I would be letting her down if I passed. Moreover, it would be like I was, somehow, less hip than my middle-aged mother. And so I shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure," I said. "Why not?"
"Brunch on Sunday?"
"If it's real late."
"Absolutely. I know you need your beauty rest."
"Can I ask you another question?"
"You can ask me a thousand questions."
I noticed a small drop of blood near the tip of her pinkie. "Does it hurt?" I asked.
She thought for a moment. Then: "Yes. Less now than when Dana first told me. But I'm still disappointed. And I still feel betrayed."
I nodded as if she had answered my question. I decided not to tell her that I'd only been wondering about the surgery.
No one likes to imagine their mom or dad making love--not with each other, not with other partners. So to keep those images at bay when I went to my room that night, I tried to concentrate upon my mom's remark that she hoped Dana would still change his mind. She doubted he would, but she said that a part of her fantasized he'd be so happy once he'd moved in with her that he'd postpone his surgery indefinitely.
I also tried reassuring myself that my mother couldn't possibly be a lesbian. After all, she was forty-two. One would think she'd have figured out her sexual orientation before midlife.
But then I began to wonder. I began to wonder about her, and I began to wonder about me.
She'd said that she'd fallen in love with a person named Dana. After his surgery, she had observed, he would still have the same brain, the same soul, the same sense of right and wrong. The same sense of humor. The same understanding of exactly how much fresh mint should go into a summer pea salad. Why, she had asked me, would the things that she loved most about him have to change once he'd had his surgery? The fact is, she had said, they wouldn't.
And so it was at least a possibility that the two of them would stay together after his operation. They'd certainly remain friends. As for the rest? She just didn't know.
Which, in the dark of the night, made me begin to doubt myself. I didn't assume lesbianism was genetic, but that evening I did find myself questioning my own sexual orientation. Why had I been so quick to break up with Michael last spring? Why didn't I have a boyfriend at Bennington?
I hadn't really given a whole lot of thought to exactly what lesbians did sexually, but when thoughts of a post-operative Dana and my mother crept into my head against my will, it dawned on me that most of what would go on in their bed wouldn't be dramatically different from what went on between heterosexuals.
There was that penis, of course ... or lack of one.
But even Michael and I had done more than simply fornicate. And he was an inexperienced high-school boy!
I thought of the half dozen lesbians I knew at Bennington, and I decided they probably weren't lesbians the way I might be a lesbian. For them, it seemed, it was more of a political statement than a sexual orientation. I had a feeling at least two of them were actually closet heterosexuals and would probably come out once they'd outgrown the thrill of being marginalized.
I'm not sure how long I had lain in my bed before finally falling asleep, listening to the rumble the furnace would make when it would kick on, or to the sound of the leafless hydrangea branches as they scratched against the bay window below my bedroom. I was exhausted, but it still took me forever. The last thing I remember before finally nodding off is the feeling I'd had the night Dana and I met, when he gently touched my lips with the edge of a paper cocktail napkin. I had felt, I decided, cared for and happy and warm. If he made my mom feel that way, it probably didn't matter whether or not he had a penis.
Chapter 10.
dana
HOW DO YOU HIDE YOUR PENIS?
It depends upon what you're wearing.
I started cross-dressing that autumn in Vermont, so it's not as if I had to hide it under some risque tank suit or slinky bikini. (Reason #1,701 why I
"Brunch on Sunday?"
"If it's real late."
"Absolutely. I know you need your beauty rest."
"Can I ask you another question?"
"You can ask me a thousand questions."
I noticed a small drop of blood near the tip of her pinkie. "Does it hurt?" I asked.
She thought for a moment. Then: "Yes. Less now than when Dana first told me. But I'm still disappointed. And I still feel betrayed."
I nodded as if she had answered my question. I decided not to tell her that I'd only been wondering about the surgery.
No one likes to imagine their mom or dad making love--not with each other, not with other partners. So to keep those images at bay when I went to my room that night, I tried to concentrate upon my mom's remark that she hoped Dana would still change his mind. She doubted he would, but she said that a part of her fantasized he'd be so happy once he'd moved in with her that he'd postpone his surgery indefinitely.
I also tried reassuring myself that my mother couldn't possibly be a lesbian. After all, she was forty-two. One would think she'd have figured out her sexual orientation before midlife.
But then I began to wonder. I began to wonder about her, and I began to wonder about me.
She'd said that she'd fallen in love with a person named Dana. After his surgery, she had observed, he would still have the same brain, the same soul, the same sense of right and wrong. The same sense of humor. The same understanding of exactly how much fresh mint should go into a summer pea salad. Why, she had asked me, would the things that she loved most about him have to change once he'd had his surgery? The fact is, she had said, they wouldn't.
And so it was at least a possibility that the two of them would stay together after his operation. They'd certainly remain friends. As for the rest? She just didn't know.
Which, in the dark of the night, made me begin to doubt myself. I didn't assume lesbianism was genetic, but that evening I did find myself questioning my own sexual orientation. Why had I been so quick to break up with Michael last spring? Why didn't I have a boyfriend at Bennington?
I hadn't really given a whole lot of thought to exactly what lesbians did sexually, but when thoughts of a post-operative Dana and my mother crept into my head against my will, it dawned on me that most of what would go on in their bed wouldn't be dramatically different from what went on between heterosexuals.
There was that penis, of course ... or lack of one.
But even Michael and I had done more than simply fornicate. And he was an inexperienced high-school boy!
I thought of the half dozen lesbians I knew at Bennington, and I decided they probably weren't lesbians the way I might be a lesbian. For them, it seemed, it was more of a political statement than a sexual orientation. I had a feeling at least two of them were actually closet heterosexuals and would probably come out once they'd outgrown the thrill of being marginalized.
I'm not sure how long I had lain in my bed before finally falling asleep, listening to the rumble the furnace would make when it would kick on, or to the sound of the leafless hydrangea branches as they scratched against the bay window below my bedroom. I was exhausted, but it still took me forever. The last thing I remember before finally nodding off is the feeling I'd had the night Dana and I met, when he gently touched my lips with the edge of a paper cocktail napkin. I had felt, I decided, cared for and happy and warm. If he made my mom feel that way, it probably didn't matter whether or not he had a penis.
Chapter 10.
dana
HOW DO YOU HIDE YOUR PENIS?
It depends upon what you're wearing.
I started cross-dressing that autumn in Vermont, so it's not as if I had to hide it under some risque tank suit or slinky bikini. (Reason #1,701 why I
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