Man Who Loved God

by William Kienzle

Gretchen began the preliminaries again. Barbara couldn’t repeat. Not now. She was too confused. It became almost a rape situation. The scuffle bordered on cruelty. Gretchen angrily left.

  As soon as Dr. Hunter had an opening, Barbara made an appointment. With Joyce of course there were no secrets. What a caring mother was supposed to be, Joyce was.

  They had been over the dating situation before. Barbara had set the guidelines for lovemaking. Joyce had created the emotional space for Babs to do this. Now Babs wondered if she had been wrong in, perhaps, being too careful.

  Maybe the problem was just that she hadn’t yet found the right man. That could be it.

  These were young men … boys, really; what did they know about lovemaking? They were self-centered, just faking care of Number One. Once she got out on her own, once she got out of college, once it became appropriate for her to date older, more experienced men, everything would straighten itself out.

  Then why had she nearly exploded with Gretchen? Was it just all that pent-up energy inside her seeking an outlet?

  Barbara’s eyes met Joyce’s silent gaze. Under that penetrating look, Barbara spoke more and more slowly until she fell silent. “I … I’m … a lesbian, aren’t I?”

  Joyce nodded. And smiled.

  “And …” Barbara hesitated, fearing that she was about to be dead wrong and, at the same time, apprehensive that she was correct. “… and so are you!”

  Joyce’s smile took on a melancholy tinge. Again she nodded.

  “But you can’t be!”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re married! You’ve got a child!”

  “It’s time to talk about this,” Joyce said.

  “Time? Now? You mean you’ve known about this right along and you never brought it up? And ‘now’ is the time to face it? Is that what you mean?” Barbara’s tone became angry.

  “Yes, now is the time,” Joyce stated flatly. “Not long after we met, I was pretty sure you were gay.”

  “But … how? I like boys. I always have.”

  “That’s not the point, Babs. Boys who are homosexual don’t hate girls. They’re just not physically, sexually attracted to them. Girls who are lesbian don’t hate boys. They’re just not as attracted to males as they are to other females.”

  “But I’ve been with boys—sexually. As a matter of fact, Gretchen is my one and only gay … experience.”

  “Face it, Babs: you never got from a guy what you got from Gretchen.”

  “Maybe that’s because they didn’t know what they were doing. Maybe they just lacked the experience to bring me to orgasm. Maybe they were just interested in themselves.”

  Joyce smiled condescendingly. “Come on, Barbara, not one young man you’ve ever been with did everything right—mechanically, even passionately? Not one really tried to help you come?”

  Barbara exhaled deeply. She studied the floor. “You’re right. There have been times. I guess I just never faced up to it.

  “Oh, Joyce …” She looked at her mentor, tears flowing. “How did this happen to me?”

  Joyce shook her head. “You’re beginning to sound as if you had leprosy—something terminal and communicable.” She chuckled. “I’ve got it too, you know.”

  Barbara felt apologetic. “I’m sorry. You’re right. But I can’t help thinking that what we are is unnatural … or freaky.”

  “That’s because that’s how the rest of society wants us to think of ourselves. At best we’re simply different from the majority. And that scares them. Now you’re wondering how you got to be part of our minority.”

  Barbara nodded with great interest.

  “Well … nobody’s been able to pin down the cause for certain. It may be something genetic. It may be a chromosome. It may have something to do with early development. Take yours, for instance. How could anybody have had a much more screwed-up formation? A steady diet of incest resulting in pregnancy. The abortion. Your mother sleeping around. The fact that you’re as well put together as you are is a testimony to something inside you that survives.

  “Whatever, it’s futile to fixate on the impossible. Anyone in this business who is honest will admit we don’t have any incontrovertible indication of why some-—the majority—are straight and others—the minority—are gay.

  “You are what you are. You live with it. You play the hand you’re dealt.”

  Barbara, lost in thought, was trying to digest all she’d just heard. “Okay,” she said finally, “so you and I are lesbian. What I don’t understand is your husband and your kid. Aren’t they impossible for you?”

  “Not really.” Joyce went to the credenza and poured two cups of coffee. She gave Barbara one and placed the other on her desk as she began to pace between the desk and a bookshelf. “You see, Babs, there’s this glass ceiling. You’re familiar with the term?”

  Barbara shook her head.

  “Well, the glass ceiling is a metaphor and at the same time a very real barrier that blocks women and minorities from rising from middle to senior corporate management positions or to tenured professorships.

  “About the only way a woman today can be top gun in her profession is when she creates—is the founding mother, if you will, of the business. But how many people, men or women, can bring that off successfully?

  “You haven’t been exposed to the glass ceiling yet. But you will be. You will be because you’re smart and you’re talented. There’s no reason why you couldn’t—shouldn’t—rise to the top. What do you want to work at after you graduate?”

  Barbara tapped a front tooth with her index finger. “I’m not sure … I think maybe advertising or public relations.”

  “Hmmm. There have been some moderate breakthroughs in those fields. Still … take a look at the larger firms in those fields and you’ll find at the very top a white male or a bunch of the same. The opposition to a minority or a woman getting those top positions is enormous.

  “The obstacles are significant. Just look at large corporations, law firms—all men, all white men, at the top.

  “Now, maybe you’re wondering why this system is called a glass ceiling.”

  Barbara sipped her coffee and nodded.

  “Babs, it’s because everybody, especially everybody on the top side of the ceiling, pretends it isn’t there. ‘There’s no opposition to you women and minorities joining us up here. Why, you can see us clearly.’ But try climbing up there with the big boys and you’ll rap your head on that invisible barrier.

  “Got that, Babs? You can’t see it, but it’s there: a glass ceiling.”

  Barbara nodded slowly. Yes, she did understand. She’d just never given it much thought. This was America. The Land of Opportunity, where anybody can become anything he or she wants.

  But now that she thought about it, that wasn’t the way it worked.

  “There’s something there even after the glass ceiling,” Joyce continued. “Suppose a woman or a minority member does manage to break through the ceiling. The white males occupying that floor just put up a concrete wall.

  “For years—lots of years—there were no minorities, let alone women, who managed major league sports teams. Even today there still are damn few. But a few African-Americans have made it through that glass ceiling only to find a concrete wall blocking the way to ownership.

  “But why am I telling you all about the glass ceiling and brick wall when you asked about my husband and our child?” She gazed into a distance that wasn’t there. “It happened after I discovered I was gay,” she said finally. “With that came the realization that I was not what the straight world expected a woman to be. It was then I concluded that we—gay women—have two strikes against us. The first strike is the glass ceiling that I just talked about. The second strike is that we don’t find men natural beasts of burden.”

  “Huh?”

  “Lots of women—most women?—rise socially, economically, whatever, on the backs of their husbands. It’s ‘Doctor and Mrs.’ or ‘Mr. Ford and his socially
active wife so-and-so.’

  “See, it’s not that women aren’t intelligent enough or are incapable of the skills needed to climb to the top; it’s that the male world prevents them from achieving the ultimate success.

  “So lots of women—most women?—blocked from achieving all they’re capable of, ride the coattails of their husbands. But what gay women do not need are husbands—”

  “So,” Barbara broke in, “you got married because it was the ‘proper’ thing to do. And you’re going to accomplish more as his wife than you could by yourself.”

  “Let me put just a little different spin on that, Babs. I’m going to accomplish lots more because I am Joyce Hunter, wife and mother—and thus what the world wants me to be—than I ever would have as Joyce Matthews, lesbian.”

  Barbara thought about all this for several minutes. Joyce gave her time to absorb many facts that until now had been completely foreign to her concept of what life held in store for her.

  At length, Barbara looked intensely at Joyce. “Your husband, your child: how do they react to your lesbianism?”

  “They haven’t a clue.”

  “What?!”

  “It’s true. No one would be more surprised than they if they were to find out.”

  “But …?”

  Joyce smiled broadly. “It’s time for us to pity the poor boys.”

  “Huh?”

  “They can’t fake an orgasm. As even you very well know, the male orgasm is part and parcel of his ejaculation. As a matter of fact, his ejaculation is his orgasm. In other words, he has to put up or shut up. He has to get aroused enough to reach a climax. A very visible, discernible climax.

  “Not so with us women. It is a standard part of our equipment that we ejaculate nothing. We lubricate, but if we don’t we can use a cream or almost any sort of lubricant. After that, noises—a squeal, a moan, a scream or two—will convince the male that we’ve come. Maybe, if one wants to carry conviction, our noises, our body movements will convince our partners that we have come in a very big way.”

  Barbara was aware that her mouth was hanging open. She closed it. “You mean you’ve faked orgasm totally, throughout your marriage!

  “Well, maybe not totally. There’ve been times when we’re together and I … well … fantasize. That’s kind of common in any number of people who make love. How many women while they’re having intercourse with their husbands may be envisioning Robert Redford, or Mel Gibson, or someone else? That’s a fantasy.

  “Sometimes, when I’m with Harry, I picture someone else in his place. I should admit that Harry is quite good in bed. So, when I’m not particularly turned on by him, I can respond to my fantasy.”

  “I see.” Barbara hesitated, not knowing whether to try the question on her mind. But Joyce had been so open and frank … Babs decided to risk making herself vulnerable to rejection. “May I ask, Joyce: was I ever your fantasy?”

  Joyce almost blushed. “You ask too many questions, gal.” Then, seeing that she had hurt Barbara, she added, “Babs, you’re a beautiful person, inside and outside. Sure you’ve been my fantasy. More often than not.”

  Silence for several long moments.

  “But even if you have a fantasy partner,” Barbara asked, “isn’t it still like being raped?”

  The word “rape”, stung Joyce. “I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression. It’s never even close to rape with Harry. He’s very considerate. He would never insist on lovemaking if I were not in the mood or didn’t feel well or something like that. It’s just … my physical love object is going to be a woman. That’s just the way it is … the way it has to be.” After a few moments, Joyce asked, “Want some more coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” Pause. “You know, Joyce, it needn’t be a fantasy.”

  “What?”

  “Us … together … making love: it doesn’t have to be a fantasy for you or for me.”

  Warning lights went on in Joyce’s mind. “Wait a minute, young lady. You’re a student in college. I’m an established psychologist.”

  “You’re not hiding behind the difference in our ages!”

  “Not that so much as the fact that you were—you are—my patient. It smacks of bad ethics to make love to one’s patient. It’s too dangerous. As inviting as it is, it’s also fraught.”

  Barbara stood and walked over to Joyce. Face to face, they were only inches apart. “How about this: suppose we wait till I graduate. Suppose during this interval I’m not your patient. We sever our doctor-patient relationship. Supposing then we became lovers.”

  “I don’t know ….” Joyce shook her head. “How do we know how we’ll feel after this? How do we know we’ll feel the same way then? Wait: there are no strings here … right?”

  “None.”

  “Open-ended, then. Okay, we’ll see what we will see.”

  They held each other’s hands and looked penetratingly into each other’s eyes.

  Then Joyce leaned forward and kissed Barbara as she might embrace a friend. And thus they separated until Barbara could begin her assault on that glass ceiling.

  Eighteen

  True to their agreement, Barbara Simpson and Joyce Hunter did not see each other, either professionally or socially, while Barbara remained a student at Western Michigan.

  Gretchen offered to introduce Barbara to Kalamazoo’s gay community. Barbara tactfully declined. She resumed dating boys, reasoning that once out of the closet there would be no getting back in.

  After graduation, Barbara joined an ad agency. She was clever and successful, but it soon became obvious that though her ideas and her talent would advance her, there was no way she would get to the top; the glass ceiling was there—transparent, but rock solid. She could see through it—but she would not be able to rise through it.

  She had talent, skill, brains, and her customer relations were excellent. But she was a woman.

  Disgusted, she accepted an offer from one of the auto companies. The glass ceiling was still there, but the perks and the salary sweetened the status,

  She began seeing Dr. Joyce Hunter again, ostensibly as a patient. In effect what was going on was not completely foreign to some doctor-patient relationships. They were conducting a love affair—clandestinely, but an affair nevertheless.

  By appointment they met at Joyce’s office monthly. They were able to get together more frequently at Barbara’s apartment. And when Joyce reserved a post office box, they were even able to correspond. Things were going along as swimmingly as possible.

  Until …

  Until one day Barbara got a phone call from a man she had never met: Harry Hunter, Joyce’s husband.

  He knew.

  He had found one of Barbara’s letters. Joyce was supposed to destroy them after reading. Instead, she had kept one in a “safe” place.

  Barbara had received angry phone calls, but none like this. He was so damn righteous. Unlike the biblical woman caught in adultery, in Barbara’s case, there would be no defender to protect her. Harry Hunter had been betrayed and, by God, someone would pay for it. He was going to file for divorce and he damn well knew he would be granted custody of their teenage daughter. He called Barbara every foul name in his arsenal.

  When he finally slammed down the phone she felt as if she’d been shot at close range with a shotgun. And that she’d never be able to pick out all the tiny fragments of pellets.

  Her hands were shaking as she dialed Joyce’s office. An answering machine offered to take a message. Barbara hesitated, then decided against that. She tried Joyce’s home. No answer.

  Barbara was close to panic. She desperately needed to talk to Joyce. But how to reach her? She didn’t want to chance encountering Harry in her efforts to contact Joyce.

  She decided there was nothing she could do now. Literally. She was so shaken there was no possibility of working further this day. She pleaded a sudden migraine. Her concerned boss, who prized her work, told her to take as much time as she needed.

&nbs
p; Barbara went to her apartment and tried the two numbers again.No response.

  She tried a bath. Inexplicably, she became claustrophobic in the water.

  She tried to read. But her mind refused to focus on the printed words. Again and again she returned to a panic state. She paced endlessly. She could neither stay seated nor lie down. She was frightened for herself, but far more concerned for Joyce. This could mean not only the end of Joyce’s marriage, but, quite possibly, her career as well.

  Periodically, she dialed Joyce’s office, hoping against hope that Joyce would have returned—if she had gone out. As the phone rang, Barbara would mutter, “Pick up! Damn it, Joyce, pick up!” But after several rings, the familiar if professional voice of Dr. Hunter would invite the caller to leave a message at the tone.

  Why wasn’t Joyce calling her? Was she being held captive by Harry? Had she been injured? Had there been some sort of accident? Anything was possible, but not probable.

  If Joyce were free and able to call, why wasn’t she calling?

  Was it because Joyce was angry with her? Maybe. After all, it was one of Barbara’s letters that was the proximate cause of this catastrophe. But dammit, Joyce was supposed to have destroyed those letters!

  It was sweet but dumb of Joyce to save one. She must’ve thought she was keeping it in a “safe” place. She should have realized that as long as she kept even a single letter, it stood the chance of being found.

  Certainly, both Barbara and Joyce were aware of the danger and the consequences if anyone—most of all Harry—learned of their affair. But it was possible that neither woman could have imagined just how cataclysmically Harry would react.

  God, but she wanted a cigarette! Barbara hadn’t smoked in many years. But then, she hadn’t been hovering on the brink of a nervous breakdown either. Yet she dared not go out; at any moment Joyce might call.

  It was almost 11 P.M. Barbara turned on the TV, convinced she would not pay attention to a word. If nothing else, she needed noise.

  A local lawyer, himself a celebrity, had been found guilty of drunk driving as well as some legal improprieties, and disbarred. Barbara continued pacing. She paid no attention whatever to the story.