by A J Walkley
“Sorry guys, it’s long-winded, but a great quote to work off of,” Mr. Riley said while pens and pencils hurriedly copied the assignment into notebooks. “This is due one week from today,” he added, just before the bell rang to end the day.
For once I was the first out the door. I had every intention of jump-starting my research at the library before going to the movies with Becca at seven.
***
While I started getting my initial thoughts out for my paper, I realized I knew much more about the gay movement than I thought I did. I had picked up a book called Making Gay History by Eric Marcus a few weeks before. I’d already read the first couple of chapters and it was really interesting to see just how similar the experiences of this group were to the Civil Rights movement of my parents’ youth. Collecting my thoughts, I wrote:
In many ways, yesterday’s Black movement has evolved into the fight for gay rights in America today. We don’t have the right to marry or adopt in the majority of the nation. We are the victims of hate crimes and discrimination. But we’ve never been denied the right to vote; we’ve never been enslaved; we’ve never been segregated from heterosexuals. The similarities are there, but it is by no means a complete parallel.
I read it over, and only on the second go did I see the five words that stood out like neon lights: “we.” I had identified myself with the community without even knowing I was doing so. I considered deleting them, but I didn’t. It was just the first draft and I had a week to go before I handed in the final. Plus, it was only going to Mr. Riley. Big deal.
***
Thanksgiving had become somewhat of a downer in our house. Every other year my dad was gone, and the three of us were left eating an appetite-whetting meal my mom made, mostly in silence. Even though this year was not much different, I was feeling good.
“Can we all say what we’re thankful for?” Emily asked between mouthfuls of corn bread. “I’ll go first. I’m thankful that Daddy’s gonna be home for Christmas, even if he can’t be here now. And I’m thankful that Greer let me borrow her red sweater for my book report last week. Oh, and -”
“Geez, Em, aren’t you only supposed to say one thing?” I usually hated this tradition. Everyone always said the same things. Emily would talk about mostly material things. My mom would claim to be so lucky to have her daughters and everyone in the family healthy. As for me, well I would usually talk about Nick being my best friend, Dad coming home soon, and sneak in a hint about getting something or other for the holidays.
“You can never be too thankful, can you Mom?” she retorted. Mature some days, a smart-ass kid others, that was my sister for you.
“That’s right, Emsicle. What else?”
“I guess I’m just thankful for being here in our house with this food, because there are lots of other people who aren’t and don’t have anything to eat.” She looked down into her mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce woefully.
“That’s enough ‘Nightly News’ for you, young one,” Mom joked. “What about you, honey? What are you thankful for?”
She sounded as if she was genuinely interested, but when I looked back at her, she was fiddling with the pecans on the pumpkin pie that had yet to be served.
“I’m happy to be on the swim team with Becca, even if I never get to swim at meets. Not that you would know, Mom.”
“Greer!”
Apparently I had her attention.
“When was the last time you went to one of my meets, Mom?”
“Sweetie, I -”
“I know, you work and you workout. You never even ask,” I said, imploring her with my stare.
All eyes were on me.
“Baby, I’m sorry,” she tried.
“Whatever. Is it okay if I go over to Becca’s for dessert? She invited me.”
My mom looked disappointed and pained. “You haven’t even finished your dinner yet, Greer.”
“I’m saving room for Mrs. Wilder’s apple pie. I’ll be back later,” I told my family before tossing my napkin on the table and heading out the door.
***
The following Saturday night, Becca and I were lying on her bed after coming back to her place from Angelo’s Pizzeria. We had split a medium pepperoni and were both in a food coma.
“Becs, look, I ate so much I have a food baby,” I said, pushing out my stomach for her entertainment. She laughed, leaned over and patted it.
“I sure hope not because you’ll have a hell of a lot to deal with in nine months,” she retorted.
I smiled back at her until I noticed that her hand had remained there, just beneath my belly button. She returned my gaze while she very slowly began to ease her palm upwards until it was just beneath my breast.
“Greer, do you know how pretty you are?” she asked, closing the space between us and kissing me.
I don’t know if it was what she had said or just a general desire, but I grabbed her hand and put it fully on my chest. I groaned low in my throat.
“Becca, I want you,” I said before I could stop myself.
Then we were all over each other. I sat up and pulled my shirt off, Becca following suit. Her skin was so warm and smooth against my own, a distinct contrast to Cameron’s chest, lightly sprinkled with hair as it was.
Falling back on her pillows, I grasped her chest, just like I had drawn in my pictures. Her hands were beneath my bra. I didn’t know where to touch, I wanted her everywhere.
Becca sat up and started unbuttoning her jeans. I did the same and within moments we were side-by-side in our underwear.
Becca moved over me, straddling my hips, reminding me of a similar scenario in a basement not too long before. Her hands found mine, moving both arms behind my head. I let another small moan escape as Becca rocked her pelvis forward, her breasts bearing down harder onto my own. Our lips broke apart for a quick moment so Becca could smile, staring into my eyes.
“You really want me, babe? ’Cause I want you, too.” She descended on me, using her lips to mark me on my forehead, mouth and clavicle; from my left breast to my right, lingering on each nipple, circling with her tongue; down the center of my stomach, licking my belly button. Then, she was there.
She nuzzled between my legs and I bucked. She looked up to gauge my expression and I nodded before closing my eyes. I felt her hook her fingers under my panties and pull them down, my legs complying so she could remove them completely. I felt her warm breath on my thighs and my own wetness responding.
My head shot up suddenly as I remembered Becca’s question: “Bare or hair?”
“Becs, I don’t -”
“Shh. Relax, baby.”
I tried to listen, laying my head down again, hitting the pillow as she slipped a finger inside me.
***
I’ll never forget tasting her for the first time - tangy, but sweet. Almost like the mangoes that were her favorite food. And her smell reminded me of the earthy Merlot I was allowed to drink on holidays.
I loved every moment of it. I had never had an orgasm before – even self-induced, although I had tried several times. Becca gave me my first and I must say, I was changed. I felt like a real woman.
“Oh. My. God,” I said when she came back up, kissing me so I tasted myself on her lips. She lay beside me and drew stars on my stomach with her finger.
“How you feelin’?”
I laughed at her and I couldn’t stop. I was giggling, which was extremely rare for me unless I was stoned, but it was out of my control. My body was electric, and it was either laugh, or run around the house to come down from this high. The former option seemed best.
“Are you laughing at me? I’ll give you something to laugh about,” Becca said, tickling me under my arms.
“No! No! Stop! I’m gonna pee!” I said, only making myself laugh more. Soon Becca joined in.
I turned to her and wrapped my arms around her perfect waist. I kissed her deeply, only detaching myself when my breath was completely gone.
“You’re
amazing,” I told her.
On that night she became even more different from Cameron for me, and I don’t just mean in the obvious ways. I was drawn to her, like magnetism every time we were in the same room together. There was an unspoken connection. A pulse went through me each time I even so much as caught a glimpse of her. She was always on my mind, when she was standing in front of me, when I left her side; I even saw her in my dreams.
I realized that weekend I was falling for her.
Shit, I thought after my initial excitement. Cameron.
I did not know what to do about him. I did care about him, but Becca was, well, Becca! I was tired of him. I found myself wishing more and more often that he would just break-up with me to make things easier.
Then I thought about the beginning. I had forgotten that anxious feeling I would get when I talked to him; the excitement of the night we went to that first movie; waiting for his first kiss. I used to be elated in those moments, but it just was not like that anymore. Something had faded.
We were so entwined in each other’s lives that the thought of breaking it off was nearly impossible. All I could think to do was continue what seemed to be working.
“If you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.”
- Erica Jong
DECEMBER
It had been Becca’s idea. She said she had heard about The Vagina Monologues from her mother, a huge Eve Ensler fan. She thought it would be empowering for Becca to check them out, and Becca, in turn, brought me.
They were being performed at this café called The Hatch downtown. The place was packed, but we were able to find a couple of stools in the corner.
“Hello ladies and… ladies!” the Emcee said, taking the stage to announce the show was about to start. I looked around and noticed that the entire place was indeed absent of men. “Welcome to The Hatch and our 5th Annual Vagina Monologue reading!”
Cheers came from every table, Becca hooting and applauding with them. I remained an unbiased observer, not exactly knowing what to expect. I didn’t have to wait long to have my curiosity fulfilled.
“First up we have our own Hallie Tate, starting the show off with a bang, no pun intended, reciting Eve Ensler’s ‘Reclaiming Cunt.’”
Hallie, a heavy-set black girl, probably around 17 or 18 years-old, took the mike from the Emcee with a smile and let the monologue erupt:
“I call it cunt. I’ve reclaimed it, Cunt. I really like it. Cunt. Listen to it… C C. Ca Ca… then u-then… n then… t… tell me Cunt. Cunt…”
Her mouth opened each time to reveal another word that elicited sex in some way, shape or form. The poem was fire and sweat. The V between my legs was almost pulsing.
Speechless, I clapped so hard for Hallie when she finished my palms were numb by the time she left the stage.
I turned to Becca, “Holy shit. That was – amazing.”
She smiled at me. “Right? Just wait for the rest of ‘em.”
Becca wasn’t kidding. For the next hour and a half, I heard women talk about the sort of things I was told not to talk about – and they mentioned that, too. I heard about hairy vaginas, bloody vaginas, sad and happy vaginas, orgasming vaginas, and wet vaginas. I never knew there were so many ways to refer to a vagina before. The women who performed were fierce, unashamed of the topic they were being so vocal about. They told us what their vaginas would wear and say. But, they also told us about being beaten or punished for no reason. It made me see my womanhood differently. It made me proud to sit next to Becca, knowing her “coochi snorcher” as she knew mine, and loving that fact.
***
That night I got home and felt an inspiration causing my fingers to twitch. I grabbed my journal from its new hiding place under the carpet beneath my dresser, took a purple pen from my desk and propped myself up on my bed. For the first time in weeks, I wrote:
My Vagina is schizophrenic. She doesn’t know whether to be hairy or bare. She wants her hair or her nudity to be her decision. She wants to feel empowered by that decision. But my Vagina is schizophrenic and has trouble choosing.
My Vagina is schizophrenic. She doesn’t know if it should feel pleased or unfulfilled. She doesn’t know enough to know what she wants, or who she wants it from. She wants to feel pleased on her own, but she doesn’t always feel comfortable doing so. My Vagina is schizophrenic and wants to understand whether she is displeased or content with her discontent.
I stopped there and read it over. Not bad. Not a bad start.
I felt like I had released a breath I had been holding for months.
***
I found this open mike night in the paper at The Hatch. Despite Cameron’s unwillingness to unleash his talent in front of his friends, I thought this might give him a little more confidence.
“Cam, look,” I showed him the ad. We were sitting on the screened porch in the Keetings’ house. He had burgers on the grill.
“Yeah right, Greer. Come on, you know how I feel about that.”
“But listen, hear me out. It’s at this little café, a place none of your friends would ever step into, right?” I urged.
“Well, probably. Even so, G, I’ve never played for anyone other than you. Not to mention I don’t have any original songs or anything. I’d just be able to play lame covers.” He stood up and walked over to tend to our dinner, flipping both circles of meat and placing a piece of American cheese on one for himself.
“So? Everyone plays covers at these things. That’s not lame; it’s what open mikes are kind of about. You’re good, Cam. What if we at least went and checked it out?”
He turned, eyeing me to gauge my seriousness.
“We’ll bring your guitar,” I suggested, “but, if you don’t want to play, you won’t. How about it?”
“Oh man,” he said, wiping his hand over his face. “Alright, G-babe, but I’m only doing this for you.” Cameron put the burgers on the plate and walked over to me, kissing my forehead. “Come on, let’s eat.”
I waited a second or two, watching him go in the door to the kitchen. Even though I had had something of an epiphany with Becca just a few days before, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of caring for my boyfriend at that moment. It wasn’t quite as strong as what I had with Becs, but it wasn’t nothing either.
***
He pulled me toward him from behind, catching me off-guard.
“Jesus, Cam. I’m working here.” I extracted myself from my boyfriend’s arms and went back to restocking the shelves. I had literally just started working at the supermarket that day, figuring I could use some cash for my dates with Becca. Cameron was into that whole guy-pays-for-everything, chauvinist/gentleman thing, so I never had to worry about that.
“Oh come on, babe. Let’s go. We’re gonna miss the game!”
“Cameron, I’m working.”
“You’ve got five more minutes left on your shift. Blow ‘em off!”
I threw him a dirty look and went in the back room. Employee’s Only. I knew I’d have to deal with him, but right then I couldn’t take it. I wanted to see if I could work until closing, mostly so I’d have an excuse not to go to the Powder Puff football game with Cam. All I could think of was how I had been in bed with Becca four hours earlier. The conflict that was my love life was becoming more complicated by the day. If I worked enough, I figured I could put off making any decisions.
“Listen Cam,” I said when I came out from hiding. “My boss just told me they need me to stay and cover for someone who called in sick.” A little white lie never hurt anyone.
“Aw, come on, G! That’s bogus,” he moped.
I gave him a playful shove. “Go with Shaun or something and have some fun. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He pouted and kissed me goodbye.
“We’re still on for the café, right?” I asked. Just because my romantic feelings were in an upheaval didn’t mean Cam wasn’t my friend, or that I didn’t maintain that he had musical talent.
“Yeah, yeah I g
uess so.”
***
At 9 p.m. The Hatch was pretty packed. The crowd sitting at the tables, on the stools and in the smattering of maroon and grey plush chairs was much more earthy-crunchy than Cameron was used to. He clung to my side, keeping a hand on my shoulder as I led him to a couple of empty seats off to the left of the small stage. There was a squirrelly boy standing there at that moment, no more than 13, playing the violin rather well.
“There are a lot of people here, Greer,” Cam whispered to me, squeezing my leg.
“No pressure, Cam, okay? Let’s see what a few of the others do.”
For the next 45 minutes we sipped on a couple of lattes that Cameron bought for us and enjoyed the music. There were many different performers there: saxophonists, guitarists, bongoists (is that a word?), and even a white haired old hippie who was rocking out on a harmonica.
“Everyone give it up for Jeff ‘The Wolf’ Ranger!” the Emcee prompted as the hippie vacated the stage. “Well, that’s it for our line-up, but the mike is still open if anyone else feels like playing.”
I turned to Cam, widening my eyes.
“Greer, I don’t know.” He looked at his guitar, resting against the wall next to him.
Just as I was about to offer some words of encouragement, a rowdy group of teens came through the door. We both turned to see at least five guys with a girl each, all of them sporting our school’s name with a basketball emblazoned beneath.
“They’ll get something to drink and leave, Cameron. Just wait a minute.” I put my arm around him to anchor him to his seat, but to no avail.
“Let’s go, I’m done with this,” he said. Without waiting for me, he shrugged off my arm and left through the back exit.
I slung his guitar case onto my back and with one more glance towards the jocks, I followed.
When we reached his car he got into the driver’s seat without a word, waiting, assuming I would follow. Instead, I knocked on the window until he rolled the window down.