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Subject: {ASSM} The Uncertainty of the Meek (3/6)* Rogue 10; FF, MF (the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization)
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The Uncertainty of the Meek

Part 3--There's Nothing Sublime About Your Absence

Sarah continued her guise of straightness. She dated boys until they
insisted on either too much time (say, two dates in a two-week period) or
wanted some kind of sexual satisfaction. Then they were gone. Her mask hid
me even more than her, as any rumor's of Sarah's sexuality would
immediately draw very undesirable attention to me, something with which I
was ill-prepared to deal. Sarah's false love life provided us protection.
We were free to show some affection in public, and, more importantly, our
parents never questioned our sleepovers, even when they began to happen
three or four nights a week.

I could catalog every point on Sarah's body that gave her pleasure, along
with exactly the right stroke, the precise pressure to draw her to the
height of ecstasy. As for me, Sarah discovered more of my erogenous zones
than I did.

I have, of course, given you only the oyster, while retaining the pearl
for myself. Our loving was the least wonderful aspect of our love, but the
moments of silent hand-holding, of hugs after her sports victories, her
joyous awe at my stories, all the things which measure the wealth we
had--they are narrative wisps, invisible to the outsider, floating only in
breaths we alone shared.

Briefly, while in college, I saw a therapist. It was a short-lived
relationship, as she insisted that my relationship with Sarah was
codependent and, thus, bad. Her orthodoxy could not encompass what we had.
I suspect my relationship with Sarah was like one of those flowers that
blossoms only once in a century; most people who encounter it assume that
it is some more common bloom, never to realize how precious that singular
moment is. Certainly my therapist would have trampled a field of Century
flowers while on her way for a cheap red rose.

My therapist was correct in only one thing. You must continue to move when
even the earth beneath you is exploding with spears of lava and ash. My
ground began to erupt seven weeks before Sarah and I were to leave for
Columbia University, our first choice in a list that we had constructed
carefully together, school by school.

In an era of high unemployment and grand malaise, my father's company
downsized him. There was no hope to be found anywhere on the
continent--outside Sarah's heart and my own, of course--so the prospect of
paying for an expensive private university education was selfish and
imprudent, in my mother's words. We--a world consisting of my immediate
family, but not Sarah--would have to weather the storm together, and by
staying at home and attending UC-Davis, I would be pulling my share. I had
enough scholarships to get a de facto free ride at a California school,
but not at Columbia. I could cry, but I couldnšt argue the logic.

Sarah immediately planned on to join me, but her parents insisted, with
the same unshakable logic my parents employed, that she would not pass up
the opportunity Columbia offered.

Two years of catastrophic telephone bills and a summer of intense loving
was all we had left. Sarah left for France for her Junior year and
returned out of the closet with a French lover.

I remember almost nothing from college after that. The only memory that
stands out from the black fog that encased me is the moment I realized my
parents knew Sarah and I had been lovers. The night Sarah destroyed me, I
blurted out to my mother that Sarah left me. She pulled me into her arms
while I cried for however many hours it was, leaving me only to get me
water and tissues. After my crying calmed to a minor storm, she stroked my
hair and said, "Michi, my sweetest, you'll find another love, I know."

"No, there's nobody like Sarah. I can't love anybody. . ." And then it hit
me. My mother just described Sarah as my love. I didn't think she knew.
The surprise momentarily took me out of my grief.

She read my mind. "When you were sixteen, I saw you and Sarah kissing
rather, well, passionately. I was shocked, but I wanted to think about
what I was going to say. I talked with your dad, and, well, we couldn't
think of a better solution than just ignoring it. We came to accept it,
and then to even be happy for you that you found a lover like. . ." She
knew as soon as she said it that she was returning me to my grief. It took
me a week to be able to thank her for handling everything so well and for
her to tell me the whole story.

Of my post-Sarah life, I think there is no memory I treasure more than the
calm, even happy look on my motheršs face as she described seeing Sarah
and I for the first time, and then starting to notice our hand-holding. I
think my mother loved Sarah, just as so many parents love their child's
spouse for bringing their offspring such joy.



My life continued on an unremarkable path once I graduated from college. I
decided to attend graduate school, quite possibly only because I was
particularly talented with languages. My love was the classics: Ovid,
Virgil, Cicero, Homer, Thucydides. I would probably be a professor today
if I could stand teaching. But teaching is an extrovert's game, so I found
translation, an introvert's sport. I have published a translation of
Cicero that I'm quite proud of, but my main work comes from translating
legal and business documents into French and Italian. There is shockingly
little demand for legal documents in Latin, despite the millenniums-old
legal tradition arising from Latin texts. C'est la vie.

I settled in Portland, Oregon, with my partner, Anne, whom I met while I
was still in graduate school. Several years after buying a house together,
we decided we wanted a child. Adoption was the obvious answer, but at that
time, gays and lesbians were having a difficult time getting adoptions
approved. We both wanted a child that which carried the blood of at least
one of us, since science couldn't manufacture a sperm from our eggs.

Anne and I, briefly enraptured by the I-ching, sat around a tile-covered
table, watching the dust whirls in the sun, as we focused our energy on
the sticks we were about to throw. Anne held the sticks, while my hands
encased her other hand. Anne's raised hand hung in the bright sunlight,
the sun highlighting each of the divining sticks before she thrust her
hand down and sealed my fate more than even Sarah's French lover. The
sticks splayed out before us, and we both could read the sign. I was to
bear the child. Life would dwell in me; life would come from me. And, more
importantly, we would know the father.

Anne was disappointed--I knew her too well to not notice--but she didn't
complain. In so many ways, it seemed at the time not to matter who bore
our child, as we both were creatures of the meek, and our child was sure
to inherit the earth, as had we. Of course, it did matter.

Anne and I took our I-ching very seriously. We had placed our energy into
it; we had studied carefully, so the decision would be right. Bearing a
child would be one thing, but knowing the father proved a difficult
matter.

Anne and I both knew men, of course. I had male coworkers, as did Anne,
and we both had friends who had friends, but there were no men in our life
who we were the slightest bit intimate with. No, we weren't the
stereotypical man-hating dykes that everyone seems to want to portray
lesbians as, but when you've gotten comfortable with women, men seem odd
and threatening, especially for the meek. But we were to know the
father--we couldn't have a child without knowing him and knowing him
intimately.

Nowadays, lesbians would probably never take the direction that Anne and I
did. Most major cities have sperm-banks and willing physicians who will
assist desiring woman in to become pregnant. There are sophisticated
screening procedures ensuring that not only do you get top-grade sperm,
but that your child will have a greater chance of being President one day
than locating her father, if you or he so choose. Men can be involved in
only a jerk-off way. Most of our friends felt that was the way men should
be involved. Sleeping with a man, well, lesbians don't do that once
they've left the closet. Bisexuals are a bit of a pariah in the les/gay
community, suggesting that perhaps our sexuality isn't as fast as we
lesbians would like. But the I-ching gave us no option.



We met Tom Bitteresmeer in a gay-friendly coffeehouse. Not over the top
with dyke-power banners, but definitely out. A friend of a friend of a
friend recommended him through the chain. A dozen suspicious lesbians
scrutinized him before he even learned our names. He looked good on
paper--no family history of any icky illnesses, intelligent,
calm-tempered, reportedly a very good guy all around.

While I don't have a great appreciation for male beauty, it was obvious
that Tom was an attractive man, and he carried that assurance with him
when he greeted us. The way he slid the chair out from the table reminded
me of Sarah claiming her spot at the table--a sense of belonging conveyed
by a gesture of grace.

Anne had been more critical of the candidates we had met than I, and I was
no pushover. Her posture said stay away from me; her answers were
monosyllabic and usually negative. However, Tom was a charmer, and soon
Anne's shoulders had loosened, and an occasional smile found its way to
her lips. A third round of tea followed the second, and we started to get
excited.

Tom met all of our requirements. He wanted limited time with his child,
since he felt it was important for a child to know her biological parents,
but he didn't want to interfere with our parenting decisions. For him, the
interview process was a chance to determine if we could raise his child
the way he'd want to. If not, he'd walk away. He was willing to provide
some financial support but expected that we'd take the bulk of it. He was
very charming. Very charming. We wanted a charming child.

*****

Many thanks are due to Spline Duck, who graciously provided many hours of
editing time to improve this story.

We love to hear from our readers, whether they think we are sick and
twisted or wonderfully adroit. Write us at the The Mysterious Mr. Lee
Organization Feedback Loop [aka, TheMrLee@hotmail.com]

c1999 the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization

This story, like all The Mysterious Mr. Lee stories, is copyright by the
The Mysterious Mr. Lee organization and may not be reposted, except with
permission.

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This story is copyright 1999 the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization. Reposting is expressly forbidden, except with permission.

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