Free Dear John, I Love Jane: Women Write About Leaving Men for Women by Laura Andre Page B

long, drawn-out breakup between two inherently incompatible people. As I pulled back, she held tighter, and we spiraled into a cycle of push/pull, break up/get back together, ultimatums, misunderstandings, and drama after drama after drama. Finally it ran out of steam, but instead of sadness I felt freedom.

    So now I am in limbo. I am celibate, and introspective, and shell-shocked.
    I would love to have waited until I had a more popular, less ambiguous ending to write my story, to be able to say, “and now I’ve left my marriage and have a girlfriend and I’m happier than ever!” or “and then I fell in love with my husband all over again and I’m happier than ever!” I would love to be able to tell you that I have all the answers, or at least a definition or a label for my sexuality. There are days I know I am a lesbian, that I always have been and always will be, but for now I am choosing not to honor that part of myself purely out of a sense of responsibility and loyalty to my family. There are flashes of doubt, when I wonder if she was just a really good seducer (she has a pattern of going after married women, and bragged about her “conversion rate”) and I was in a ready place to do some exploration. There are times I think she was the great love of my life, and other times I thank my lucky stars I didn’t leave the security of my home for the passion of her bed. There are brief moments that I still wonder if my attraction to women was something dormant that came to life, or something brand-new that showed up when she did. (Like I said, “brief.” There is too much evidence pointing more toward dormant than new , and I know that if I were to find myself single, it would be women I would seek out, not men.)
    Today my inner world is a maelstrom of anger and sorrow and loss and relief and chaos as I sort out what it all means. But I don’t have any regrets. Sometimes I feel a happy bittersweet-sad, as if I had been perfectly content with my cup of Folgers every morning (really—it was fine), and then one day I was handed the most delectable, creamy Caffé Vita breve latte, granules of brown sugar melting into the thick velvety foam, served in a gorgeous Italian china mug with handmade almond biscotti on the side—a delightful gift, but one that renders the Folgers, in comparison, pretty much undrinkable. So the sadness is more of a Smokey Robinson “a taste of honey is worse than none at all” wistful, nostalgic sadness than an emptiness or a grief. It’s a feeling that brings me both gratitude and heartache.
    On my more melancholy days, I long for the ignorant girl who could swig that black coffee out of a Styrofoam cup and think nothing of it. On my more hopeful days, I know there is a world of designer espresso drinks that I will make my way back to someday. On my still-confused days, I put the whole drink order far back on the shelf and let myself awaken naturally, at my own pace, without trying to decide what I want, what I can or can’t have, what I should do, what I want to do, which is better, what I’m willing to fight for, and—these have been the two most interesting questions of the year—what I can live with, and what I can’t live without.

Over the Fence
    Audrey Bilger

    I was thirty-four when I jumped the fence. I didn’t put it that way at the time and only learned this phrase a few months later, when a friend told me a male colleague had used it to ask her if that’s what had happened—if I’d become a lesbian. At first it seemed like a crass expression. Were heterosexual women kept behind chain-links? Was there a line between straight and gay that could only be crossed by leaping? Having lived as a lesbian for a decade and a half now, I understand better where the metaphor comes from. Mainstream culture likes to see things in black and white, with barricades to maintain order and stability. A straight woman who leaves the fold disrupts the pattern and must chart a new course.