My Sin, Lesbian b**m

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

When did I know? Was there a morning that I woke up and decided that I preferred my own s*x? I don’t remember it. I do remember watching the other girls shower in gym class and thinking that they were surely God’s finest creation. The gawky adolescent males that set my classmates giggling left me cold and faintly nauseous. I could only think of sweat and body hair. That hideous appendage between their legs seemed a comic afterthought.

I tried, really. Who doesn’t want to be normal? When boys asked me out, I accepted. I wasn’t even particular, since one seemed as unappetizing as another. I was hoping that I might feel – something. Perhaps I was only waiting for the right man, some white knight whose splendor would eclipse all others in my eyes. There was nothing magical, or even memorable, about the night that I lost my virginity.

It all crystallized for me when I developed a crush on my gym teacher.

Mrs. Bowman was barely out of college, and the closeness of our ages encouraged me to dream that the possibility of a relationship between us was not impossibly remote. She was a tall woman, moving with a confident athletic grace. I told myself that her marriage was just a cover, and she secretly liked girls. When she congratulated my efforts with a hearty slap on the back or a hand on my shoulder, I convinced myself that she was revealing a hidden affection. When she looked my way, I searched her eyes for signs.

I was young. I thought that circumstances could be bent to my will. I believed that miracles could be worked by those who still had faith. Mrs. Bowman had no reality for me except as an object of my desire.

Night after night, while my fingers were busy under the blankets, I would spin elaborate fantasies. The theme was always the same. My love for Mrs. Bowman would be accidentally revealed by some event beyond my control, or I would rescue her from a dangerous situation and earn her breathless gratitude. Either way, the end result was the same. She would confess that she had been harboring concealed feelings for me as well. In those days, my fantasies were innocent of carnal excess. Our moment of truth always climaxed with a warm embrace and a wet kiss. Sweating and biting my pillow to silence any passionate outcry, imagining her mouth on mine, I would climax too.

Valentine’s day approached. Desperate to declare myself, I screwed up my courage and bought her a card, something suitable for an esteemed teacher. I threw it away and bought another card that was more expensive and sentimental. My third choice left no doubt about the sender’s feelings. I remember the cherubs embossed on the card, drawing their bows to launch the magical shafts that would awaken her heart. I composed a letter and enclosed it. I don’t remember the phrases I finally selected to express myself, but I agonized over every word. I imagined Mrs. Bowman as a sort of quarry that might be alarmed by obvious intent or direct action. My words were stealthy, meant to seem innocuous to the casual reader. I believed that if she shared my feelings, even a little, she would be alert for clues.

I slipped into the school office and dropped it into her mail slot.

I was immediately sorry, and spent the rest of the day in an agony of suspense. My Gym class only met three days a week. As it happened, Valentine’s Day fell on one of the off days. I thought that I wouldn’t even have to see Mrs. Bowman until the following day, but she spared me the suspense.

I was sitting in study hall during the last hour when another student delivered a note from Mrs. Bowman asking me to stop by the locker room at the end of the day. My heart leaped, and I fretted through the long minutes until the closing bell signaled me to report downstairs.

When I opened the door to the girl’s locker room I was shocked to see Miss Glen, the Guidance Counselor, sitting by the door to the showers.

“Uh – Hi, Miss Glen.”

She had a notebook in her lap, and paused in her writing to look up. It might have appeared that she was in the process of writing a recommendation or application for a student, and I had surprised her by bursting in, except that she should have been working upstairs in her own office, not lurking around down here. This had all the feeling of a set up.

She disarmed me with a friendly grin that gave me no hint of any confidence betrayed. “Hi Autumn. If you’re looking for Mrs. Bowman, she is in her office.”

I turned and looked. The ordered ranks of the lockers formed a gauntlet, framing the open doorway of Mrs. Bowman’s office. Sitting where she was, Miss Glen had a direct line of sight into the office, but at this distance she would hear nothing that was said within.

The walk between those ranks of lockers seemed impossibly long, and every step of the way my apprehension grew. Mrs. Bowman was sitting at her desk, writing. My eyes were immediately drawn to the pink envelope on top of the desk. She set her pen down and rubbed her hands over her face. For the first time that I could remember, she looked old and tired. I was suddenly sorry, knowing that I was the cause. Her wedding ring caught the light and mocked me.

Unable to bear the sight, I shifted my gaze to the caged soccer balls behind her, the bulletin board on her left. Looking right, I could see back the way I had come. My eyes met Miss Glen’s and she looked quickly down, not to seem too curious. Backup, I thought. She is here to act as a witness, lend a hand if things get ugly, comfort me when it’s over.

Mrs. Bowman’s hands had stopped traveling across her face. Now she rested her chin on her hands. I had a wild memory of the three monkeys in my Grandmother’s china cabinet. She looked like the one on the right. Speak no evil.

She tried a smile to relax me, but it froze into something ghastly before she cleared her throat and mercifully put it away.

“My first thought,” she said softly, “was that this was just some cruel prank. I checked the handwriting. You did write this, didn’t you?”

Unable to trust my voice, I nodded.

“And the feelings you expressed were genuine?”

I nodded again, hoping that she could measure the depth of unrequited love in my eyes.

She sighed. “I pray that this is just a phase, and not a permanent choice. If you can’t invest your affections in a more... traditional manner, you need to learn discretion. Otherwise you are setting yourself up for a lifetime of unhappiness.”

Dyke – the unspoken word filled the space between us.

“I think you already realize that this was a foolish thing to do. The relationship you desire is inappropriate and dangerous. I am responsible for your welfare, and even a hint that I have abused that responsibility would be devastating to both of us. I’m a married woman, Autumn – happily married. I just found out that I am pregnant.”

“Congratulations.” I meant the word to sound sincere, but it came out sounding bitter. She looked up sharply, reading my sorrow. My fantasies had never dealt with the possibility of a loving husband, a baby to be, or a lecture on s****l ethics. She tried to defuse the moment with a smile of maternal understanding.

“Contrary to what some believe,” she said. “I was once young too.”

“Mrs. Bowman, I’m sorry! I never meant to make trouble for you!”

She shook her head and shushed me with a finger to her lips. “It is hard for young people, harder still for those who are... different. I know how a young person can become obsessive and act on impulse.”

She picked up the envelope with my card inside and tapped it against her desk. “I am going to forget this happened. You should too. Your secret is safe with me. You will always have my friendship and support, but that is as much as I can give you. Please understand.”

Her eyes flickered involuntarily toward Miss Glen, verifying my intuition that she had stationed another teacher nearby as a precaution. She was afraid that I would throw myself at her in a fit of passion, then claim s****l harassment when she rejected me. I told myself that she didn’t understand me either, that I could never be so vindictive and petty. Looking back, I’m not that sure.

“You must find someone who is free to share your feelings. Seek the possible and you will find the happiness you need eventually,” she said, “but you cannot find it here.”

“Mrs. Bowman, I’m sorry! Please don’t hate me!”

She moved to take my hand and reassure me, then second thoughts forced her to resist that natural impulse and she put both hands on the letter again.

“I’m somewhat flattered, actually, but if you think about this for a few moments you will see that even this conversation could be dangerous to both of us.” When she looked up at me, her smile had grown tight and tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes.

“We won’t speak of this again,” her voice was suddenly firm. “Years from now, you will understand that this was an act of kindness.”

She tore the envelope in half, carefully fitted the halves together and tore it again. She kept on tearing. I didn’t stay to watch my love offering reduced to confetti. I turned and fled.

I kept on running, past Miss Glen, who flashed me a quick sad smile of sympathy, a vain invitation to confidences, past the showers, redolent with female fragrance, up the stairs, out the door, through the cold streets.