Author's note: All my previous submissions have been stand-alone stories, with no sequels intended. But I have always admired compelling multi-part stories like "Adrienne's Duet" by BirdnFlight and "New Horizons" by FemmeyFemmeFemme. When I started fleshing out this story in my head, I realized I couldn't write it as a stand-alone story and needed to break it down into component chapters. Although I admit this probably won't be as good as something by JCMcNeilly or Shaima32, I hope you'll give it a read. (And--to paraphrase the late, great Stan Lee--a special no-prize goes to whoever catches my tribute to JCMcNeilly in the story).
There is explicit sexual content in this story, but it's fairly short compared to my other work and it's really mostly to set up the next chapter.
Like Kay (the narrator of this story), I need two jobs to make ends meet, so don't be surprised if the chapters are months apart.
Chapter 1 contains content concerning domestic abuse. If you are in an abusive relationship, please visit thehotline.org and make a strategy to get out. You are not doing yourself or your children any favors by staying with a toxic partner.
Standard disclaimer: All sexual activity described in this story is between consenting adults 18 and older.
Enjoy.
PROLOGUE:
I was born in the 1970's, and like many women who came of age during the Riot Grrrl and Lilith Fair eras, I refused to put a label on my sexuality when I was younger. I didn't want my individuality stolen by a conservative, patriarchal, boomer-dominated society determined to box me into a neat little category, and I made it a point to date both men and women. To anyone who assumed I was straight because I dated men, or a lesbian because I dated women, or bisexual because I dated both, I would angrily shoot back "I'm not straight, I'm not gay, I'm not bi, I'm just me! Deal with it!"
But as much as I protested otherwise, something inside kept trying to tell me that I was only faking it with men, and that I was exclusively attracted to women. I kept on ignoring that inner voice and I thought I silenced it forever when I met Dave. He and I just clicked. We had the same sense of humor, the same philosophy about life, we liked the same kind of music. We were compatible in every way except sexually, but I kept telling myself that he didn't have to know that. Besides, given enough time, I was sure I would learn to enjoy making love to him.
We got married and moved into a modest two-bedroom apartment. Soon afterward, I gave birth to our first son, William. Six years later, his brother Justin came into the world. After Justin's birth, I just stopped pretending to enjoy sex with Dave and he didn't understand why. And on a conscious level, neither did I since I had spent my entire life denying my true sexuality to everyone including myself. We went into couples counseling to see if we could resolve our issues, hoping to fix our marriage. Instead, it would make our split inevitable. Although Dave knew I had dated women before I met him, it took years of therapy before I was ready to admit to myself and to my husband that I was a lesbian.
Ever since I was eighteen, I had assumed that if I named my sexuality, it would be confining. Instead, I found it liberating. For years, I insisted that by not defining my sexuality I was proving that I didn't care what anyone else thought. The truth was that I was desperate for the respect of the third-wave feminists that I admired (and still admire). But I came to realize that by coming out as exclusively gay and living as my genuine self, I was shedding the need for approval by these women. After all, I had never met Ani DiFranco or Rebecca Walker, so I didn't have to worry about their reaction. The week that I came out, I got a tattoo on my shoulder of two interlinked rainbow-striped female symbols. It's a permanent reminder to myself and a signal to anyone who might see me with a sleeveless top that I am 100% lesbian, and it prevents me from denying this any longer.
But what was good for me personally wreaked havoc on our marriage. After I came out, neither Dave nor I were comfortable sharing a bed together. I still loved him as my best friend and the father of my boys, so we tried alternating sleeping on the couch for a while, but it didn't work. Eventually, Dave moved out. He was generous enough with child support, but he couldn't afford to pay for his half of the rent in our two-bedroom apartment and a place on his own as well. And my teacher's salary by itself wasn't enough to make up the difference, so I started spending my evenings and weekends as a ride-share driver.
Although I'm out to my family, friends and most of my co-workers, I've never felt the need to scream about my sexuality from the rooftops. My tattoo is small enough and high up enough on my shoulder that most short-sleeved tops completely cover it, which helps me not make waves at work. I remember the scandal in my conservative suburban high school when my algebra teacher was fired in the middle of the year because a student had seen her holding hands with her partner. The rationale given by the school district was "children don't need to be exposed to that kind of lifestyle." Things are better now, but there are still parents who would have an issue with a lesbian teaching their kids. Also, I like looking somewhat feminine. Although I only occasionally wear make-up or jewelry and I typically only wear skirts or dresses to formal occasions, I still grow my hair long and regularly shave my armpits and legs. Plus, being a breadwinner, a mom and a teacher were all more dominant in my life than was being a lesbian, right up until the life-changing events of this story that involves the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.
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CHAPTER 1
Monday nights are the slowest nights for ridesharing, and I had been sitting at home grading papers for nearly an hour before the alert on my app went off. I told William--who was now fourteen--to look after his brother and put him to bed if I didn't make it back by 8:30 tonight. I was wearing a sleeveless green t-shirt, so to cover up my ink, I threw on a white short-sleeved blouse that I had worn to school earlier in the day but didn't bother to button it. I have found that even this far into the 21
st
Century, my pride tattoo still makes some straights uncomfortable. Some will go on and on about how their kid/sibling/nephew/niece/cousin/aunt/uncle/coworker/friend is gay and how supportive they are. Others start quoting the Bible at me and tell me that God loves me and doesn't want me to go to Hell. Both these types of conversations make me feel awkward. When I'm stuck in a car with a stranger for however long, I don't need that kind of distraction, so I cover up the tat when I'm on call.
The profile picture of the passenger looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. The pickup location turned out to be a fancy wine bar downtown, and when I got there, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life was waving me down. She had a Beverly Hills tan and wavy dirty-blonde hair that had obviously been very expensively styled so that it rolled in golden feathered waves down to just past her shoulders. She wore a sultry eye-shadow and dark mascara around eyes that were a pure aquamarine blue, and her wide smile was framed by a pair of ruby-red-glossed lips. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and short hem that showed off her C-cup cleavage and perfect thighs, strappy black three-inch heels, a black ribbon choker with a diamond pendant, a pearl necklace that came down to just past her cleavage, and gold hoop earrings.
I rolled down the window of my four-year-old Honda Odyssey and asked "Melissa?"
"Yes, that's me. Are you Kay?"
"Yes I am. Get in!"
Melissa gave goodbye hugs and air-kisses to all the girlfriends she had with her, climbed into the middle row and asked, "Do you have my home address in your system?"
