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Interesting. I've also had a moment with a girl I thought was a lesbian--she had had a girlfriend for about four years but had broken up with her. I think. If she hadn't then, she did later. She made very clear advances toward me. That sentence no doubt sounds like a boast, but there is no chance that I am mistaken in her intentions. There we were, lying on a futon in the guest room of my mutual friend, she and I beside each other, I assumed for sleep. And then she was slipping off her clothing until she was just in her panties. She arc'd around one long leg over my midsection until she was on top of me, and looking at me in the dim light told me that she would show me things I had never dreamed of.
It is difficult to explain my reaction. It's not that I doubted her; I didn't, and not because my dreams were pedestrian and asexual, as they certainly weren't at the time. But I had only known her as a lesbian for about two years.
I was struck with the sudden fear that is hard to describe to someone who hasn't experienced it--the knowledge that I was with a woman who knew extremely well not only the fairly easy methods of pleasuring a man, but also knew those of pleasuring another woman. And who had been a lover of and loved by a woman who also knew these skills. I was less practically educated in such matters then than I am now, but I don't think I was a slouch. Nevertheless something about the proposition made me go cold, and as I lay there, her poised above me bare-breasted, I mumbled something about friendship and awkwardness.
If you are doubting my sanity let me say that it is possible that I might have been obsessed with someone else at the time. It wouldn't have been unusual, as I often fixated on certain women. (Aside: I once asked a French professor, at a party of drunk people in Palolo Valley in Oahu, none of whom I knew but the host, if he didn't sometimes see a singular woman as so beautiful, so perfect, that every other woman was only beautiful in as much as she looked like the one you had in mind. He swirled around his red wine with ice in it in his glass ["You Americans are such snobs about ice in wine," he had said earlier. "Sometimes it needs it," and plopped in two ice cubes.] He looked at me and shrugged. "Of course," he said. "But that only lasts a couple of days.")
Anyway I shut her down. The almost naked athletic girl on top of me, I mean. And I learned something at that moment--well, I was to learn it, even if I did not realize it at the time. I learned that while men can come back from such a rebuff--some of us even grew up accustomed to at least one such hurdle in the pursuit of our goal--women, it became clear to me, do not take well to rejection of this sort. I'm sorry, Phoebe, if you're reading this. I was, as they say, a lot older then.
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