wall.
“For years-lots of years-there were no minorities, let alone women, who managed major league sports teams. Even today there still are damn few. But a few African-Americans have made it through that glass ceiling only to find a concrete wall blocking the way to ownership.
“But why am I telling you all about the glass ceiling and brick wall when you asked about my husband and our child?” She gazed into a distance that wasn’t there. “It happened after I discovered I was gay,” she said finally. “With that came the realization that I was not what the straight world expected a woman to be. It was then I concluded that we-gay women-have two strikes against us. The first strike is the glass ceiling that I just talked about. The second strike is that we don’t find men natural beasts of burden.”
“Huh?”
“Lots of women-most women? — rise socially, economically, whatever, on the backs of their husbands. It’s ‘Doctor and Mrs.’ or ‘Mr. Ford and his socially active wife so-and-so.’
“See, it’s not that women aren’t intelligent enough or are incapable of the skills needed to climb to the top; it’s that the male world prevents them from achieving the ultimate success.
“So lots of women-most women? — blocked from achieving all they’re capable of, ride the coattails of their husbands. But what gay women do not need are husbands-”
“So,” Barbara broke in, “you got married because it was the ‘proper’ thing to do. And you’re going to accomplish more as his wife than you could by yourself.”
“Let me put just a little different spin on that, Babs. I’m going to accomplish lots more because I am Joyce Hunter, wife and mother-and thus what the world wants me to be-than I ever would have as Joyce Matthews, lesbian.”
Barbara thought about all this for several minutes. Joyce gave her time to absorb many facts that until now had been completely foreign to her concept of what life held in store for her.
At length, Barbara looked intensely at Joyce. “Your husband, your child: how do they react to your lesbianism?”
“They haven’t a clue.”
“What?!”
“It’s true. No one would be more surprised than they if they were to find out.”
“But …?”
Joyce smiled broadly. “It’s time for us to pity the poor boys.”
“Huh?”
“They can’t fake an orgasm. As even you very well know, the male orgasm is part and parcel of his ejaculation. As a matter of fact, his ejaculation
“Not so with us women. It is a standard part of our equipment that we ejaculate nothing. We lubricate, but if we don’t we can use a cream or almost any sort of lubricant. After that, noises-a squeal, a moan, a scream or two-will convince the male that we’ve come. Maybe, if one wants to carry conviction, our noises, our body movements will convince our partners that we have come in a very big way.”
Barbara was aware that her mouth was hanging open. She closed it. “You mean you’ve faked orgasm totally, throughout your marriage!
“Well, maybe not totally. There’ve been times when we’re together and I … well … fantasize. That’s kind of common in any number of people who make love. How many women while they’re having intercourse with their husbands may be envisioning Robert Redford, or Mel Gibson, or someone else? That’s a fantasy.
“Sometimes, when I’m with Harry, I picture someone else in his place. I should admit that Harry is quite good in bed. So, when I’m not particularly turned on by him, I can respond to my fantasy.”
“I see.” Barbara hesitated, not knowing whether to try the question on her mind. But Joyce had been so open and frank … Babs decided to risk making herself vulnerable to rejection. “May I ask, Joyce: was I ever your fantasy?”
Joyce almost blushed. “You ask too many questions, gal.” Then, seeing that she had hurt Barbara, she added, “Babs, you’re a beautiful person, inside and outside. Sure you’ve been my fantasy. More often than not.”
Silence for several long moments.
“But even if you have a fantasy partner,” Barbara asked, “isn’t it still like being raped?”
The word “rape”, stung Joyce. “I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression. It’s never even close to rape with Harry. He’s very considerate. He would never insist on lovemaking if I were not in the mood or didn’t feel well or something like that. It’s just … my physical love object is going to be a woman. That’s just the way it is … the way it has to be.” After a few moments, Joyce asked, “Want some more coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Pause. “You know, Joyce, it needn’t be a fantasy.”
“What?”
“Us … together … making love: it doesn’t have to be a fantasy for you or for me.”
Warning lights went on in Joyce’s mind. “Wait a minute, young lady. You’re a student in college. I’m an established psychologist.”
“You’re not hiding behind the difference in our ages!”
“Not that so much as the fact that you were-you are-my patient. It smacks of bad ethics to make love to one’s patient. It’s too dangerous. As inviting as it is, it’s also fraught.”
Barbara stood and walked over to Joyce. Face to face, they were only inches apart. “How about this: suppose we wait till I graduate. Suppose during this interval I’m not your patient. We sever our doctor-patient relationship. Supposing then we became lovers.”
“I don’t know ….” Joyce shook her head. “How do we know how we’ll feel after this? How do we know we’ll feel the same way then? Wait: there are no strings here … right?”
“None.”
“Open-ended, then. Okay, we’ll see what we will see.”
They held each other’s hands and looked penetratingly into each other’s eyes.
Then Joyce leaned forward and kissed Barbara as she might embrace a friend. And thus they separated until Barbara could begin her assault on that glass ceiling.
Eighteen
True to their agreement, Barbara Simpson and Joyce Hunter did not see each other, either professionally or socially, while Barbara remained a student at Western Michigan.
Gretchen offered to introduce Barbara to Kalamazoo’s gay community. Barbara tactfully declined. She resumed dating boys, reasoning that once out of the closet there would be no getting back in.
After graduation, Barbara joined an ad agency. She was clever and successful, but it soon became obvious that though her ideas and her talent would advance her, there was no way she would get to the top; the glass ceiling was there-transparent, but rock solid. She could see through it-but she would not be able to rise through it.
She had talent, skill, brains, and her customer relations were excellent. But she was a woman.
Disgusted, she accepted an offer from one of the auto companies. The glass ceiling was still there, but the perks and the salary sweetened the status,
She began seeing Dr. Joyce Hunter again, ostensibly as a patient. In effect what was going on was not completely foreign to some doctor-patient relationships. They were conducting a love affair-clandestinely, but an affair nevertheless.
By appointment they met at Joyce’s office monthly. They were able to get together more frequently at Barbara’s apartment. And when Joyce reserved a post office box, they were even able to correspond. Things were going along as swimmingly as possible.
Until …
Until one day Barbara got a phone call from a man she had never met: Harry Hunter, Joyce’s husband.
He knew.
