Chapter Fifteen: A Total Woman
In late June, I traveled to a gender specialist in Western New York State, accompanied by my friend Jon, whose annual summer camp didn’t begin until after the July Fourth holiday. Though our friendship has always been chaste, I registered him as my sole contact for medical purposes and to be present in all my consultations with the doctors.

Harriet was devastated that she couldn’t make the trip – we’d be gone about ten days – since she had summer school classes scheduled.

Jon was a sweetie, always present to hold my hand when the pain during recovery became intense; I cried a bit when – after the operation – I realized my penis was gone. I didn’t realize I’d become sad about the loss of my appendage, which for most of my life I resented and hated.

“It’s only natural you’d be sad about that,” Jon said, consoling me. “After all, it was a part of you for twenty-five years.”

“I know and I really am deliriously happy, Jon, that anyone looking at my body will see only a woman’s body. I can’t explain my feelings, it’s so strange.”

Jon laughed. “It’s just your female hormones kicking in. Just like a woman?”

“You sexist pig,” I said, giggling in return.

My doctor said the operation was a success, but warned that I had to be dedicated to following the dilation routine to assure that my vagina would open up properly.

“Soon, I expect you’ll be enjoying orgasms just as any woman does,” she said.

“I’m so excited about that,” I said.

“I think I was able to get enough tissue from your male organs to assure you’d have good orgasms,” the doctor said, her face assuming a graver look. “Your penis, dear, was a bit tinier than most, making it difficult to obtain enough tissue, but I think we succeeded.”

“Doctor, thank you, for trying,” I said.

My penis had always been a source of humiliation for me as a boy and now I realized it might even have been a problem in making me the woman I wished to be. She gave me the name of a specialist to follow up with in our community; nonetheless, she hoped I’d be able to come back in six weeks to see her so that she could check up on my recovery.

When the ten days had ended, Jon drove me home; thankfully the pain had largely gone away, and I would only have to feel uncomfortable on the long ride. Jon assisted me into my home, and offered to stay the night with me to make certain I was able to get settled in. I protested, telling him that I knew his partner would be missing him.

“Tell you what, Julie, I’ll have Mel stop off for some Chinese and bring it over for supper,” he suggested.

I agreed and his partner arrived about an hour later with a bag full of white food boxes from my favorite Chinese restaurant. I kissed Mel on the cheek thanking him profusely for allowing Jon time to accompany me for the operation.

“I wanted to make sure you really became a woman, Julie,” Mel teased. “Otherwise, I’d be jealous of you, knowing Jon’s affection for you.”

“Don’t worry, Mel, I’m certainly not his type,” I replied, laughing aloud.

Mel was muscular, crew-cut and broad-shouldered, quite a contrast to both Jon and me. If Jon ever considered me as a man, I obviously would not measure up to his standards. Mel and I had one feature in common, Jon observed and that was that we were both sweet, generous persons. I could see that Mel, in spite of his muscular build, was certainly that.

They stayed with me for two nights, sharing the queen-sized bed in mother’s old room. I could hear their love-making both nights and looked forward when I’d be able to be similarly engaged.

*****
Harriet declared I was “all woman;” she and her new lover stopped over several times and with his nodding OK, she proceeded to come into my bedroom to examine my new vagina while he watched a baseball game on television. She assisted me in my dilation procedure and when it was ended said: “You’re one hot young lady, dear.”

I also got great support from my neighbors, with Marian Phillips insisting on preparing my dinners for the first week I was home until I insisted upon cooking for myself. Her husband, Paul, went shopping for me and drove me to my doctor’s appointments. Susie Nordquist, who was off from school, spent many summer afternoons with me, sometimes joined by Bobby McCloskey; we played Scrabble often to pass the time. Susie’s mother, Heidi, invited me over for a Saturday afternoon and visited me in the evenings and I found myself enjoying our “girl talk” sessions.

By the first week of August, I went on my first date with a man; Leighton Loomis took me to a romance movie and we had a few drinks afterward. I stuck to diet soda, while he enjoyed a pair of Captain Morgan drinks. We finally made love. He was my first male lover and my orgasms proved to be noisy and breath-taking and even though I had at least four in the short hour we were in bed, he was an indifferent partner. I found myself the aggressor and wondered after he left whether there was something lacking in my own sexuality that perhaps turned him off in bed.

Nonetheless, we continued to spend time together after the new school semester began, often going to art shows or museums; he also persuaded me to join him at rallies and other gatherings involving social justice issues; recently he had become interested in immigrant rights movement activities. I found him an interesting, compatible and caring companion, even though his love-making was somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.

Once while I was coming to climax, I yelled out, “Oh Randy!” I know he heard me, since his humping of me at the moment seemed to pause, but he said nothing. It was true, all the time I was in the arms with Leighton, I was dreaming he was really Randy. How I could even think that at the time since Leighton’s skinny body was hardly like Randy’s lumberjack-like torso.

My friendship with Leighton Loomis, however, taught me one thing: I did not have to be all-dolled-up with heels, stockings, complete make-up and a lovely dress in order to be a woman. Because we attended so many of his liberal rallies, I found my more elaborate dressing habits to be out of place; soon I began wearing virtually no make-up, often wearing jeans or even sweats; rather than fuss with my hair, I tied it in a ponytail, even choosing pigtails a few times.

I could even have worn all male clothes and still not be taken for anything but a young woman.

“You’re cute in whatever you wear,” Leighton told me on one of the few occasions that he offered any compliments about my looks. It was the case that he often commended my “smarts” as he called them. I had on numerous occasions raised questions about his single-minded, leftwing beliefs, causing him to pause and reflect that maybe I was right about one issue or the other. In truth, I agreed with him on all the basic principles; I just felt he ought to not make such declarative statements without making certain they were accurate.

Going into my second full year of teaching would make the job easier, I thought. I soon found that not to be the case, even though I didn’t have to spend as much time doing lesson plans, since I could use most of what I had prepared the previous year. For some reason, I found myself feeling less confident in getting my students to become as enthusiastic for the classwork as I had felt they were in my first year. Maybe my expectations were higher, but whatever the reason I had to work hard to draw my students into speaking up in class and by the end of the day, I was exhausted.

On school nights, I often picked up my supper at a fast food place rather than worry about cooking for myself. After my makeshift dinners, I often found myself collapsing on the easy chair, the television on but for the most part unwatched. Sometimes I would fall into a short nap, usually awakened by a raucous TV advertisement. By then I might be refreshed enough to tackle my own “homework;” that is, correcting papers or devising curriculum for the next day.

My dreams of Randy were the bright spot in my day, often occurring at night as I laid my head down to sleep. I found my nightly dilation exercise helped bring me to orgasm as I pictured myself in the embrace of that marvelous boy. What ecstasy!

*****
During the Christmas Holiday, I was bridesmaid for Harriet Simpson’s marriage to Bart Templeton, the widower with whom she had fallen in love. Harriet was just radiant in a short, light blue cocktail dress she had chosen for their simple, but beautiful ceremony at the horticultural center. A bank of holiday decorations formed a fitting backdrop for the happy couple. I had never seen Harriet as soft-looking and feminine as she was that day; she clearly adored Bart, who seemed similarly affected. Bart was totally enthralled with his bride.

I wore a similar cocktail dress although mine was pink; it ended at mid-thigh and I wore a neutral colored stockings with sandals with three-inch heels. My halter-style dress provided a v-shaped bodice that offered a hint of my modest breasts; short capped sleeves exposed my slender arms.

“You look absolutely divine,” Harriet said upon seeing me.

“And you look radiant,” I said in reply.

We hugged, our lips not meeting since neither one of us wanted to undo our makeup.

I felt tears filling my eyes as they exchanged “I do’s.” I looked up at the groom’s best man, a tall, handsome young man named Barry Templeton, the new hubby’s eldest son; he smiled warmly and I believe I saw tears in his eyes as well. Like his father, Barry was a warm, openly friendly person and I found our “small talk” conversations to be comfortable and easy.

While the wedding itself was small, Harriet and Bart had scheduled a large reception at the local woman’s club that specialized in hosting wedding parties. Leighton accompanied me, and he looked just absolutely, and unexpectedly, handsome in a dark blue suit, white shirt and discreet gray tie. He had even shaved and had his hair trimmed for the occasion. He looked like a different man, and he warned me that if he saw too much of what he called “hypocritical, capitalist bull shit” he might not be on his best behavior.

“You’re such a darling to do this; you know how much of a friend Harriet is to me and I sure your presence will make her happy,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean I’m happy to be in this monkey suit,” he grumbled. His words were accompanied by a smile, and I could tell he was feeling more at home in the suit than he cared to let on. While Leighton often liked to fashion himself as something of a revolutionary, sometimes looking more like Raskolnikov or Rasputin than a young schoolteacher, I knew he had enough common sense to act appropriately when he had to.

“You and Leighton make a lovely couple,” Jon Edwards said spying us on the dance floor as he danced nearby accompanied by Tamara Jackson, one of the newer young teachers. Jon had not brought his partner, but I knew it was more out of respect for Harriet and her wedding party. Harriet had invited many of the teachers in the school to the reception.

I smiled in reply as the two couples danced next to each other, “You and Tamara also are a handsome pair.”

Later, as is the custom in such events, Barry Templeton and I, as best man and bridesmaid, followed the wedding couple onto the dance floor that had emptied for the wedding dance – always a highlight of the evening. The band struck up the old waltz, “I Love You Truly,” and Barry and I easily flowed together and I felt as if I was floating over the waxed floor.

“That was beautiful, Julie,” Barry said as he lowered me almost to the floor in the bow as the music stopped.

I looked up into his eyes and then he did something that surprised me. He kissed me; it was a short peck, but I felt a warm tingle. He lifted me up and escorted me from the floor.

“Thank you, Barry. You’re quite a dancer,” I said.

“You were marvelous yourself,” he said, leading me back to Leighton.

Leighton merely took my arm, and pulled me back into the crowd, leaving Barry standing there alone. I spent the rest of the evening seeking to satisfy Leighton that my dance with Barry was nothing more than accepting my role as bridesmaid in a wedding ceremony. Leighton and I danced together often that night and I always clutched him tightly and affectionately. By closing time, I felt Leighton and I created a warmth the depths of which we had never before experienced. My brief fling with Barry on the dance floor soon was buried into the deep recesses of my subconscious.

I don’t know whether it was the champagne and few drinks we had, but Leighton was more passionate and amorous than ever that night after we left the reception. When he stopped the car in front of my home, he put his arm around me and drew me to him, kissing me hard. He drew me tightly toward him with more strength than he’d ever shown before. I found his mouth delicious and responded with similar intensity.

Suddenly, he ended the kiss, moving his head away from me. He looked at me closely, the light from the streetlamp illuminating his eager face. For a moment, he said nothing, but just looked at me, studying me closely. He smiled and I sensed warmth in his eyes that was fresh and sincere. Rarely had Leighton been so forthcoming with his passion, since I had usually had to initiate our love-making.

“You’re just so beautiful, Julie,” he said finally, his words halting. “I . . . ah . . . ah . . . don’t know what love is, Julie, but if love is what a feel know for you . . . ah . . . well . . . it’s . . .”

“Oh Leighton,” I cooed softly. I wanted him to express his love for me now so badly, but his words were now fading out.

I knew I had to put this poor shy boy out of his misery so I placed my fingers lightly on his mouth as if to silence him. I often wondered what clicked with him; I knew him to be a strong, successful teacher and forceful advocate for his causes while still remaining embarrassingly hesitant and unsure of himself in his personal relationships.

“Just kiss me again, darling,” I said, raising my face to his.

We embraced again, our kisses more intense that before and I felt his hand work its way under my dress, along my inner thigh and into my moist hole. We kissed and embraced the way for a long time, my breathing growing heavy, as I feared I may soon orgasm. Finally, he eased off, removed his wandering hand and moved away, again looking at me, his eyes moist. I had never seen Leighton so animated in his love-making, so aggressive; I had to admit to myself that I enjoyed being the slave to his emotions.

“Let’s get married,” he said, quickly and simply.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I maybe shouldn’t have asked,” he said, looking away. My simple “what” had turned off his excitement, his energy. I could feel that in that instant I had killed his spirit his energy.

“No. No. No. That’s OK. Did you just ask me to marry you?”

He nodded in the affirmative and then added, “But if you don’t want to that’s fine. I understand.”

Leighton released me and moved on the car seat away from me, as if I had suddenly turned into something slimy and revolting.

“It wasn’t that I don’t want you, Leighton,” I said, beginning to cry. “It’s just that it was such a surprise.”

“I’m not good-looking enough for you, is that it, Julie? Well I’m not, I’m sorry.”

“Your looks have nothing to do with it,” I replied, quickly regretting my words that seemed to indicate he wasn’t good-looking. The fact was that while Leighton was slender and not particularly macho in physique he had a warm, welcoming demeanor that made him most attractive as you got to know him.

The young man’s commitment to being a good teacher, to serving his community and to acting upon his beliefs was particularly compelling for me. In spite of his awkward social behaviors, Leighton Loomis had a purpose in his life that I was certain would cause him to be a most interesting person with whom to enjoy the rest of my life. The problem was I wasn’t certain I was in love with him.

“Julie, you’re so lovely and warm that I’m sure you could have the pick of any man of your choice, and I’d always feel inadequate with you. Forget I asked.”

“Leighton, darling, I won’t forget you asked,” I said, hoping to reassure him. “It’s just that . . . ah . . .”

“What, you don’t love me?” he interrupted.

“No, Leighton, it’s just that I’m not ready yet, and besides, I’m not certain any man would have me, since I’m not a total woman.”

“You are to me.”

“If we married, we could never have children, Leighton, and I know you want a family,” I said.

“I know that, Julie, but we could adopt, you know.”

I looked at this sincere young man who seemed to be sure about everything in his life except his ability to realize that he is indeed worthy of any woman’s love and affection.

“Leighton, I would like to consider your proposal, dear, but I need time. Is that OK, honey?” I said leaning in to kiss him.

“I guess so,” he said. “I just didn’t go about this as I should have. I should have offered you an engagement ring and knelt before you to ask for your hand. I’m such a stoop.”

“You’re not stupid, Leighton. You’re the smartest guy I’ve ever met and I love you for it. It’s important to me to know that you meant it when you asked me to marry you and I won’t forget, it’s just that I’m not ready yet.”

“I don’t know Julie,” he said. “It’s getting late. Let me walk you to the door.”

Without letting me reply, he got out of the car, quickly walked around to my side and opened the door for me, as a real gentleman would. I got out into the cold evening. He took my arm, helping me navigate the walk which had become a bit slippery due to a dusting of light know. He led me up the walk, took my keys and unlocked the door. He held it open for me.

“Do you want to come in?” I offered.

“No thanks, it’s getting late,” he said, giving me a quick peck on my cheek and ushering me into the house. He turned and walked back to his car. Naturally, I cried; what else can a girl do in this situation?

*****
Dangling from its prominent spot on my vanity mirror was the dainty necklace with its thin gold chain and lovely peace symbol – the “gold” gift that Randy had presented to me three Christmas seasons earlier. I cherished his lovely gift and wore it only around the house, recognizing it as something deeply personal between Randy and myself. Perhaps it was an icon for our forbidden love – a love that would likely never be fully realized.

What would happen to this lovely gift from Randy should I marry Leighton? My new husband would wonder how I had gotten it, probably correctly thinking it came from a man friend.

Maybe I could send it back to Randy, with a sweet note explaining why I couldn’t keep it. I should have sent the necklace back immediately, or given it to Carmen to return. Perhaps that would force him to finally realize that our love for each other would never be realized. Yet, I kept it right at eye level as I sat at my vanity to fix my makeup day in and day out.

“Mrs. Leighton Loomis,” I said aloud that night as I put my hair up before climbing into bed. It did have a nice ring to it, didn’t it?

*****
I didn’t hear from Leighton for a week after that night, which was strange since in the previous few months he and I talked almost every day, if only for a few minutes. Our conversations always revolved around our experiences of the day in our classrooms; we were both beginning teachers and we enjoyed sharing each other’s problems, sometimes offering helpful suggestions. Leighton, too, always had some political comment to make, most of which I agreed with.

Rarely, however, did we talk love or have suggestive conversations. The truth was I just loved talking with Leighton; he was a good listener and I found I could tell him almost anything and I knew he’d keep it to himself.

Even though it was the holiday period, I still expected he’d call. I debated whether I should call him to tell him I had welcomed his proposal for marriage, perhaps explaining that I wasn’t ready for the big step. A girl doesn’t call a boyfriend, does she? No, of course not.

For me, the holiday week was a lonely one. If it wasn’t for Paul and Marian Phillips next door, I would have been totally alone on Christmas Day; that morning, I bumped into Paul while parking my car (mom’s old car) in the garage, having returned from one of the few wine shops that had been open. I thought I’d treat myself to a sparkling Burgundy. Paul wished me a “Merry Christmas,” and we began a short conversation, both of us shivering in the cold.

“You having a busy day, Julie? That boy of yours coming over?”

“No, just a quiet day around the house,” I replied, hoping not to have anything else said.

“That’s a shame. I suppose Leighton has family stuff to attend to,” the old man said.

“Nope, I think we’re done with,” I said. I couldn’t stop the tears that began to fill my eyes.

“You poor darling. Tell you what, why not come over about three o’clock today and join us?”

“I couldn’t. You’ll have your whole family there and all the grandkids. I’ll just be in the way, Paul. Thanks anyway. I got a good book to read.”

“Don’t be silly, Julie,” he insisted. “You must join us. You’ve already met most of the family and they all love you.”

Finally, I agreed I just might wander over for a few minutes to say “Merry Christmas.” I agreed to bake my special cherry cake – it had been mom’s special treat for the holidays – and Paul smiled: “I know the grandkids will love you for it.”

As it turned out, I had a perfectly magical Christmas; I found myself humming to the Christmas Carols I put on my stereo as I prepared the cake. Spending time with the Phillips family was refreshing; the house was chaos when I entered; Marian always kept the house squeaky neat and clean, but wrapping paper and toys were littered about the living room, surrounding the large natural Christmas tree Paul always erected. Family members had leaked off into side rooms; the Phillips had six children, all married, along with eight grandchildren, ranging in age from three to eighteen.

Before long I was called “Aunty Julie,” and was being pulled in all sorts of directions as first one child and then another begged me to play with them. There were some fights, of course, and I noticed one teenage girl named Maryann (obviously named for her grandmother with a slight spelling change) off in a corner, morosely playing with her tablet.

“Hi honey,” I said, sitting next to her. “I love that pink tablet of yours. Is it a gift?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

I looked closely at her and saw her eyes were all red; it appeared she had been crying.

“I’m sorry I bothered you, Maryann,” I said.

“It’s OK, Aunt Julie, it’s just that I just heard about something,” she said. I probably knew Maryann as well as any of the Phillips grandchildren and she had long called me “Aunt Julie.”

“Oh?”

“My boyfriend was seen with Phil at the mall on Saturday. He was supposed to take me to the mall that day but called and said he couldn’t. Oh, Aunt Julie, I’m so devastated.

“Who’s Phil?” I asked, wondering why the boyfriend being seen with another boy would bother the girl.

“Phil is Philomena. We call her Phil and she’s such a flirt; I can’t understand it. Tommy and I have been together for over three months, since school started. I even went to the homecoming dance with him.”

I squeezed onto the chair next to her and put my arm over her shoulder; she smelled fresh and clean, with only a touch of perfume. She wore little makeup; she was in the throes of losing her adolescent baby fat and had soft, tender features to accompany her pinkish complexion. Her breasts were tiny for her frame, the mark of a “late bloomer,” but the reality was that in a year or so she would be one strikingly pretty young lady. She would obviously take after her mother, Jean, the Phillips’ oldest, who had turned forty and had retained her a trim figure and a natural attractiveness.

I counseled her as best I could, mainly by listening to her story; I had little experience in these things as a teenager, of course, so I doubted if I had any advice for the grieving young lady.

Before we could finish, the three-year-old grabbed my hand and said, “Come, Anthy Jule, dress my new doll.”

“Can Maryann help you, too, Wendy?” I suggested.

“Thure,” the little girl said.

I grabbed Maryann’s hand and took her to a back bedroom where the girl had doll clothes scattered over a bed. Soon, the three of us were laughing and creating all sorts of weird dress combinations for the new doll.

I didn’t leave there until after nine o’clock, long after the family left; Marian and I cleaned up the mess left in the house, finished the dishes and then sat down in the kitchen to finish what was left of a bottle of merlot. Somehow, we got onto the topic of men, particularly those who cheat. She confided in me, however, that she was willing to forgive Paul when he ventured “off the reservation,” as the saying goes. He did it once, Marian said, several years after their last child had been born and both had turned forty.

“Once was enough for, I warned him,” the old woman said. “And, to my knowledge, he’s been a model husband. Well, almost model.”

“No one’s perfect,” I said, laughing.

“Look at the reward, darling,” Marian said, obviously referring to the warm, loving family that filled their home that day.

“You two must be so happy. How I’d love to have such a family, but it’ll obviously never happen.”

“Never say never, Julie.”

*****
I was alone the rest of the holiday week – including New Year’s Eve – when Leighton and I had tentatively planned to make one of the holiday dances that the city planned at various park pavilions. He never called, and I welcomed in the New Year sound asleep on the couch with the television on, a partial bowl of popcorn in my arms and a bottle of merlot, still half full and uncorked on the coffee table.

Heidi from across the street and I shared a few afternoon drinks on New Year’s Day, but other than that, I did not much of anything but work on my schoolwork, read and clean the house. I rarely dressed in the morning, slipping on sweats but bothered only to brush my hair and leave my face untouched by any makeup. I was a mess.

Harriet was off on her honeymoon. My two closest girlfriends were gone for most of the week; Laura had gone to visit her family in Ohio and Tamara was spending a week skiing in New Hampshire with her new boyfriend. Jon Edwards, of course, was busy with his partner, the two also heading for a skiing trip. I wondered whether I too should take up skiing, but the reality was that I was so unathletic and my legs were not very strong, I doubted whether I could master the sport. Besides, those hills looked pretty scary.

In a way, I welcomed the quiet; the months of teaching freshman high school students and working on the Drama Club performances had exhausted me. Yet, my life felt empty. I cried a bit, wondering if the life of a transgendered woman was to be one of loneliness and isolation. I found during the two weeks off I must have gained ten pounds, thanks to the snacking I couldn’t resist and the three glasses of wine I seemed to drink each day; perhaps I would find a man who liked a girl with ample love handles.

I must confess that I still thought often about Randy; his image came into my head at the strangest times, when I was shaving my legs or fixing my hair or doing any number of activities that would help express my feelings of femininity. I tried to stifle those troublesome – but still satisfying images – by directing my thinking elsewhere. Occasionally, I would direct my thinking toward Barry Templeton. The moments we had spent together at Harriet’s wedding had been enjoyable. He truly was an astounding young man and I’d be less than honest if I didn’t feel I might have desired getting more intimate with him. I doubted that would ever happen. But a girl can have her dreams, can’t she?

*****
To put an end to the boredom of my empty social life, I enrolled in an evening class once the second semester began. I really needed a master’s degree in English education if I ever hoped to advance in the profession; I took a creative writing course that required the completion of a fiction or non-fiction piece of at least 40,000 words by the tenth week of the thirteen week course. In addition, the instructor – who was a local reporter who had completed a number of history books on our area – was a slave to writing, even requiring us to create several 500 to 1,000-word columns during the course of the semester. “You won’t learn how to write unless you write and write and write,” he said over and over when a class member might complain of the workload.

I wrote of my personal journey from manhood to womanhood, for which I needed to do little research, of course. Before we began our long assignment, he took each of his students aside to discuss what topics we planned to write about.

“You were born a boy?” he looked at me after I told him my plans.

“Yes, sir,” I said, giving him a coy smile.

He was a handsome man in his mid-forties and a full head of dark hair, with some graying showing along the temples. I hate to admit it, but I researched him and learned he was divorced.

“I can’t believe it, Miss Pearson. You’re so incredibly feminine and most pretty, I must say.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brooks,” I said.

“I look forward to the project, but I must warn you that if you’re serious about writing on your own experiences you should be totally honest and you may find yourself exposing something that might embarrass you.”

“I think I’m ready for that,” I said, not totally believing my words. “Maybe my experiences will help others who faced the same problems I had.”

“Do any others in the class know of your transition, Miss Pearson?”

“I don’t think so, since I prefer to be totally accepted as a woman. I don’t think I’m weird or anything,” I said.

“I don’t think you are either, and you may call me James, Miss Pearson,” he said, giving me a sweet smile.

“I’m Julie to you, James,” I said, shamelessly flirting with the man.

“You interest me, Julie,” he said. “Keep me posted with your progress. If you have a problem or get stuck, feel free to call me anytime on my cell.”

He gave me his card; I looked at it and thought I’d toy with him a bit.

“Shall I save it here?” I said, pretending to place down my bosom.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but it’s a nice thought,” he said.

Leaving the room, I chastised myself for being such an obvious flirt. Was I so lonely I was ready to entice a middle-aged man into my life?

*****
I confessed my infatuation for the professor to my neighbor, Heidi Nordquist, over coffee one Saturday morning; she smiled as I related the situation and my mixed emotions over whether I should make an effort to nurture the friendship with the man. After all, I was lonely – and hungry – for companionship, particularly sexual encounters with a man. I had found my morning and evening enjoyments with dilation not particularly stimulating. I needed affection along with sexual gratification.

“Just keep your relations with the man on a professional level,” Heidi suggested. “He might make an exciting bed partner, darling, but if you’re not careful you’ll soon end up as his sexual slave. Believe me. I’ve been there, done that.”

Heidi told me that after her divorce ten years ago over the loss of what was to be a lifelong love affair she entered into a series of relationships that made her feel like a whore. “I was devastated by the divorce,” she said.

The woman was a husky blonde with an ever-smiling face; you’d hardly know from talking with her that she ever had an unhappy moment in her life. I always marveled at the woman for retaining a youthful vibrancy while working a difficult job and raising a family.

“I’m letting any new love come into my life naturally. I’m not going to seek it out,” she said.

“Guess that’s right,” I said. “I’ll let Professor Brooks correct my writing. That’s all.”

Though he followed up with several suggestive words to me, I pointedly refused to pick up the clue. He must have felt I was clueless or just plain rude, but I hoped that would cool his desires toward me. He even suggested “coffee or a drink” after one class, a suggestion I begged off by saying I was tired; and that was true, of course, since the class followed a day of teaching freshmen high schoolers. I was pleased with myself for not offering some lame excuse such as being “obligated for another appointment.”

He finally took the hint. I was not totally pleased, however, for my actions; I still wonder sometimes what might have developed had I nurtured the friendship.

*****
It wasn’t until mid-February that Leighton finally called. His voice was hesitant, apologizing at first for not calling, but giving the excuse that he was “very busy.”

I was tempted to use the phrase used typically by nagging women – both mothers and wives – who would query pointedly: “Too busy to take one minute to call your (mother) (wife)?” I said nothing and it seemed like five minutes went by before either of us talked.

“How are you doing, Leighton? How are your classes this year?” I began.

We talked for several minutes about our classes and the conversation warmed up; Leighton, of course, told me of his work with the workers group that was holding periodic demonstrations for the employees of fast food operations. I told him that I had been getting active in our Teachers Union, having been urged to do so by Jon Edwards and Leighton seemed pleased with that.

“Well, nice chatting with you,” he said. Without a further word, he hung up.

He never called again.