That Takes Ovaries! (12 page)

Through college I concentrated on literary topics, but after I graduated and went out into the world, I found myself going back toward those old erotic fantasies. I tried to write some “conventional” fiction; it mostly sat unfinished on my computer. It wasn’t until I went back to writing erotic stories that I caught fire, that I felt as if I was writing something worth reading. This time I did show the stories to people. I shared them with friends and lovers, and on the Internet. These erotic pieces were the first
stories that I had accepted for publication, that were praised in reviews, and that I felt made a difference in the world.

That’s when I took a risk and self-published a small collection of my stories dealing with erotic power exchange and role-playing. Even though I identified as a feminist, set my stories on a faraway planet (yup, still hooked on sci-fi), and gave my characters pure-hearted motivations, I was still afraid that people who read the stories would condemn them as antifeminist. I was worried about one feminist in particular, my mom, who had raised me to value equality and freedom, and who I thought might be a bit shocked to read my work. I waited eight months before giving her a copy of the book. At first, I was right; she was a little shocked. But once she understood the concept of erotic role-playing, she agreed with me that both it and erotic fantasy are about building an intimate and special bond between loving partners, and not about oppressing people or infringing on their rights—and certainly not about exploiting women.

One of the early decisions I made was to publish my erotic fiction under my real name. I was proud of my work and wanted to use it to promote a more sex-positive worldview. I wanted to plant the seeds in people’s imaginations that it was okay to want some variation in their sex lives, that it was okay to explore bisexuality, role-playing, sex toys, and the like, and most of all that it was okay to fantasize. I didn’t feel I could stand up and advocate that people be more honest with themselves about their desires if I myself were hiding. So for the past decade, with my real name, I’ve published all along the ideological spectrum, from
Ms.
magazine to
Penthouse.
The result is that ever since showing my mom my self-published collection of stories, I have been “out” to all my family and friends about what I do. Now, being “out” as a sex writer is one thing; autographing seventy-five copies of your book of erotica for cousins, childhood neighbors, and your mom’s chiropractor is another. But when my first major book came out from a big publisher, my mom wanted to throw a book-launch party for me; so that’s how we came to have a big striped tent in the backyard, a live jazz
combo, and a dining-room table turned catering station. I figured most of the guests would never even look in the book. Then, halfway through the party, Mom sidled up to me and whispered, “Everyone’s waiting to hear you read.”

Oh.
I’d done hundreds of readings at that point, at bookstores, at open mikes, on the radio, at conventions. It’s different somehow when people who have known you since you were five are sitting out there, fanning themselves with copies of the book, and smiling proudly at you. I began frantically skimming the table of contents to find a story I could read.
Is there a story in here,
I wondered,
that was funny, not too long, and didn’t have anything too extreme?
There was.

Mosquitoes buzzing around the electric lights hung in the tent, I stepped up in front of the group and opened the book.

When I was feeling especially brave one day, I bought a tank top. Being a fat girl pretty much my entire life, I wasn’t good at wearing clothes that were tight-fitting or revealed a lot of skin. Then one day, it was boiling hot outside. I didn’t own many light summer things, so I headed to the local fat-lady clothing store.
It was not a very hip store, though basic things like tee shirts were easy to find there, and that was what was on my agenda, considering the heat. As usual, I found all the tee shirts I needed, but for some reason I kept wandering back to the rack with the tank tops. The saleswoman caught me eyeing them. She encouraged me to try one on. “Why cover what you can’t hide,” she said, and I couldn’t argue with such wisdom.

Inside the dressing room, looking in the mirror, all I saw was the tire around my belly and the flab on my arms. I stared for a while, then decided I might never be brave enough to try it on again and I didn’t want to lose what could be my last chance, so I bought it.
Plus,
I further convinced myself,
no one looks good under fluorescent lights.

I brought the shirt home where it sat in my closet for a few weeks. Sometimes I tried it on but it never left the apartment. Then I went on a trip and brought the tank top along with me. I hoped to work up the nerve to wear it in a city I didn’t live in and where I wouldn’t have to see anyone I met there ever again.

Finally, the day arrived. I wore my tank top outside.

No one looked at me strangely. No one stared and the world did not stop. I didn’t hear a single laugh or snicker. I felt so good and brave, I didn’t care that only the bottom half of my arms were tanned. The first day I wore my tank top I went to a fair. The tops of my arms had never seen bumper cars before. It was awesome to feel so free. I felt naked and even a little sexy.

I love what my tank top has done for me and what I have done for my tank top. My tank top makes me feel more comfortable about my body, more beautiful. And I’ve taken a flat, boring tank top and filled it out quite nicely.

Today was the big day, and me and my mom Ingrid led the way. She said there were almost two hundred marchers. Along the road, people were holding up signs saying JESUS OR HELL and NO PLACE FOR DYKES. But there were also people holding up other signs saying THEY’RE PEOPLE, TOO. Besides, we had police to protect us.

Meanwhile, my other mom, Shantal, was walking around, talking, and checking if people were okay. The marchers looked excited and proud. I felt that they were proud of who they were, and so was I. Later we went out for pizza!

This was the first Gay Pride march in my town of Lawrence, Massachusetts.

Late one Sunday night, I came home from a music conference exhausted and looking forward to a solid night’s rest. However, as a borderline Internet junkie, I was compelled to the computer to checkmye-mail. There I found a message from a friend in Canada saying she had read an announcement that Black Entertainment Television (BET) was looking for an African-American woman to discuss polyamory on a talk show. It was
BET Tonight,
hosted by Tavis Smiley. They wanted someone the very next night.

My initial response:
Me? A live talk show? No edits? No way.

I imagined a rabid TV audience yelling at me, calling out, “Useless slut!” I didn’t trust myself to speak with clarity in the face of that, in a setting where there would be no changes, no takebacks. Besides, I just didn’t want to. I was weary from having been elected the unofficial sex/relationship/poly counselor and educator of my social circle. The last thing I wanted was to become the National Polyamory Poster Child. I went to bed knowing it wasn’t going to happen.

My subconscious must have had other ideas, because I tossed and turned all night. When morning came, I called.

I left a message for the show’s producer at 11:30 A.M. She called back within the hour. There would be no rabid television audience, she said—no live audience at all, just two other guests and a few phone callers. It was to be a balanced, intelligent discussion on the topic of—I still laugh at her term—“mansharing.” By 3:15 that same afternoon, a car arrived at my house to take me to the airport. By 5:30 I was on a plane headed for Washington, D.C., and my first national television appearance.

The set design attempted to hint at living-room ease, but the
BET Tonight
logo was displayed so prominently, the stiffness of television land could not be forgotten. I was seated next to one guest, a perfectly placed cup of water in front of each of us. The second guest appeared on a TV monitor via satellite. We watched as she readied herself in San Francisco. Our host was whisked in at the last moment before broadcast and quickly seated across from me.

Earlier, the producer had informed me that the two guests I’d be speaking with were “experts,” one in favor of open relationships, the other against. She was almost right. I was left to converse with two experts who held exactly the same opinion: Women who “share their men” are insecure, confused women who don’t know the potential for depth, security, and connection in a one-on-one relationship. The two Expert Relationship Therapists talked at length about “mansharing” in terms of lying, cheating, and deceit, clandestine phone calls and hidden rendezvous behind other women’s backs. They spoke of it as a
situation that only a weak woman with no alternative would accept. They had little concept of a woman who might love more than one partner, of relationships based on complete openness, spiritual love, and balance.

I stayed relatively calm, more so than I had anticipated. I chose not to take the defensive, or to approach the discussion as if it were a debate. In fact, I was surprisingly levelheaded and articulate, given that it was live TV. I talked in general terms about my innate understanding of sexuality as a beautiful experience that may be expressed in a myriad of healthy ways. And I spoke specifically about my experience with Keith, whom I have loved since college. We have had a powerful, dynamic, more-than-ten-year relationship, while simultaneously having other important loves as well. It worked for us. Everyone involved was happy. We respected each other, met each other’s needs, and kept the whole thing remarkably real, loving, and honest. Keith and his live-in girlfriend knew I was going on BET, and they were cool with that.