

“I—are all homosexuals as perceptive as you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to all homosexuals.” Polina had sense enough to be embarrassed about that last question. She paused long enough to finish her glass, then reload. She was getting stewed. “Maybe you should switch to soda. I don’t want you to get tanked.”

“Me, no, I’m fine. I’ll sip this”—and she gulped down half of it. She began to frankly stare at me. I liked Polina, maybe I even loved her a little, but this was hard to take. I didn’t expect such an intelligent woman to be so classic a heterosexual bigot. I felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. Oh well, maybe the only beauty left in cities is in the oil slicks on the road and maybe there isn’t any beauty left in the people who live in these places.

Polina interrupted this grim line of thought. “Molly, have you slept with many women?”

“Hundreds. I’m irresistible.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious—I’m irresistible.” I reached over, putting my hands on her shoulders and gave her a kiss that startled both of us. She began to pull away but then decided to stick it out. Noble and daring of her. Predictably, she had to protest after the kiss.

“You shouldn’t have done that. I don’t see that you’re any different from a man, coming over here and kissing me like that without asking.”

“If I had asked you, you wouldn’t have kissed me. Here, let me give you another one, so you can be sure to know the difference. I’d hate to have you confuse me with the opposite gender.”

Her eyes widened and she started to balk, but I wasn’t in a sympathetic mood. I held her tight and delivered a long French kiss. She loved it. She loved it and hated me for making her love it. She broke away in a full fury. “How dare you! How dare you—why I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“I’m old enough to know that doesn’t make any difference. Why don’t you climb off your sanctified prick. You dig it. Anyone with half a vagina left would dig it. Women kissing women is beautiful. And women making love together is dynamite. So why don’t you just let yourself go and get into it.”

“This is outrageous. You’re a lunatic.”

“That’s a distinct possibility but at least I know what I’m talking about from practical experience. You only know one side of the story—”

That one hurt her. It was too close to home. I was a good five inches shorter than Polina, but that didn’t stop me from going over and bodily putting her on my mattress. Before she could double up her soft hands to belt me, I gave her another kiss. And I touched her breast, pressed her thighs, and Polina decided that she didn’t know the other side of the story and forty-one years is a long time in the dark. So here she was and how convenient it was too because I had half forced her into it. This way she could avoid responsibility for making love with another woman; the wine helped a lot on that account, too. But
she kissed me back for whatever reasons. She stretched out on the mattress and pushed right into my body. There wasn’t much to say. As soon as we both had our clothes off and were under the covers she looked at me with clever eyes and said, “Where are we?”

“What?”

“Where are we?”

“We’re in bed, in my apartment. Where else could we be?”

“No, no, we’re in a men’s john.”

“We are?”

“Yes, we’re both at the urinal in the Times Square subway station.”

“Polina, they wouldn’t let us use the men’s john.”

“You have to tell this story with me. You have to play out this fantasy or I can’t come. So please, now we’re at the urinal and you look over and notice my cock and you say, That’s a nice cock, big and juicy.—well, say it!”

“That’s a—nice cock”—cough—“big and juicy.”

She started to get excited and wiggle on the bed. “Go on, go on.”

“What do I say next?”

“Tell me anything. You make it up.”

“Uh—that’s the juiciest cock I’ve ever seen. It’s a real biggie.”

Harshly, “Ask me if you can touch it.”

“May I touch your cock, please?”

Polina gave a low moan. “Oh yes, touch it and kiss it and suck on it.” And she came right then and there as I told her I wanted to hold it, kiss it, and suck on it.