Megan smiled. “You silly girl.”
“I-”
“Silly thing. I in not propping you, honey. No propositions. I want you to stay here. That’s all.”
“Is it?”
“Yes” Megan turned from her, walked over to the window. She said, “I don’t want that kind of a seduction scene, baby. I’m not the rapist type, really I’m not. I’m no sex maniac. If I had wanted it that way I would have let you stay drunk. I wouldn’t have poured a bucket of coffee into you. I would have poured in some more wine, and before you knew what was happening I’d have had your clothes off and I’d have had my way with you, as the books so coyly put it.”
Megan turned, faced her again. “But that’s not exactly my style. I don’t want to make sex to you, I want t make love to you. And I have to be honest. I’m not good at deception, not at all. I could have let tonight go by without tipping my hand at all, you know. I could have let a very firm friendship come first, and then by the time you found out I was a lesbian you would have been too emotionally involved to resist me. Believe me, I could have done that. But I’m not like that.”
Megan smiled gently. “I want you to sleep here. That’s all, Rhoda. You’ll take the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s a comfortable couch. If you want to talk, I’ll be here to talk to. If you have bad dreams you can wake me and I’ll hold your hand and tell you that everything is all right. Whatever you want, I’ll be here.”
She didn’t say anything. Her heart was beating furiously now. She felt choked inside. A lump in her throat, tremors in her hands. She swallowed.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you trust me?”
“I trust you.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
She swallowed again. “Maybe myself.”
“Don’t ever be. Will you stay?”
But she didn’t sleep in the bed. She insisted on that much. She took the couch and Megan took the bed. They sat talking for a few more minutes, and then Megan gave her a nightgown and she went into the bathroom and got undressed and washed up and put on the nightgown and went back to the living room. Megan had made up the couch as a bed. Megan looked at her, and she felt Megan’s eyes flash very briefly over her body in the nightgown, and she felt suddenly self-conscious, as though she were nude and a man was looking at her.
“If you can’t sleep-”
“I’ll sleep.”
“If you can’t, wake me. If there’s anything you want, wake me.”
“All right.”
She got into bed. Megan hovered over her, and for a tiny moment she thought that the blonde girl was going to stoop over and kiss her goodnight. This did not happen. Instead Megan straightened up and turned out the lights and left the room. A door opened and closed. Later she heard water running, and then doors opened and closed and Megan called goodnight to her, and then there was silence.
She couldn’t sleep.
Who was she? What was she? She did not know. She tossed all these questions around in her mind and none of the answers came. In the beginning, the world had told her that she was a woman. Then she had learned that she was not a woman, that she was frigid and sexless. And now Megan was telling her that she was something else.
A lesbian.
She tried to imagine herself with Megan. It was hard to do. She did not know what Megan would do to her, what sort of love they would make together. She remembered Megan’s words: I would make love to you. I would make you feel like what you are, like a woman made for love. I would show you the dark side of the moon. I would make you laugh and cry. And we would be close and warm and nothing would matter, nothing at all.
A poem, she thought. A poem. And she let herself imagine not the mechanics of it, but the feeling of it, the feeling of sharing love with a woman, with Megan. It seemed somehow less strange than it had seemed at first. Now it seemed possible.
But could she? Could she let herself do it? It was forbidden. It was wrong. It was not normal, and all the gods in all the heavens made normalcy a religion in itself. Could she stand that kind of life? Could she be that kind of person without dying a little inside?
It would be hard. But was it any easier to be the kind of person she was now? She lived a life that was no great pleasure, a life without a future, a life that promised eternal sameness. She measured out that life in coffee spoons and cigarette butts and lonely days and lonelier nights. Megan was offering a way out of that. Megan was offering a life that might be better.
Did she dare to try?
Did she dare not to?
Once, she almost slept. She felt herself drifting off, and she may have dozed, and then she was awake again. You can trust me. I won’t do anything that you don’t want me to do.
What did she want?
She fought with herself. And there was a point at last when she knew that sleep was impossible, that a great many things were impossible. That, for the moment if not forever, only one thing was possible.
The nightgown rustled gently as she walked. She opened Megan’s door and slipped quietly into Megan’s room. She spoke Megan’s name.
“I’m awake, dear.”
She took a small breath. “I’m ready,” she said, moving over to Megan’s bed. “I’m ready. Love me.”
CHAPTER FOUR
At first she thought, Oh, no, it won’t work. Another mistake. It won’t work. Not at all. Because nothing touches me, nothing reaches me, and I remain forever detached.
Megan held her close. They lay side by side and she saw Megan’s eyes shining catlike in the darkness, and she felt the gentle pressure of Megan’s breasts against her own. Megan kissed her, lightly, and Megan’s legs moved to brush against her own legs and thighs. Another kiss, and again the pressure of Megan’s warm body.
Something familiar, something known. A fine female body against her own body. A partner not different, but similar. Megan’s mouth, soft and faintly sweet like her own mouth, meeting hers gently but firmly. Megan’s chest, not bristling with hairs and corded with muscles, but soft and smooth and warm and blooming with the sweet luxury of Megan’s full breasts.
Then knowledge came, knowledge, awareness. She was not a cold woman. She was not frigid. She was responding, going soft and liquid inside in the silky mechanism of sexual response, and this response was a specific one, a special response to Megan.
There was a short period then of fear, of tension, of fright. For two years she had meticulously buried sexual response under a deadening blanket, and the sudden change scared her. She had spent too much time schooling herself another way, teaching herself that she was dead and empty inside. Now Megan was teaching her to be a woman, and she was afraid to give in either to Megan or to herself.
“Easy, baby. Easy, Rhoda, darling Rhoda. I love you and you love me and we are together. My flesh and your flesh. Easy my darling.”
Megan held her close, patted her, kissed her. And warmth bloomed again, less tentatively than before, coming with a rising tide of passion that swept her up and would not be beaten down. She did not fight it any longer. She was caught, caught as she now ached to be caught, and the sweep of passion held no fear and brooked no argument. She was alive, dizzily alive.
Megan’s hands moved all over her body, touching, petting, sending shivers of delight through flesh that had gone far too long without this sweet delight. They were friendly hands, they were familiar hands. They did not probe
