The Greek Persuasion

by Kimberly K. Robeson

  “Don’t get up,” I say while making my way over to him. What a gorgeous man, a naughty thought crosses my mind. I know I must be sex-deprived when I start to fantasize about one of my closest friends and his partner. Frank is wearing a Travolta-tight white T-shirt and Levi’s. I know he is more than one hundred percent gay based on the Kinsey scale and absolutely taken, but it’s hard not to notice his physical beauty.

  I have learned a lot from these two, all about a world I didn’t know existed. At one point, Frank was offered an excellent job in Panama but was not able to take it because after Rick’s visitor visa would expire, he would have to leave. The company, because of the country’s laws, could not support same-sex couples. Rick and Frank had made me aware of so many issues that I had rarely thought about as a heterosexual woman.

  But now I, too, am different, not part of the norm, trapped somewhere on the sexual spectrum, neither gay nor completely straight. I love men, my attraction to them visceral, but now I notice women—not just their physical beauty, but their humor, their intelligence, their movements—in a way I hadn’t before. And sometimes I imagine having sex with them. The attractive girl at Nordstrom, the way she touched my arm when she came around the corner to hand me my shopping bag. How would she be in bed? Or I thought about the rough-looking girl with the piercings who works at the gas station. Would sex with her be wild, with black leather straps and handcuffs? Or the pretty, plump woman with the sensitive eyes who is a secretary at my school. Would sex with her be soft, comfortable? My God, is this how men thought? Is every walking-talking female a possible screw?

  Of course, I am not attracted to everyone, but now there are so many more possibilities. I am not attracted to all men, just like I am not attracted to all women. But it goes beyond sex. I actually imagine relationships with these women. How would daily life be? What obstacles would we face? Would I be completely satisfied?

  But I am not yet comfortable with the word “bisexual.” Bisexuals seem to get a bad rap, as if they are just “curious” sexually. What ever happened to love? Ever since Denise Richards and Neve Campbell kissed in Wild Things, then Jennifer Aniston and Winona Ryder kissed on Friends, and Samantha sucked face and other body parts in Sex in the City, bisexuality has seemed like a fad. Girls kissing girls is fun; it’s light, not taken seriously. Rick told me girls who look like me (feminine) and are with other girly-girls are called “lipstick lesbians,” and lipstick lesbians, bisexuals in general, are considered dangerous. They don’t know what they want and are not completely accepted by real lesbians because they have heterosexual privilege; in other words, they can always go back to men if they find the “lesbian lifestyle” too challenging. Lipstick lesbian. Bisexual. Queer. I hate labels. My one experience with a woman was unforgettable. But I still love men. I am just more open to the possibilities now.

  And lately there is another woman who I find myself becoming increasingly attracted to. I try not to stereotype, but when I first saw her, I did think that she is gay. Tall, strong, she always wears pants, button-down shirts, has short hair and walks with determination.

  “Would you like red or white?” Frank says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “On Valentine’s Day? Red, of course, dahhhling. Serve me up some of that Pinot Noir, por favor, if you don’t mind opening it.”

  “Of course not! It must be a special occasion for you to bring this over!” he says while examining the bottle.

  I take a seat on the floor and prop up a few big, maroon velvet pillows behind my back. After a few glasses of wine, the conversation turns to Ravi.

  “Does he still call?” Rick asks.

  “No, I haven’t heard from him since Christmas. He called to wish me and my mother happy holidays. Mom drove me nuts after the call. Thair, I can’t believe you got rid of him, she whined. I told her that I didn’t get rid of him. You get rid of an old couch, not a person. But I know she’s still upset. She just doesn’t understand.”

  “To be honest, Thair,” Rick says, his voice taking on the I want-to-say-something-but-don’t-bite-off-my-head tone, “Ravi is a great guy. We really thought you two were so well-suited. You seemed really happy when you were with him.”

  “I was happy. Just like I was happy with James, too.” I hate hearing myself talk. I seem so spoiled, like a child who is never satisfied; the new entitled woman, who is grateful for the work of feminists, but who is now simply drowning.

  I really don’t feel like getting into this again, so I change the subject. “Instead of Ravi, can we talk about something else, okay? Maybe someone else …” I say this with a smirk, trying to tantalize them, “So there’s this woman at work—”

  “A woman?” Rick cuts me off and sits up a bit straighter. He had been trying to tell me that maybe I need to be with another female again, that my one-time lesbian experience wasn’t sufficient to really understand myself. But then Ravi came into the picture, and Rick really liked him, so he had given up the idea that we would be two happy, gay couples.

  “Okay, so tell us about this woman.”

  “Her name is Jessica. Ms. Jessica Langstrom, and she’s what you two call a Certified Capital L Lesbian. Unlike me, she’s not a confused hetero-lipstick-lesbian-bisexual.” Both men laugh as I continue. “She teaches next door to me on Monday nights, a sociology class with a women’s studies emphasis. It started off with a ‘hello,’ then I bumped into her at the cafeteria one evening before class, and she sat with me while I had some dinner.”

  “Really? Do tell more,” Frank says.

  “Well, she’s really fascinating. I almost feel embarrassed to call myself a feminist in front of her because her knowledge is so extensive; she’s so well-versed, clear, and to be honest, though she looks nothing like Gloria Steinem, she’s got the same powerful, yet delicate, presence. She does look a bit tough on the outside but seems so gentle inside.”

  “Go on,” says Rick, leaning into my story.

  “I guess you could say she felt my energy because the following week, after class, she was waiting for me.”

  “Waiting for you?”

  “Yes,” I pause. Both men are sitting on the edge of Tinky Winky, looking much more alert than they had only a half hour earlier.

  “So, what happened?”

  “Well, she asked if she could walk me to my car.”

  “And then?” Frank asks anxiously.

  “And then Thair asked her good friend Frank for another glass of wine …” I say while holding out my glass.

  “Thair! You’re terrible!” exclaims Rick. “Hurry, babe, please get her a refill, so she can continue.”

  Frank gets up and opens another bottle while he peeks over the counter from the kitchen, so I continue, “Well, I naturally—”

  “Naturally?”

  “Stop it, Frank, don’t interrupt. Please, continue, Thair.”

  “As I was saying, I naturally said ‘yes.’ I felt comfortable, and it was dark, so I usually look for someone to walk with me to my car anyway. As we were walking, we were talking and laughing, teasing and … kind of … flirting. By the time we got to the car, it was obvious that we both felt something. We ended up talking for more than an hour, neither wanting to end the night. But it was getting late. So, she asked me if I was interested in going out for a drink next weekend.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said yes … and then … she kissed me.”

  “What? She kissed you! How forward!” Then in the same breath: “How was it?”

  “It was nice. It wasn’t the exhilarating feeling like it was with Sappho-girl, but it was really nice.”

  “So if you like this woman, why the hell are you alone tonight?”

  “She’s away, visiting her family in Boston this weekend. But if she wasn’t, I don’t think I would be with her anyway. She hates commercial holidays; she was very clear about this. She also told me she is agnostic, doesn’t have a spiritual excuse for the shit that happens in this world, and doesn’t celebrate anythin
g—Valentine’s Day, most obviously, included.”

  “Wow, she seems a bit angry.”

  I laugh rather than get defensive because my first impression was the same, but after a few minutes of talking to her, her warmth and sincerity are what become most apparent. In the few conversations we’ve had, a soft and vulnerable side emerged. So, I respond, “Well, maybe she’s a bit radical with some issues, but it doesn’t bother me. I find her intriguing. The few times we chatted, I found myself enjoying her company immensely.”

  “Sounds like a basis for a good friendship,” Frank comments.

  I add, “And there’s this chemistry. When we are close, I don’t know … it’s electric. Feels like a lot more than just friends.”

  “And what about Mama Phaedra? I think a non-believer will be tough for her, but a lesbian may push the little lady over the cliff.” Rick says this with a mix of seriousness and facetiousness. Phaedra, though fond of Rick, has never welcomed Frank into her home.

  “I think you are jumping a bit ahead of yourself. I don’t know that she will ever meet my mother!” I laugh out loud, imagining introducing my lesbian date to my traditional mother. “I think I will cross that bridge when or if I come to it. For now, I am excited—and nervous—about our date.”

  After a few hours and too many glasses of wine, I retreat to their guest bedroom because I know I cannot drive. Brushing my teeth with a disposable toothbrush from Rick’s “over night kit” for friends like me, I cuddle up on the queen-sized bed, and start to think not about Jessica, but about Ravi. I still have feelings for him and wonder whether I made a huge mistake. After tossing and turning for half hour, I slide my legs off the side of the bed and pull out a notebook from my purse. I always carry it with me, a place to relocate my tangled thoughts when they won’t leave my mind. In my queasy, drunken stupor, I do the only thing that settles me.

  Thair’s Story

  Though her relationship with Ravi was over, and she accepted that he was not the one for her, Thair still missed his touch and his laugh, but mostly she felt guilty. She couldn’t commit, not if it didn’t feel right. Maybe that’s why a ring on her finger seemed like a noose around her neck. Her last two relationships were good. Relationships like that just didn’t come around that often. Ravi was educated, kind, always made her morning coffee and brought it to bed while her eyes had yet to meet the morning light. When Thair rubbed his shoulders, she loved hearing his soft purring sounds. Her friends thought she was insane, telling her, “Thair, you can’t let this one get away.” But she did let him get away. When he started talking marriage, babies, her feathers rose and she flew the opposite direction. Why could she not be more like the yellow warbler: find a partner and stay with him (or her?) until you die? Be forever monogamous, not the serial monogamist like she was. Was it time to stop looking for Mr. Right and just settle for Mr. Almost-Right? Statistically speaking, women over thirty should just not be that picky because thirty is close to forty, and everyone knows forty is the beginning of the end. Just like that article she read as a teenager in Newsweek saying that women over forty have a greater chance of being killed by a terrorist than getting married! That fact in the article was later debunked, but the message certainly wasn’t. It felt true. Her mom divorced at forty-plus, and she was still alone.

  And the children part, that was always something Ravi had been very clear about, telling Thair he pictured her pregnant as soon as the vows were exchanged. Thair had thought a lot about children, but she lacked a maternal urge. If she had wanted kids, maybe Ravi would have been the ideal match, but not wanting them allowed her to continue to pursue The One without her body’s pressure. When she was young, she loved to hold, squeeze, and caress babies, but in her twenties, she learned something: she had choices. And the simple desire she had had to hold babies was completely gone. At a barbeque, she would rather have a glass of wine in her hand and socialize than carry someone’s baby. She could not imagine reading Goodnight Moon over and over when she just desired time to reread Jane Eyre.

  Thair rarely told others that she didn’t want children because people around her still expected women to become mothers. Some male colleagues would tell her: “Having kids is the best thing this world has to offer.” Their remarks seemed genuine and, at times, she wondered if God had accidentally misplaced her maternal urge in them. And the mothers, with angst all over their faces, told her: “Thair, you really must have children. You will never really know the beauty of true, unconditional love!” Even Emily would say, “Oh, Thair, aren’t you worried about missing out on something that is essential to being a woman—being a mother?”

  None of these opinions changed how she felt. Thair had no desire to have children, and unlike women who yearn for motherhood, Thair was not worried about her eggs drying up, her follicles becoming fewer. Her decisions were not dictated by a biological clock. The only clock was Phaedra’s: she wanted Thair to marry and make her a yiayia. But for Thair, there was no rush. No rush in settling down with someone if her heart, soul, and mind were not in agreement.

  There were odd moments when she had thought: maybe what I do need is a child. Maybe then I won’t be so caught up with my desire to find personal fulfillment and can live for another. What is it about these new independent women, herself included, that made them feel “entitled”? Entitled to complete fulfillment that included not only confidence, career, financial and emotional stability, but also a faithful, loving partner; a partner who was not chosen for his ability to pay the bills or to be an excellent father, but chosen just because he complemented this strong, independent woman. Thair certainly yearned for complete happiness. No more of Mick Jagger’s “Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” she needed it, not only in the bedroom, but also in her heart, mind, and soul. Thair wanting this fairy tale, this myth that her mama had persuaded her young mind into believing was a true story, led to Ravi’s walking out the door. She was not willing to compromise—become a wife because her choices would become fewer the older she got. Become a mother just to fulfill society’s standards. No, Thair wanted that elusive happiness, and she still harbored hope that it existed somewhere … maybe alone … maybe even with that other half.

  I’ve just finished revising what I wrote last night when I stayed at Rick and Frank’s. I took the eight pages of muddled notes that were a bit hard to read and typed them into my computer. Though I am this woman, she seems at times so foreign. What prompted me to write about Ravi? And why was I still contemplating the children issue?

  19

  Encinitas, California

  February 21st, 2003

  I have a pile of jeans on my bed: Levi’s, Calvin’s, Tommy’s. A pile of dresses also adorns my bedspread: a simple black one, a low-cut red one, a feminine, flowery one. Nothing looks right. How does one girl dress to go out with another girl? And to a lesbian bar no less? I have been to gay male bars a few times, but I was always with Rick and Frank. And it was always an afterthought, going with them for a drink after work and then going home early because I always felt a bit out of place. But this is different. I am going to a lesbian bar, and I have a lesbian date. My God, what would my mother think? What would my students think? I feel naughty, like I am living on the periphery of my own life, watching as I do things that normally would be abnormal for me, but simultaneously feel so natural.

  I sit languidly on the corner of the bed, wearing only my black lace thong and a simple black bra. I can’t decide what to wear, so I move to the bathroom and start to put on my makeup. I choose an olive-colored eyeliner that brings out the green in my eyes since they sometimes lean towards hazel. Squinting into the mirror while applying my mascara, I make a mental note that maybe I do need to finally buy some glasses. I notice a few new lines on my forehead and how my cheeks and the area around my mouth seem saggier than yesterday. I comb my long, thick hair and am pleased to have inherited it from my mother, whose dark locks still hang heavy on her shoulders.

  Back in the bedroom, staring at the pile
of clothes, I grab a denim miniskirt with tattered edges and a white T-shirt with a rose design on the front. Simple, and the skirt shows off my long, slender legs—something else I inherited from my mother. When I zip up my black-leather, knee-high boots the look feels complete: sweet and a bit sexy.

  The doorbell rings. I had asked Jessica to meet me at my place but said I would drive. A second ring. I make my way to the door, nervous, anxious, and open it as my heart pitter-patters. Jessica is standing in front of me, and I almost don’t recognize her. It’s not that she’s dressed so differently from when I see her on campus, but tonight really looking at her, I am stunned by her beauty. Her thin arms are ripped like Madonna’s, sinewy, but strong. Her jaw is angular, her teeth so big and so white. When she smiles, I see a bit of Hilary Swank in her face. It’s a beautiful face.

  I am imbibing her when she says, “Hi, Thair, so are you going to invite me in?”

  “Hi! Yes, of course. Sorry …”

  She gives me a little unexpected peck on my lips and walks into my living room. “Wow, what a great place.” She says this and stops in front of my bookcase … admiring? Or wondering? Overall, I have an eclectic collection, but at eye level, three whole rows are filled with all of Gabriel García Márquez’s books, all of Milan Kundera’s, and all of Raymond Carver’s, three of my favorite authors. Other authors whose books cover the most accessible shelves are Shakespeare, Orwell, Steinbeck, Hemingway—all of a sudden, I find myself self-conscious. These are the books that I usually teach; that’s why they are at arm’s reach. Mostly all white males, not one woman in the bunch. What does that say about me? That I think men are better writers or that the traditional canon affected me more than I even realize? When Jessica glances down, I feel a sense of relief when she sees my Brontë, Austen, Morrison, Murdoch, Joyce Carol Oates collections. I do adore the words of these women, but it’s the men I take to bed at night. They are the ones with whom I curl up in the evenings, the ones who have left the strongest impressions on me. I love the magical realities in García Márquez’s writing. When I spend time with him, I am tossed into strange worlds where western reason often becomes obsolete. My nights with Kundera often leave me restless and weak; the things he writes resonate deep into my soul, so much that I lose sleep and find myself sitting up in bed writing notes about my own unbearable heaviness. Evenings with Carver, though, are probably my favorite. I love his minimalist style, the way his simple words captivate me, how his stories of relationships gone bad make me laugh, then cry, so much catharsis. His drunk, depressed characters usually make my life feel much lighter.