My Three Husbands by Swan Adamson

anyone. Little scenes that I’d witnessed, things I’d overheard, private moments that I’d stumbled into.
    Whitman was telling the truth when he said he never allowed my dad to touch or kiss him in front of me. But that apartment in New York was pretty small and I was a good spy. I’d seen them in bed, Daddy with his legs in the air. I’d heard them panting and whispering, and seen how they contrived to secretly touch each other in public. I was always watching to see how they behaved with one another because they were the only long-term couple I knew. They never seemed to get bored with one another.
    â€œJD,” Whitman said, pouring wine, “Venus mentioned that your father’s a doctor.” We were sitting out on one of their suspended terraces overlooking the city. “Does your mother have a profession?”
    â€œYeah,” JD said, “she’s a professional bitch.”
    â€œWell, then, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.” Whitman passed some dried spicy Japanese peas. “When were you first aware that you were a lesbian?”
    â€œWhen I was about fifteen,” JD said.
    â€œI knew I was gay when I was twelve,” Whitman said, munching on the dried peas.
    â€œHow did you know?” JD asked.
    â€œI hated sports but wanted to be a cheerleader. John here didn’t figure it out until he was thirty.”
    â€œSlow learner,” said JD, looking at my dad.
    â€œYes,” Whitman said, “but those are the best kind. They’re always trying to make up for lost time. And they’re so grateful.”
    â€œI knew long before I was thirty,” Daddy said. “I just didn’t know what to do with what I knew. My parents were missionaries, for God’s sake.”
    Whitman stroked Daddy’s cheek. The gesture sent a shiver of delight through me. I squeezed JD’s hand. “I taught him everything he knows,” Whitman said.
    â€œYou sound like a stage mom,” JD said.
    Laughing with the dads. I loved that part of being with JD. We could go to the dads any time. There was this kind of easygoing acceptance of us as a couple. I felt so grownup and so included in their lives. They’d cook for us. Well, Daddy would. He’s a fabulous cook. Whitman is in charge of appearances and hygiene. He sets the table, serves, and cleans up. He praised JD’s table manners. “Always a good sign when someone knows which fork to use,” he whispered.
    â€œShe can eat with chopsticks, too,” I said.
    â€œExcellent.” He gave me an impulsive hug. “You finally look happy.”
    I was. I honestly was. Both my dads were playful and fun to be around. I felt closer to Whitman than I ever really had before. It was like I was finally allowed into their secret inner circle.
    The four of us would sit around and yak, or play Scrabble, or go to the theater, like we used to do in New York. It was the most normal, relaxed time I’d ever spent with the dads. They invited us to go to the beach with them. They even came to a couple of Black Garters gigs.
    But it didn’t work the other way around. JD never invited me to visit her folks. She said she despised them, but that never stopped her from cashing their monthly check. I wasn’t working, so that check and what she made from her Black Garter gigs kept the household going. When Whitman hinted that it would be nice to meet her parents, JD freaked. It turned out she wasn’t even out to them.
    We kept it going for about a year and a half.
    On stage JD was dynamite, but if I had to rate her performance in bed, I’d say she was about a 2. Sexually, it wasn’t much better than being with Sean-Come-Quickly. Only with JD, I always had to be the aggressor. It was not a role I was used to or that I particularly liked. When we were alone together she’d, like, turn off. Nothing I did would arouse her. But in public, with the other women around,