Norma, Deborah, Bowen
Deborah and I stayed seated on the bed, legs crossed, while Deborah told her story. I reached out and held each of her hands in each of mine and looked her in the eyes as she went on,
"When I was 18 and didn't know very much about sex, I sensed I was different. I loved the company of my girlfriends and, even though my sexual urges were there for them, I did not follow through. I didn't particularly like boys..I had no sexual interest in them at all...but social convention dictated that I date them...and I did. It was the cliche', sex in the back seat of his father's car on our second date...at least I waited until the second date. I didn't like it...at all...and I told myself I'd never have sex like that again, and I didn't. But...and it's a BIG but....I think you know...What are the odds of getting pregnant the first...and in this case, the only...time you have sex? Well, odds notwithstanding, I did get pregnant. 18 and pregnant and just out of high school! Well that's a cliche', too.
"The worst of it...well maybe not the worst of it...was that Mr. Stiff Dick wouldn't believe he was the only one I had sex with, denied that he was the father, and shipped off to the Navy, the total Asshole! The next worst of it was Mr. Asshole Stiff Dick was killed in a training accident, he drowned...the son of a bitch...so it effectively it didn't make any difference who the father was. I was fucked in more ways than one.
"My pregnancy was difficult and, at 6 months in, the baby's heartbeat went haywire. That distress resulted in an emergency cesarean operation. The baby did not survive and I was left with nothing but grief...and this scar. About the only thing I could be grateful for was the fact that the ObGyn who did the operation was skilled at suturing and took great pains in placing the stitches in such a manner as to minimize the potential for scarring. After all the healing was done, he told me that residuals from closing that incision was...even for himself...a superb result. Well, minimal scarring was a superb result but I was plagued with stomach cramps, an eccentric menstrual pattern, and depression. In time, those things took care of themselves. I don't know and my never find out...and really, it is moot now that I am in my 50's...whether I could have had more children. Essentially, that is where my life as a feminist began. Even a lot of women don't identify with women's problems. My life as become about them and that's where it started.
"So you see, Norma, there is so much more to involving a man...even if it is Bowen...in our relationship. I just can't imagine doing it....let alone actually doing it!"
I held her hands during her entire confession. We both had tears in our eyes when she finished. All I could say was a simple, "I love you, Deborah."
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As subdued as our mood was after Deborah had finished her purging of spirit, our relationship was not affected. We still spent all the time we could with each other, we still had sex...glorious sex...and we kept the "Bowen" issue under wraps. It was, however still in the background, though neither talked about it.
Among the things I had begun doing when Deborah and I were having sex, was to pay attention to the scar on her tummy. I was particularly careful, as lovingly as I could, kiss my way across her tummy as part of my sex play. I sensed, at first that, that Deborah was as sensitive to it as I was hesitant to do it but, as time went by, she relaxed and...at least, I would hope to think...it helped her quell the feelings she had about that part of her life.
But the "Bowen" issue was still there. It wasn't exactly "The Elephant in the Room" it was more "The Schwanz That Was NOT in the Room". Deborah knew, and I made no secret about it, that I was having sex..a lot of sex...with Bowen. By the same token, I was having a lot of sex with Deborah, too, but I had a feeling that Deborah in some ways was curious about how much I enjoyed and treasured having sex with Bowen.
Now, Deborah is no ingénue, far from it. She, maybe in many ways more than most, knew all about male/female sex. It was largely academic with her case, for reasons previously described. The emotions about it, though, were almost entirely shaped by her disastrous experiences in her young adult life. To employ an overused term, she had never had a good "role model" to help create a healthy perspective on it. I don't want to flatter myself but I think I might have been the best role model she had known...not perfect, by any means...but real.
"Balaclava! Balaclava!" Debora exclaimed, as we sat on her couch, "Balaclava. THAT'S IT!"
I was taken aback at the enthusiasm she put into that work, "Pardon me, Deborah? What?"
"Balaclava!, Norma," she seemed triumphant, "Do you know what Balaclava is"
"A sticky desert? You know, filo dough and honey and nuts and...who knows what else?"
"No, silly girl, that's Baklava," she knew she had one over on me, "I'm talking about Balaclava. There's a Balaklava, which is a place in Asia, but a Balaclava is essentially a ski mask. It's a mask that covers the entire face and head with eye holes and a mouth hole. It is kind of like the ones those Mexican wrestlers wear...you know...the Lucha Libre wrestlers, only their masks are ornately decorated."
I acted puzzled because I was, hence, "So, O.K. Balaclava. What? That's a crossword puzzle answer you need? What?"
