Rachel’s curly reddish-brown hair seemed to float in slow motion as she articulated the injustice of her parents’ demand: concealing her lesbian identity from her frail, nonagenarian grandmother, a woman who considered computers a fleeting trend – when she remembered them at all.
Whether Rachel’s movements were indeed languid, rapid, fluid, or erratic remains open to interpretation. The salient point is that to John, Willy, and especially Lucy, her hair possessed a slow, buoyant quality. This subjective reality is crucial as one pictures Rachel toying with her straw, proclaiming to friends in a half-empty, trendy university bar, “It’s just not fair. I crave the liberation of everyone knowing my true self.”
“But you’ve been married to the same man for three years,” Lucy countered, her gaze fixed on Rachel’s unfortunate green footwear. “Are you certain you aren’t pansexual? If you’re framing this as a cissexism issue within heteronormativity when you come out to your gran, accuracy is key.”
Lucy and Rachel, both aspiring writers, shared a competitive dynamic. Lucy boasted a few undergraduate publications and minor poetry accolades. Contemplating poetry as a career pivot after her English PhD stalled, Lucy observed Rachel, an MFA in poetry who’d supposedly “abandoned a lucrative advertising career.”
When Lucy proposed collaborative workshops, Rachel had quipped, “I find it amusing when individuals lacking poetic talent believe they possess it, and even attempt it. Truly, their efforts are quite comical.” Lucy, irritated, interpreted this as a workshop rejection. However, their overlapping social circles precluded a clean break. Lucy maintained a veneer of cordiality, subtly seeking opportunities to undermine Rachel within their group.
“Sorry, just an old-fashioned lesbian. My husband is the only man I find attractive.” Rachel’s head movements appeared to normalize, though her straw swirling persisted. “You’re being so cisgender, trying to impose these distinctions, Lucy.”
John, whose primary attention was directed at an attractive individual across the room rather than Lucy or Rachel, still registered enough to interject, “Orientation exists independently of current choices, and gradations are highly fluid, but irrespective—you’re both cisgender.”
“Perhaps omni-, pan-, or bisexual then?” Lucy probed, scrutinizing Rachel’s disconcertingly slender arms.
“What kind of question is that? I am decidedly none of those. I’m lesbian. My husband is the only man I’m attracted to.”
John nodded towards his distant interest while Rachel stared resolutely into a corner. In the ensuing silence, Lucy recalled Rachel’s sole lesbian relationship, which had ended acrimoniously, Rachel’s animosity towards her ex-lover seemingly boundless. Rumor had it restraining orders were involved, though Lucy couldn’t recall the specifics. This ex seemed an unlikely muse for sexual fantasies, at least from Lucy’s perspective. Were Rachel’s desires then directed towards random women? Singers? Actresses? Perhaps even experiencing the thrill of sex with a dancing bear, something unexpected and outside the norm?
Lucy then entertained the notion that Rachel might harbor attraction for Lucy herself. Could Rachel’s rudeness be a veiled expression of desire? Lucy dismissed this as improbable. Beyond issues of pride or prejudice, Lucy genuinely disliked Rachel. Thus, Lucy’s central question remained: did Rachel’s grandmother need to be privy to Rachel’s potential fantasies involving Adele, Pink, Taylor Swift, or Sophie Turner, or whomever else, given the improbable chance of acting upon these desires?
Hadn’t John’s ex-boyfriend confessed to wanting sex with a dancing bear, in the metaphorical sense of an outlandish, almost unbelievable encounter like with Kate Upton, yet still affirmed his heterosexuality? Lucy herself mused that were Emilia Clarke to appear in her bed, dragon and all, resistance would be futile. But this leaned more towards emotional than physical attraction, detached from reality, leading Lucy to doubt bisexuality—despite emotional attractions to women and genderqueer self-identification as a statement of solidarity.
Were these nuanced distinctions truly grandmother-appropriate? Did one approach a dying grandmother and declare, “I’m asexual and aromantic,” a declaration that might have been lauded as “spiritual” or “practical” in earlier times depending on context, yet now seemed peculiar in an era of hyper-sexual expression?
What benefit did a senile grandmother derive from understanding intricate details of a grandchild’s sexual wants and non-wants? Lucy, sidestepping the core of this view, summarized its periphery: “But if she’s dying, and such news would distress her?”
“Precisely why I must tell her. She’s my dearest grandmother, and I refuse for her to depart with a falsehood,” Rachel insisted.
Had the lighting been brighter, Rachel might have caught Lucy’s eye-roll. The ensuing silence, however, was palpable, until John intervened, “Sounds like a tough decision, Rachel. Balancing family peace with personal truth. Let’s dance while you ponder.” John stepped back, extending his hand to Rachel, initiating an inside turn. As Rachel spun, the man John had been flirting with joined them on the dance floor, perhaps seeking his own metaphorical sex with a dancing bear moment of unexpected connection.
Lucy turned to Willy, nineteen, shirtless, in gleaming red vinyl pants, holding a fortuitously coordinated red Solo cup, and inquired, “How many here do you think are fully out?”
Willy chuckled. “Fully out as in every friend, family member, workplace, school, and Facebook contact, per the Gender Unicorn’s minutiae? Maybe half. Heard Tim’s father story?”
“Tim? Fully out? Impossible.”
“He’s not. His father’s story explains why. Get him to tell you; it’s gold.” Willy weighed continuing his Lucy conversation against dancing or cheating on his absent boyfriend, opting, momentarily, for Lucy.
“Freshman year, holiday event, Thanksgiving, I think.” Willy recounted, “Tim tells his father he thinks he’s gay. Father retorts, ‘Think again! Gay, no college funds. Are you sure you’re gay?’ Pragmatic Tim replies, ‘Actually, reconsidered. Nope, not gay.’”
“Hmm… and Tim aspires to politics, seriously,” Lucy added.
Tim approached, draping an arm around Lucy, “Hey, gorgeous,” grinding suggestively, winking at Willy, then, “Name’s been invoked.”
“Willy just recounted your dad saga. Villainous. Isn’t he visiting soon?”
“Two weeks. Major event. I’m dusting off my ‘Dancing Bear’ routine. Might even introduce you as my girlfriend, Lucy.”
“Bearding for family events? Intriguing story material… publishable, even. Will I pass for twenty? Or am I ‘older woman’ material?” Lucy envisioned the narrative possibilities.
Tim laughed, “Ohhhh… supremely entertaining.”
“Tuition’s covered, at least,” Lucy conceded.
Tim arched an eyebrow. “Rent, new computer too, remember.”
Lucy seized the moment for Rachel-directed backstabbing. “Rachel’s grandmother coming-out plan? Thoughts?”
“Fantasy life indulgence. No infidelity, ignores queer/pan options. Why burden a ninety-year-old with granddaughter’s sexual fantasies? Queer, pansexual, gender-fluid? Relevant for those who grasp it. But ‘old-fashioned lesbian’ married to a man—information overload for a pre-WWII mind.”
Lucy smiled, tilting her head. “Directly to Rachel?”
“Would she want me to?” Tim countered. Then, pulling Willy and Lucy danceward, “Platform time, mirror view.”
Silver Damsen, Southern California native, UC Riverside and CSU Long Beach alumna, global drug treatment reform activist in Illinois. “Dancing Bears,” her debut short story.
