Dormitory Dearest: A Sweet Lesbian Romance

by Nicolette Dane

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s just a boy.”

  “Does he like you or something?” she said, lifting a eyebrow as she flipped her ponytail back to assist in drying it out. “Is he trying to get into your panties?” Hosannah joked, poking at my hip, digging her finger in to tickle me. I giggled and swatted.

  “C’mon,” I said.

  “Does he know that you don’t like boys?” she asked. “I mean, you told him that didn’t you?”

  “Sorta,” I said. “I haven’t been able to be the most upfront with him.”

  “Sorta?” Hosannah repeated. “Hmm, well, what do you mean sorta?”

  “I’m embarrassed to talk about it,” I said, toppling over to the side, falling down onto Hosannah’s bed, and burying my head into the blanket.

  “Tasha,” said Hosannah with authority in her voice. She reached over and rubbed my butt through the thick denim of my jeans. “You don’t have to be embarrassed around me. I accept you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my mouth against the blanket.

  “But…” she said, her tone open-ended and somewhat wavering. “I mean, if we’re getting involved with each other,” said Hosannah, lobbing the conversation back to me on that hanging note.

  “Involved,” I repeated.

  “Yes, involved,” said Hosannah, giving my butt a pinch. “Like girlfriends,” she said. “Not leading on boys when neither of us, you know, like boys.”

  I was silent.

  “Tasha, you don’t like boys… do you?” asked Hosannah. She reached over to me, took me by the hands, and pulled me back up off the bed so I was again sitting upright next to her.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “No,” I corrected. “I don’t.”

  “You better not be in the process of breaking my heart,” she said in a much more serious tone. “C’mon Tasha, I don’t just get intimate with random chicks. What’s the deal here?”

  I know you’re probably thinking to yourself, why does this Natasha girl have such a difficult time expressing herself? I wish I had an answer for you. Perhaps it was a cocktail of naivety and anxiety, two potent ingredients that can cause somebody to freeze in their tracks when they don’t know exactly which way they’re supposed to step. The truth was that I was just trying to find myself and committing to anything specific was a difficult proposition for me. As I dwelled on all this, I suddenly caught a whiff of that coffee bean aroma and I felt my heart melt.

  “I like you,” I said with a smile. “That’s the deal.” As I looked into Hosannah’s eyes, the reassuring glow returned to her face.

  “Okay,” she said as an affirmation. “No more scaring me. You can always talk to me. I can be your guide through this new wonderful and wacky world you’ve found yourself in.” Hosannah grinned and wreathed her arm around me, pulling tightly against me.

  “I can handle that,” I said.

  And I definitely needed her help. I knew, deep down, that I had to admit these things to the world but most importantly I had to admit them to myself. On television, or whatever, everybody’s so liberated or sure of themselves or just plain committed and full of self-knowledge. But in reality, in my reality, it has been an intense struggle to admit that I preferred girls over boys, that I was, in fact, a lesbian. I felt that I was a lesbian, it sure seemed to my logical mind that I was a lesbian, but so many other things outside of me made it difficult to commit to that. I knew that society just treats you differently if you’re gay. Even though it’s legal for gay and lesbian people to marry, it’s still a hard fact that they’re treated badly sometimes. Even in my own family, despite my parents being pretty loving individuals, I’ve heard negativity when conversations arose pertaining to gay people. That negativity scared me.

  From what I could tell, Hosannah came from a much more open family than I did. We had our similarities in background and we had our differences. And despite my family’s somewhat conservative nature, I didn’t want them to hate me and I didn’t want to hate them. I wanted acceptance and I wanted to figure out how I would get there. I never imagined life being this hard and I never imagined it all flooding out of me so quickly.

  Hosannah leaned in and kissed me, her lips tenderly pressing into mine, wet little sounds emanating from our convergence. We embraced adoringly, happy to holding one another, and let our lips linger together, eyes closing, exhaling sighs, hands exploring. I felt so perfect next to her, so intimate when we kissed. I wished I could express myself in words how Hosannah made me feel inside. She made me feel like a really frenetic circus scene. Like a marching band had ignited into triumphant music. Like I was being hoisted up in a stretchy sheet by a bunch of people and flung high up into the air, arms and legs flailing in joy. I guess it was kind of like all that.

  Together we collapsed down into her bed and cuddled into one another, still kissing, still holding each other, the passion of the moment growing even more heated. The music still played in the background from her laptop, little tinny beats coming from the weak speakers, that satisfying smell of coffee coming from Hosannah filling my nostrils and drawing me even closer to her, and the taste of her mouth inspiring a coolness and a freshness, like she’d just brushed her teeth, yet it was mixed with some sort of sultry zest. I couldn’t stop thinking about our hotel room adventure, the way she adeptly fingered me and brought me to climax, and I absolutely yearned to experience it all over again.

  “Do you want to stay over for a little while?” Hosannah cooed as she stopped our kiss for a moment. Her eyes peered deeply into mine.

  “Yes,” I said delicately.

  “You can explore me,” she said. “How does that sound?”

  “It makes me kinda nervous,” I admitted. She giggled sweetly.

  “Just forget the nerves and have fun,” she said, kissing me. “This is all about having a good time and being happy.”

  “Okay,” I intoned as Hosannah reached down and adroitly unbuttoned the top of my jeans. I felt the waistband around me loosen up, which in turn made my whole body feel loosened as well. Our lips met once more, the two of us reveling in each other, volleying our love and our lust back and forth, hotly contesting who had greater feelings for whom. Although I was certainly nervous for what was to come, I looked forward to doing it with someone as authentic as Hosannah. She really brought the best in me and I was grateful for that.

  *

  “So does this make sense to everyone?” asked Professor McGregor, a somewhat crotchety-looking old man with thin white hair and a white beard. Despite his outwardly appearance, he was actually quite with it and an engaging teacher. “You’re going to partner up with someone else in class and focus on completing this research and essay project together.”

  “And the due date?” asked a student, raising his hand but not waiting to be called on before he spoke up.

  “It’s in the syllabus,” said McGregor, looking down at his notes through the lenses on his face. “Two weeks from now.”

  Looking over at Henry, I could tell he had a question and was about to ask it. The two of us locked eyes for a moment, causing me to quickly look away and Henry to put his hand up.

  “Yes?” said McGregor in Henry’s direction.

  “Is it fine to do a comparison analysis of two texts?” asked Henry.

  “Yes,” said McGregor. “However, don’t just simply compare, say, the Hamlet folio and the Hamlet quarto, or the first and second quartos, on a purely text-based observation,” he said, then clearing his throat. “There are plenty of papers that already do that. I would be looking for more of a structural analysis and how it informs interpretation of the text.”

  “Got it,” said Henry.

  “This is an honors English class,” said McGregor. “So I expect a higher level of analysis, not just summary or a plot outline. Feel free to work with any of the Elizabethan texts we’ve discussed in class or even those that we haven’t. Shakespeare, Marlowe, Ben Jonson. It’s all applicable.”

  “One more question,” said
Henry, again lifting his hand up as he spoke.

  “Yes sir?” said McGregor.

  “Would a comparison analysis of, say, Hamlet and Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy be a good topic?” he asked.

  “Just so long as it’s not a superficial analysis,” said McGregor. “Those two texts indeed have a lot in common but I would looking more for something that demonstrates their similarities, yet interprets how those similarities, say… differently inspire the tragic elements of either play.”

  Henry nodded along as McGregor spoke. As they went back and forth about this assignment, I suddenly felt woefully underprepared for this kind of project. Perhaps I hadn’t been paying close enough attention in class, my mind preoccupied with my romantic life, my studies taking a bit of a backseat as stuff became more complex with Hosannah. Or maybe I just wasn’t as well-versed in English literature as I previously thought.

  “So partner up and come up with your thesis,” said McGregor. “If you have questions you can visit my office hours, listed on the syllabus. That’s all for today.”

  As McGregor began to collect his things, the rest of the students in our class of twenty followed his lead. Just as I was sliding my big book of Elizabethan drama into my backpack, I looked up to see Henry hovering next to me. I was startled by his presence, having a bit of a shiver as I looked up to him. I couldn’t help but nervously laugh.

  “Hi Natasha,” he said.

  “Hi Henry.”

  “So what do you say?” he said with a grin. “Want to partner up?”

  “Well…” I said, trailing off. I knew Henry had a thing for me. I could see the eagerness in his face. And I certainly did like him, though I knew my affections were for Hosannah and I didn’t want Hosannah to think anything was going on between Henry and I. Still, it was obvious Henry knew what he was talking about in regards to the project and I needed help. It was a delicate balance between feeling like I was being his friend and feeling like I was leading him on.

  “If you already had someone else you planned to work with, that’s cool,” said Henry. “I just thought, you know, we live in the same dorm and we’re already friends, it would just be… convenient.”

  “All right,” I agree with a smile. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

  “Great!” exclaimed Henry. “I’ve already got a cool idea, as I kind of hinted at when I was talking to Professor McGregor.”

  “What’s your idea?” I asked, feeling a sense of relief wash over me as I realized now that I was working with Henry, I wouldn’t have to struggle to come up with my own plan for the assignment. I promised myself I’d pay closer attention in class going forward so that I’d feel more prepared for the next project.

  “So, in both Hamlet and The Spanish Tragedy,” he began. “There’s a play within a play which is used to trap a murderer. I mean, Shakespeare kind of, um… lifted a lot from Kyd so there’s a ton of cool comparisons to be made.”

  “Sure,” I said happily. “Yeah, that sounds fine.”

  “Awesome,” said Henry. “I’ve got a copy of The Spanish Tragedy I could loan you to read quick and seeing as we just finished working with Hamlet, it should be fresh.”

  “Right,” I said. Henry was obviously quite excited by his project idea and his enthusiasm for the topic made it easy for me to take a back seat and just him steer the ship.

  “I’ll stop by your room later tonight to drop it off,” he said. “Are you heading back to Leopold? Maybe we could walk together?”

  Although I was indeed planning on heading back to the dorm, I felt like I should give myself a little distance from Henry. There was an assertive Natasha that was aching to come out, to tell him in no uncertain terms that this whole thing, this infatuation or whatever he had for me, just couldn’t be. But no matter how hard I thought it, the words wouldn’t leave my lips.

  “I’m not going back to the dorm right away,” I said in an attempt at avoidance. “I’ve got to go see my advisor.” I really didn’t have to go see my advisor, but it always felt like you had to give people believable excuses when you said no to them. I know that’s silly, but I’m sure most of us do it.

  “Cool,” said Henry, hefting his backpack up on his shoulder. “I’ll bring The Spanish Tragedy by later and maybe we can talk more about the project.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you soon, Natasha,” said Henry, a sincere smile on his face. It was hard to let him down. He just seemed like a well-meaning guy, perhaps a little clingy and not quite getting that I wasn’t interested in him. But that was my fault, really. Okay, not totally my fault. Right?

  After Henry had left the room, I continued collecting my things into my bag and stood up from my seat. I figured I could go kill some time by the auditorium and walk along the river before sneaking back to the dorm and getting lunch.

  *

  As I came upon the river, I saw a group of students hanging together behind the auditorium playing some sort of game. I couldn’t quite tell what they were doing but as I got closer, they were clearly theater students doing whatever it was that theater students do. Maybe an improv or body movement game. I didn’t know. But I saw that Whitney was part of the group, moving along with the rest of the them, freezing in odd poses, tapping each other on the shoulder, laughing whenever some one in the group made a goof.

  “Let’s take a break,” said the teacher overseeing the class. “Stretch out and clear your minds.” Whitney caught my eye, smiled widely, waved, and then rushed over to me as I got closer to the group of students.

  “Hey roomie,” said Whitney once she approached me. “What are you doing over by the aud’ at this time of day?”

  “Nothing really,” I said. “Just walking.”

  “Just walking?” said Whitney with a puzzled look. “That’s kinda… odd. Are you okay, Tasha?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m all right.”

  “Tell me,” said Whitney, dramatically narrowing her eyes like she was trying to shame a secret out of me. “You think you’re slick and you can hide something from me, but I see right through you.”

  “Well,” I said with a drawn out sigh. “Yeah, I’m not just walking around here. I’m avoiding someone.”

  “Hmm,” mused Whitney, nodding knowingly, following along with me. “Go on.”

  “I’m avoiding…” I said with a pause, searching for the courage to open up. “Henry. From our dorm.”

  “Henry?” she asked perplexedly. “Why are you avoiding him?” Her eyes widened suddenly, probably remembering when Henry had come to our room and beginning to piece things together. “Is something going on with the two of you?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I mean, I don’t know.”

  “What!” she said, grinning widely across her face like she was beaming with excitement. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “No,” I said again. “Whitney, it’s not like that. Henry likes me but I’m just… I don’t feel the same way.”

  “You don’t?” she said. I could tell she was confused. “He’s a cute boy, Tasha. What’s the deal? Is he too weird or something?”

  “It’s not that,” I said. I knew that I had avoided this conversation for far too long with Whitney. Apart from Hosannah, she was the closest person I’d grown to know up at school and although it was certainly difficult for me to admit these truths to my external world, I needed Whitney on my side. For that to happen, I had to open up to her.

  “So what is it, then?” she said. Whitney looked into my eyes and I could feel the kindness inside of her. In that moment, I couldn’t figure out why I’d been so scared to talk to her and tell her my secrets. I guess that’s what anxiety will do to you. If you leave it unchecked, it could take one surmountable problem and blow it up into something that seems near impossible to get over.

  “Henry’s a nice guy,” I started. “I mean, I do like him. He’s sweet. But I just… I don’t like boys,” I said finally, feeling like a huge pressure had been removed from my chest. “I’m a lesbian, Whitney.
”

  “That’s awesome,” said Whitney with a glowing smile. She reached out to me and offered me a loving hug. “That’s terrific, Tasha.”

  “Really?” I said with surprise. I really wasn’t sure what to expect, either positive or negative. Every day was like a brand new surprise for me. College was really pushing me along.

  “Dude, of course,” said Whitney, stepping back from our hug and grinning happily at me. “I’m glad you finally told me. I have to admit that I’d kind of suspected it. But I didn’t want to, you know, assume anything.”

  “I know I should have told you sooner,” I said. “I wanted to. It’s just hard for me to open up, that’s all. My brain is always going at a mile a minute,” I said with a hint of nervous laughter. “It’s tough to put it all into words.” I felt spectacular standing there with Whitney. I felt so free.

  “I’m cool,” said Whitney. “You don’t have to worry about telling me anything. Look at these people I hang out with,” she said, lifting her hand and motioning toward the group of theater students. They were a gaggle of outcasts, messing around, slapping each other on the butts, every movement exaggerated, every one of them vying for the attentions of the whole. “We take all kinds.”

  “I know,” I said, feeling embarrassed.

  “Hey,” she said kindly, gently tilting my face back up by a tender finger under my chin. “Just do your thing and don’t be ashamed by it,” said Whitney. “Everybody feels weird at college, everybody feels like an outcast. You just gotta do you and not worry about what anybody else thinks of you. You gotta be authentic.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Maybe you should take a theater class,” said Whitney with a sly grin. “Or at least audition for a play.” This idea suddenly got her excited. “Oh my God, Tasha, you should audition for a play.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” I said, turning away from her. Whitney was near jumping up and down as she meditated on this idea.

  “There’s an audition coming up,” she said, ignoring my protests. “I mean, look, you’re not going to get a lead part or anything but you might be able to get some sort of secondary part, like an ensemble part or something.”