You and No Other

by Jane Weiss

  Let me sense when I am hoarding her love for myself. Its sweetness and warmth are a two-edged sword powerful enough to hurt when misused.

  I was becoming alarmed that maybe Charles had been right all along, naming my feelings for Bonnie long before I could. Was I so sexually repressed that I had denied my feelings until now? Certainly that was possible, for in the past, sexual improprieties had been an issue for me. I had experimented with sex throughout my adolescent and pre-marriage years. But after having an affair within my marriage over a decade ago, I closed down, ashamed that my body had betrayed me again.

  So how could I fall in love with a woman? I had never before experienced sexual feelings for a woman. In fact, the only context I had for anyone in a same-gender relationship was my neighbor’s husband who, dishonored by his homosexuality, had to leave his family. Had my spiritual journey become the foil for me to give myself permission to let this relationship grow? Or in my search to find myself, is this who I really was?

  Crossing the Line

  I wrote a letter to Bonnie in mid-October, as a way to explain my actions on the previous day. We were having lunch at our favorite Mediterranean restaurant, when I could no longer look into her eyes. My longing for her was so great, that sitting across a table was unbearable. Unable to hold back tears or to share what I was feeling, I stood up abruptly, and without explanation, hurriedly left the restaurant, leaving Bonnie behind.

  Later that afternoon, Bonnie called me, concerned about what had happened. I told her I’d have to spend some time alone, meditating, writing and praying, before I could share what was going on with me. We had begun delivering to each other our writings, which we called “pocket messages,” after I discovered Charles had continued reading and even copying parts of my journal.

  I hand-carried this carefully folded pocket message to Bonnie’s office the next day. I was relieved to find she was in her office alone. She looked up from her desk and smiled as I lightly knocked on the doorframe, closed the door behind me, and handed her this letter:

  What would happen to me, to us, if I allowed my strong passion to guide? I don’t know where it would take me—that if you encouraged me, we might find ourselves in a physical relationship I believe neither of us could abide.

  But I want to be carried with the tide of this feeling. I want you close to me and want whatever might unfold, even though the guides admonish us to harmonize a possible overbalance.

  Would a physical relationship with you consume me even more? Would I, could I ever stand to be away from you if we gave ourselves to each other, and what would that mean for our families—for your present and our future employers’ and staffs’ respect? Would a physical relationship bind us even closer to each other so that, to not expose ourselves to the world, we would withdraw from others?

  The guides tell me that as the desire to lose myself in this “one” is released, the balance will have been achieved. How do I release that desire? Is verbal release enough or will holding and loving you be necessary for release?

  I’m frightened. Oneness with you feels inevitable—a natural culmination. It will take a miracle to break my pattern of response to you—to allow me to sit in the same room, the same car, and not want to hold you so desperately, that if I can’t, I don’t want to be in that room, in that car.

  Father, help me sort this out. Help us see clearly what is best—what will bring your highest goodness to both of us.

  All or none—there are other options. Most often, we avoid holding each other because it looks strange in parking lots, especially in broad daylight. But think of the times we allowed ourselves this luxury until we felt satisfied. And think of the good that came for my father from it one night on Fiftieth Street. Maybe this would be sufficient and even right, even the best for us.

  Is all this soul-searching pointless? Perhaps you don’t share my feelings, or may not as strongly, so that this becomes my problem. That’s okay; maybe it’s even easier.

  Is “losing myself in one” [from the reading] losing my pathway and becoming so absorbed in you, that nothing else matters? Is this another test for me, for us, another obstacle to overcome and to emerge from with greater peace and confidence than we’ve ever had? If so, how do I begin to release—how, where, when do I ask and receive strength and the desire to want to release these feelings, if I should.

  But my test is to allow myself the freedom to grow deeper into you—to taste all of our love. To know all that our love can be. Perhaps release comes from this.

  Through and around all these feelings is the assurance that we are, I am, you are, guided. That each thought and feeling must be loved and accepted as part of the whole of learning a thing. That you and I must remain open to all God has planned, and through this openness, we will discover His best.

  The afternoon sun backlit her beautiful chestnut-brown hair as she sat at her desk, reading my message. I studied her face and body for any sign of response. When she finally looked up at me, she had a curious smile and said, “Whew, that’s a lot to think about.”

  I mumbled something like, “Well that’s where I am. After yesterday, I felt you needed to know, and I needed to tell you. Call me if you care to talk.” I quickly left her office, noticing that the weight of my unspoken passion had been greater than the angst of not knowing how she would respond. I felt a strange relief.

  We were together the next night for our regular study group meeting with Felicia at Lindee’s Restaurant. By phone earlier that day, we had agreed to rendezvous afterwards at the Edina Library parking lot to talk about my pocket message. As the evening at Lindee’s wore on, it became increasingly difficult for me to stay engaged in our conversation. I wanted to be alone with Bonnie. I was concerned that Felicia, who was so intuitive, would pick up on the intensity between Bonnie and me. Finally, after almost three hours, we all stood up and hugged each other good-bye. Trying not to show my excitement, I sauntered out to my car first, hoping Bonnie would follow quickly.

  Within a few minutes, we were caravanning down Highway 100, heading for the library. My mind was racing. How was it that I was in this vulnerable place? I recalled the guides’ explanation for my deepening relationship with Bonnie: “When you come to believe that love is for naught, this one has agreed to come to you.” It was true that prior to meeting her, I had determined that love was a fantasy that only others experienced. But how had I come to the place where I was proposing an affair with this woman, Bonnie? So much was at risk if we followed through with my intentions.

  She pulled her car into the library rear parking lot next to mine, opened her car door and then mine, and deftly slipped into my passenger seat. The full moon and golden light from a single parking lot lamp shone brightly through the front window, clearly illuminating both of us. We sat facing each other, looking expectantly into one another’s eyes.

  Without saying a word, I tentatively touched Bonnie’s lips with my finger, as if it were kissing her. She smiled and leaned towards me, pressing her lips against my finger. Tears rolled down my cheeks as our lips came together in a gentle kiss. I touched her face and then cradled her soft neck in both my hands. The wide cowl collar of her green mohair sweater gave access to the gentle rise of her breast, and a hotness coursed through my body. We looked into each other’s eyes, amazed at the feelings we had unleashed.

  Several hours later, we left each other, knowing we had crossed a forbidden line.

  Sometime over the next three weeks, Bonnie agreed that we needed a “place to be”—a place where we could explore what it meant for us to be together to “allow our passions to guide us.” I had decided not to ferret out any how-to-make-love-to-a-woman books. Our relationship’s journey had unfolded so naturally, that I truly believed any advice would fall short of how our experience would naturally unfold.

  The anticipated day arrived. With great excitement and some trepidation, I prepared for us—a long bath, carefully choosing clothes and lingerie. I packed a basket of wine, cheese, cracke
rs, and our favorite chocolate M&M’s, in case we stayed over lunch. We met at the appointed motel at 9:00 a.m., breathlessly greeted each other in the parking lot, and entered through the back door, afraid that someone would recognize us. Bonnie stayed in the back hallway, as I courageously approached the clerk to see if a room was available. We had discussed how we’d have to use cash, instead of credit cards, to hide our identity. And we didn’t want to risk the chance of having a motel statement mailed to either of our homes.

  The room secured, I returned to Bonnie in the hallway, and we took the elevator to “our room” unseen. Standing just inside the door, we embraced for a long time, amazed at the freedom, and sensing that what was about to unfold was a holy rite.

  We said very little as Bonnie slowly undressed, carefully laying her clothes on the small round table by the door. My heart pounded as she slipped off her red panties and matching bra. I looked unabashedly at her, breathing in the pleasure of her beauty. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I undressed quickly and pulled the sheet up to my neck, embarrassed for her to see my body. “Take off that sheet,” she laughed, pulling it down to my waist.

  Looking into each other’s eyes, she lowered herself onto the bed next to me and pulled the sheet over both of us. We lay facing each other, and allowed the full length of our bodies to touch.

  “Isn’t this something?” is all I could manage to say as the velvety softness of her body pressed gently against mine. We kissed for a long time, my tongue discovering even more excitement as I moved from her mouth to her neck to her breasts.

  Were we reliving memories of loving from our past lives together? What could explain the intense synergy that seemed to create a third entity from our two? How did we know how to pleasure each other? Hour after hour we laughed, cried, napped, prayed, and made love until the late afternoon sun let us know it was time to part. We had crossed yet another line and entered unchartered territory.

  Chapter 5 - Loss of Innocence

  Bonnie

  I rarely ventured onto the freeways alone without an explicit map drawn by Brian, telling me where to turn right or left—not north, south, east or west. I considered myself directionally impaired, and getting off the known paths around my neighborhood, workplace, or shopping haunts generally made me uncomfortable. But I didn’t want to sound too needy by asking Jane for simplified directions (more than, “Just go down 35 South and exit on Burnsville Parkway”) to the motel she had decided we’d use for our first real rendezvous. After all, she seemed to have the Twin Cities freeway system engraved in her subconscious, and she routinely traveled forty-five to sixty minutes to take a class somewhere.

  My nervous excitement to spend the whole day secreted away with Jane overrode any worries about how I’d get to our destination, and I set off to find this unknown meeting place by the appointed hour. Nonetheless, as I pulled into the motel parking lot, I was hugely relieved to find her gazing back at me from her parked car, the smile I so loved spread across her beautiful face. Jane, being generally less risk-averse than I, checked us in at the front desk before we furtively made our way upstairs to the assigned room. We were barely behind the closed, locked door before we fell into a tight embrace and passionate kissing.

  “I’m not sure how to go about this. Are you?” I managed to ask between kisses.

  “No, but let’s just go and see where it takes us,” Jane answered breathlessly.

  “Now, hold on just a moment,” I admonished as I reached down and unbuttoned her slacks. “Two of us need to be in this together.”

  We both finished undressing ourselves, me feeling awkward about having her do such an intimate thing, and not at all used to my partner indulging in romantic rituals.

  Climbing self-consciously into bed—lying face-to-face, our bodies pressed tightly together head to toe—we leisurely resumed kissing and exploring each other’s soft places. Eventually, Jane’s caresses moved farther down my body ’til she looked up at my face and quietly asked, “Could I pleasure you more deeply?”

  I was still tense about our forbidden pursuit, and though feeling sexually excited, I was too embarrassed to answer. It didn’t matter. She sensed my lack of resistance and proceeded leading me to places unknown, then I her, repeatedly throughout the day. We both knew our indiscretions were taking us even farther from “common decency.” At that point, I didn’t care. I had not known lovemaking like this, nor had I ever felt such intense love for anyone. Heaven help us—now what?

  Coming to Grips

  It felt as though Jane’s and my coming together sexually would somehow ease the tension in our relationship, and, therefore, quiet the constant need to be together. To the contrary, we even more desperately wanted and needed to be with one another.

  November 8, 1981, journal entry:

  Jane, I want you right here—beautiful, beautiful brown eyes. I want your smile, even when your lips quiver with a frightened response to us. I want your cheek next to mine, your arms gently embracing, your hands patiently exploring. I want your impatient breathing in my ear—your body fitted ever so perfectly against my own, your easy laughter when one of us lapses into craziness. I want all of you—all that there is—NOW! Love me only half as much, and I wouldn’t ask for more.

  This brought me face to face with what it meant not only to hold deep love for a same-gendered person, but for the first time in my life, to be sexually attracted as well. The impropriety of it all felt shameful to me. I spent long hours lost in thought while running, walking, bike riding, or staring at dancing flames in the fireplace while family members slept. I was angry with God for allowing—indeed, causing—me to head down this dark path when I felt powerless to change it. I was struggling with my own socially acculturated homophobia, without being able to consciously put such words on my shame.

  In my Bible-belt Midwestern upbringing, I’d heard little about homosexuality and, to the best of my knowledge, no one I knew was homosexual. But the messages I’d heard about them were far from good. I was taken back to high school memories of an English teacher some students derisively referred to as “queer” or “faggot.” The boys joked about not wanting to stand too close to him, and the girls lamented how hard it was to get him to give a good grade. But I never saw him do anything unusual, and I had no difficulty getting grades I thought I deserved. And there was a female teacher who was retired by the time I was in high school, but who taught my older sister, Brenda. Kids sneered as they reported that the teacher lived with another woman “who looks like a man.” But Brenda always said this teacher was one of the best she had ever experienced.

  Periodically, I’d read something in the newspaper about gay and lesbian activists on the Coasts; pictures showed scantily dressed men and masculine-looking women. I was embarrassed for them and wondered what cause they felt they were serving. New, strange illnesses were thought to be reaching epidemic proportions among gays in New York City, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. Ku Klux Klan and Neo-Nazi groups supported “gay-bashing”—targeted violence against gays and lesbians.

  In response to the assassination a few years earlier of Harvey Milk, a San Francisco City official and gay activist, thousands of lesbians and gay men had marched in Washington, D.C., to dramatize the need for legislation guaranteeing the civil rights of homosexuals. A strident voice in opposition to their cause was singer Anita Bryant, whose highly publicized campaign in Florida defeated a gay rights ordinance, on the platform that gay rights were a threat to “our children.” I knew that whenever clergy were quoted on the issue of homosexuality, they said it was sinful and bad. During that time, I was pregnant with Erin, mothering three older children, making lunches, working, coping, and hardly paying attention to someone else’s struggles with oppression.

  Then along came Jane.

  In contrast to anything I’d heard about homosexuality, Jane’s and my relationship felt evermore right and good—even holy. If crossing the forbidden relationship line were truly sinful or evil, would an all-protecting God
let us experience such sacred moments in our togetherness? There was nothing about our relationship that felt unholy—except when we laid upon it religious or cultural judgments. Even if we could get beyond these negative opinions and decide to be together full time, there was still the issue of causing major disruption to our husbands and children.

  Despite all the questioning, ambivalence, guilt, fear, and confusion, something inexorably drew us towards one another. Previously, the strength of our relationship was disconcerting; whereas, now the compulsion to be together was relentless. We stole afternoons or Saturdays whenever possible to simply be alone together. We inevitably found our way into lovemaking, while spending hours holding one another, crying, searching for answers—and often, simply feeling crazy.

  At this point, Charles was desperate to break the attraction that was now unrestrained between Jane and me. I continued to struggle with what we were doing to our marriages and families. My journal from November 26, 1981, reads:

  Dear God, I stand, arms outstretched, awaiting your direction and guidance. I entrust myself fully to Your plan for me—Your use of me—for this time. Keep me open and attuned to the oneness—keep me loving and loved. Lead me to higher truths, to greater goodness. I stand prepared and willing.

  There’s Something I Must Tell You

  I Glanced over at Brian, his face grimaced, struggling to tie the bow on a gift for our oldest daughter’s eleventh birthday. Rehearsing what I must say to him, fear washed through me. I dreaded this moment, but couldn’t stand the deceit any longer. Nearly a month had passed since my “knowing,” and more than a week since an event that catapulted my life and fourteen-year marriage into chaos. We were in our bedroom wrapping gifts, door closed, raised tones of excited children’s voices leaking through.