Kay Dinnall

Inside the Gardner Museum

     Late last spring, on a Thursday evening, Amanda and I sat in a cool darkened room listening to a Caribbean woman read her poetry. Amanda and the rest of the audience seemed attentive and composed. Their poised expressions indicated the importance of the up and coming poet and the thoughtful comments they were preparing for the reception that was to follow her reading. My attention was focused on the table to my right. It spanned the length of the gallery and was laden with flowers, hors d'oeuvres and wine. Earlier, Amanda had glanced at the table, appraising the feast. "The wine is completely inappropriate. A Port is much too heavy," she had said. "Besides, they ought to be serving West Indian food? When I dated Karen, she used to cook ackee and salt fish and other Jamaican dishes all the time. It was wonderful."
     I had been to this museum many times when I was in lower school. One spring afternoon, Miss Anders had walked twenty laughing girls two-by-two through the streets of Boston. Every block she paused to herd us back into formation. Class Four was nearly dancing with the thrill of being outdoors on such a perfect day. At the entrance to the Gardner museum, Miss Anders counted off heads; nineteen smooth pony-tails and my short afro. With admonishments to stifle our voices and stay with our partners, she ordered us to examine the loveliness of the Medieval and Renaissance Eras.
     As soon as Miss Anders was out of sight, Page, my partner, turned to me. "Hey Cheryl," she said," let's split up so we don't slow each other down. Okay?" She stopped to whisper with the other blonde girls, while I went off to wander the galleries by myself. That was the way it had always been, and the solitude was relaxing in its familiarity.
     Leaving my classmates behind, I walked around the ground floor, ignoring the paintings. Instead I concentrated on the building, feeling its weight, running my hand along the smooth marble columns and listening to the echo of my footsteps. The rough flagstones that paved the floor were the color of my mother's jade necklace. The polished mahogany of the furniture complemented the floor, as her skin did that necklace.
     Though I had visited the Gardner Museum often as a child, I never grew bored with it the way I did with the endless school excursions to the other museums in the city. I continued to be awed and delighted by entering the Gardner. Merely crossing under an arched doorway delivered me from the gray sidewalks and buildings of Boston to an extravagant courtyard garden. The never-changing art collection attracted few visitors; often I saw no one else as I wandered the rooms or sat in the courtyard. This quiet emptiness appealed to me. I was sure the exquisite building was not just accepting me but welcoming me; perhaps it was even waiting for me. Perhaps I belonged there.
     That afternoon I daydreamed about living in the Gardner. The stuffy paintings could be sold or sent to other museums so that I could take up residence. There was no need to feel guilty for buying such a beautiful building for one's personal use. The Ellis School for Girls had taught me the ethics of affluence. At thirteen I already knew that with money comes obligation and duty. I saw myself every Thursday afternoon graciously ushering an awed public through the elegant reception area to the gardens for the hour or two of open visiting that was necessary to fulfil my responsibilities to the less fortunate.
     Although my parents had nowhere near the money of my classmates' families, I had been the charity guest at enough parties over the past four years to know exactly what sort of luxuries I craved. I wanted riding lessons, trips to Europe and Sundays at the country club. I wanted to dance in a floor-length white dress at my debutante ball. And most of all I wanted a home where I wasn't ashamed to bring my classmates. The Gardner museum was more classy than the poshest of their town-houses and more majestic than the largest of their suburban homes.
I was sure there was no self-hatred in these longings. I understood Black Pride. My daydreams were always sepia-toned.

     Amanda startled me by taking my hand. As soon as I glanced at her, she let go, never taking her eyes off the reader. Perhaps the poem had spurred some sort of sudden affection or romance in her mind. More likely the momentary pressure was to remind me to pay attention. I wondered if I had been sleeping or my mouth had been open. Appearances are everything at these events.
     When the audience began to clap, I followed, carefully cupping my hands so that they made a loud enthusiastic noise. Poetry bored me, but that was scarcely the reader's fault, and habit made me loyal to any black writer, even one whose skin was several shades lighter than mine. I was equally careful to stop clapping when Amanda did. Although I had sometimes taken extraordinary pleasure in irritating other lovers, Amanda's temper was too wild and my position too precarious to play that sort of game with her.
     At the reception, hand on my back, Amanda guided me through the crowd of wealthy matrons and students until she found a thirtyish black woman whose bright clothes were out of place in that crowd of subdued elegance.
     "Lena." Amanda greeted her with a kiss. "I want you to meet Cheryl, my girlfriend. Cheryl, this is Lena Sorrel." I concentrated on not letting my surprise show on my face. Lena Sorrel was a sculptor who I admired for her ability to mix media. She created box-like sculptures in which tiny worlds of paintings, photographs and words appeared. While she had yet to have a solo exhibit, she was doing well for a young artist. She had been noted in several journals recently, and Amanda and I'd seen her work in New York galleries. I was delighted to have the chance to meet her.
     "I'm so glad to meet you." Lena shook my hand firmly. "Amanda and I met at the Beardon retrospective last week. She told me you work with collage as well."
     I caught Amanda's eye and smiled. I hadn't accompanied her to the Beardon exhibit because we'd been fighting that day. I knew she was introducing me to Lena as a peace-making gesture.
     As Lena and I began to talk, Amanda excused herself. A few minutes later she was back with glasses of wine for the three of us. Lena and I were discussing the advantages of acrylics, when I noticed Amanda watching me, silent but smiling politely. Though she owned a fine collection of originals and frequented exhibits, Amanda was a business-person, not an artist. Discussions of technique excluded her. My right hand found Amanda's left, and as soon as Lena paused, I changed the subject. We made small talk for a few minutes until Lena excused herself. It was late, and in the morning, she had to drive to Provincetown where she was going to have an exhibit.
     "Have a safe trip." Amanda said, "Perhaps we can meet for lunch on Sunday? Cheryl and I are going to be in P-town this weekend." Lena nodded and moved away. As soon as her back was turned, I dropped Amanda's hand. Until that moment, I hadn't known we were going out of town for Memorial Day.

     The next day, Amanda and I left her Back Bay apartment. We walked up Newbury Street in silence. We were on our way to Ramon's salon in the South End to get my hair cut. Amanda and I hadn't spoken since morning. To keep from crying or shouting, I looked into the boutiques, reminding myself that before I met Amanda, I had only window-shopped there. Just the day before, we had gone to the elegant stores and spent eight hundred dollars without a second thought. She had let me pick out whatever clothing and shoes I wanted, only rarely vetoing my choices as unflattering or ill-made. Plus I had all the art supplies and time to paint I desired. Her generosity made my complaints seem like a gross perversion of the women's lib movement.
     Some of the men at the Laundromat and I had formed a support group. "Househomos-R-Us," we called ourselves. Gerry would gripe about Max staying out late all the time. I complained that Amanda tried to control me. Stan protested his lover's thoughtlessness. But we couldn't take ourselves seriously, at least not on the surface. Our grumble sessions always ended pretty much the same way.
     "Do you all use spray or liquid starch?" one of us would distractedly interrupt, as he folded perfect creases into towels.
     "Oh, spray, of course. Richard is so particular about his shirts." Then we'd fall into serious discussions about detergents and dishes. Pretty soon the group would disperse as people ran off to the supermarket or to cook dinner. It all seemed so pathetic. After all the options of finding jobs or leaving our lovers were always there.

     Ramon was this hairdresser friend of Amanda's from her gym. She said she liked that gym because it was clean, carpeted and color-coordinated. She insisted on accompanying me so she could talk to Ramon personally. She had despised my last haircut. The angles were all wrong for my face.
     Earlier that day, we'd had a fight on the matter. I couldn't stand the idea of her coming with me to a black salon. They were the realm of hot combs and Jherri Curls, soul music and gossip. Throughout my childhood, my mother and I had left the suburbs once each month to enter that world and undergo the chemical process that relaxed our tight kinks.
     In these salons you'd discover a strange mixture of the city's poor and elite Blacks. Sometimes we'd see Karen Pina, the TV anchor-woman whose salary was reputed to be a half-million. Right next to her would be sitting Mrs. Emerson who had grown up with my mother and was still living in that same housing project. I wondered if women like Karen Pina resented having to go all the way to Roxbury to get their hair done. But I suspected they were more like my mother who seemed to look forward to these visits. The hairdresser was a homecoming of sorts --a breather from the white world in which my family generally existed. Of course, there were always a few Whites in the salon, boy-friends and girl-friends of the hairdressers. But these Whites had a certain look and an accent which matched the one my mother fell into as she sat under the hair-dryer.
     Amanda simply didn't belong in a black salon. Her presence seemed like an intrusion to me, as if the Ellis School had taken a culture field trip to the black section of town. So I sneered at her that morning when she announced she was coming. "Just who do you think you are? My lover or my mother?" She had recently turned thirty and was sensitive about her age. References to the eight year gap between us never failed to infuriate her. I spoke hoping she'd get angry enough to stay home, but as soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I had opened myself up for a line of attack that she always won and that inevitably ended with me in tears, and Amanda glowering.
     "For the last three months, I haven't been really sure which I am," she replied. "But you can damn well pay for your own hair-cut if you have a problem with it."
     "Stacey said she'd hire me back anytime."
     "If you think I'd date a woman who dances in a bar called the G-Spot, think again. This is a small city and I have a reputation. The appointment is for 1:30."
     She was right. Though we were both Ellis girls, I had no one to embarrass but my parents. She had a whole Brahmin heritage to think about, as well as her wealthy lesbian circle of friends. While they might understand and forgive her taste for exotic young artists, dating a go-go dancer was plain tacky.
     It was clear, though, that Ramon resented her interference in his professional judgement. But knowing that she paid the bill, he had to placate her.
     "Don't worry, honey," he told her while winking at me, "I'll take care of Cheryl. You just sit here and read some magazines."
     "Just give her a nice fade," Amanda told him, "nothing fancy or radical. We're going to Provincetown tonight. Everyone whose anyone will be there, and I want us to look good."
     As Ramon lead me to his chair, he whispered, "What do you want done?"
     "I don't care."
     "Girlfriend, I know just the thing for you." Ramon could barely contain his excitement at the blank canvas of my scalp. "We'll give you a Widow's Peak. It will be fabulous. They're all the rage right now. And if Miss Bossy over there has a problem with it, you can blame me."
     From my chair, I could see Amanda in the waiting area. She pored over Essence and the other black women's magazines that littered the coffee-table. She glanced up just as Ramon began to shave my head in a style that even I found terribly severe. For a moment, her mouth set in that hard line I knew so well. It was an expression reserved for when we were alone. Such scowls were too unattractive for public. As she struggled to regain her composure, I looked away as if I hadn't seen. My treachery was cruel and completely uncalled-for since I really didn't care how my hair was cut. But I felt no remorse at all. When you're being kept by your lover, small things like hair-cuts are your only ammunition.

     It seemed like every queer person in the Northeast had come to the Cape for Memorial Day weekend. Provincetown was a festival as crowds celebrated the opening of the summer season. Apparently, Amanda had made our reservations in February so we had elegant accommodations in a renovated Victorian while most people were packed into fleabag motels or in tents at the local campground. I was torn between loving the Bed-and-Breakfast where we stayed and hating Amanda for not telling me about the trip beforehand. She said it was meant to be a surprise; I suspected that it never occurred to her that I might have other plans.
     The first two days went smoothly. The weather was perfect and the long days at the beach mellowed the tension that had grown between us that spring. Each afternoon, we shopped. In the evening we ate at expensive restaurants where waiters exclaimed over our new outfits, and at night we went dancing at the Bower.
      By Sunday night, many of the younger men and woman had gone home, and the Bower's DJ was catering to a crowd of older white fags by playing Disco and Europop.
     "Doesn't he know any real music?" Amanda complained. "Then again, this white-bread crowd would probably have a heart attack, if he played anything with a funky beat! I wish we were in New York, the crowd is so fierce there."
     My irritation returned. I couldn't stop scowling. At first Amanda didn't comment. Then Samuel walked by and asked what was wrong. Amanda pulled me close and whispered, "Fix your face. I don't know what your problem is but I didn't just spend hundreds of dollars so you can act gloomy."
     Biting my lips, I talked to myself firmly. Either get a grip or get a job but don't make a scene. Going dancing with a beautiful lover isn't a bad price to pay for the sort of life you've always wanted. Don't ruin a wonderful weekend.
     And at that moment, it occurred to me that my relationship with Amanda was my job. I smoothed out my face and concentrated on thinking of myself as a glorified escort. It was my responsibility to see that she was having a good time. All along I should have been demanding a paycheck rather than depending on Amanda's moods and whims for presents and evenings out. This idea amused me greatly, and I began to have a wonderful night. Pretending to be an escort was like playing Dress-Up or House as a child. I wondered why I had never thought of it before.
     During the DJ's break the go-go dancers put on a fashion show. Amanda quickly grew bored with its campy humor, so we moved away from the stage to the back of the club. I sat on a bar stool, leaning against the wall. My arms encircled Amanda's shoulders; she kept one hand on my neck and the other underneath my skirt as we necked furiously. Without opening my eyes, I knew we were being watched by other women in the bar. Their envy delighted me; it meant I was succeeding at my job. I gripped Amanda with my knees. I was suddenly very excited. The night was turning out to be perfect.

     The next day at the beach, I woke up to Amanda stroking the backs of my legs.
     "Hey, Cheryl," she whispered, "are you awake?"
     "Hmm?"
     "Look at that woman in the orange walking towards the water. Isn't she sexy?"
     I rolled over to face the ocean, put on my sunglasses and slowly glanced around until I focused on the topless black woman whose baby dreads were tied in a knot at the exact center of her head. She moved confidently like the sand near the water was soft and not the sharp stones I knew it to be. "She's okay, I guess. If you like that emaciated look." My sarcasm was pointless since we both knew that was exactly the look Amanda liked.
     "Do you want to go for a walk?" As she spoke, Amanda zipped on her bikini top.
     "No." I no longer cared whether my refusal would anger her.
     "All right, lazy. I'll see you later. I'm going to the men's beach to find Samuel and the boys." She stood up and put on her shorts. The bare space between the bathing-suit and the shorts was perfectly flat. Grabbing her sneakers, she was gone.
     I wanted to call after her to bring me back an ice cream or hot dog, but I was not about to leave myself open to her remarks. Instead, I watched her walk down the beach. I loved her straight back and long stride. I had been surprised to find out she never won one of the Posture Prizes given at the Ellis School each year. Once when I complained of the silliness of these awards, Amanda told me that forty years ago when her mother and aunts were Ellis girls, there had also been mandatory classes in deportment and elocution. We were lucky to have gotten away with a few posture lessons each term.
     Though Amanda and I had attended the same school, we couldn't remember one another. She had been a senior when I was in the fourth grade, and the lower and upper schools at Ellis were strictly separate. There was no reason for her to notice the girl with the lowest status in the youngest class, and the only time I might have seen her was during assemblies. Twice per week, the entire school would form two lines to march from classrooms, through corridors and down stairs to the main hall which was decorated with one hundred and fifty years of plaques and banners. Two-by-two beginning with Class One and ending with Class Eight, we would walk down the center aisle singing British hymns, splitting to fill the rows of straight-backed wooden chairs. Then everyone paused, waiting. Finally Class Nine, the seniors, would arrive. They had the honor of entering the hall in a slow single file. All eyes would be upon them as we sang, "Jerusalem," and they strode to the front of the room. Some looked straight ahead, others deigned to smile at their sisters and favorites among the lower classes, all seemed to float on air. It was not until they arrived and were seated that the last chorus was sung. and the headmistress gave the signal that the other classes could sit. I tried to remember seeing Amanda but my memories of the seniors were all blurred together into one beautiful large pony-tail with a kilt and a field-hockey stick.
     It was strange. I had spent eight years waiting to be adored as I walked to the front of the assembly-hall. But when I finally got there, I realized that being elevated to the rank of senior didn't change a thing. I still had the lowest status in the school, and as always, I was alone.
     As soon as Amanda disappeared, I rolled down the top of my swimsuit. When the tall dread-locked woman passed me to go to her towel, she smiled and shrugged with that ironic look that black sun-bathers give each other. I didn't hesitate to wink and introduce myself.

     The following weekend, Amanda and I drove to Manhattan to go to Foreward. Four hours was a long drive just to go to a boysbar, but the music was better there than at home, and the beautiful black men and women who frequented the place were stylish and hip in a way that made Boston seem provincial.
     We arrived in the city around one a.m. and went directly to the apartment of Amanda's friends, Carlos and Samuel, to change into nightclub attire. An hour later, the four of us made our way downtown. Foreward was almost empty at two, but by five it was packed with dancing bodies. Hundreds of men glistened with sweat and glitter. Scattered among them were a few dykes and even fewer straight couples. At seven, I was worn out and ready to leave. But I knew from previous trips that Amanda and the boys had an endless reserve of energy. They planned to stay until noon when the club finally closed. I didn't want to complain. Amanda would blame my dwindling enthusiasm on laziness. "If you'd just come to the gym with me, or at least exercise more, you'd be able to make it through the night," she had said the last time we were here.
     Actually I wouldn't have minded the long hours so much if she had let me dance by myself, but always having to conform my rhythm to hers was a strain. Sometimes I wondered if our beats were so off because of the difference in our races, or maybe it was merely the difference in our heights. In any case, dancing with Amanda often left me exhausted.
     Amanda and Samuel had gone to buy juices when the dancing was interrupted by two black queens. They were going at one another viciously. The men circled warily. First one then the other would get in her opponent's face, then retreat without backing down. The shirtless one wore those transparent mesh overalls that were so popular last season. The other was in magnificent drag, with elaborate make-up and an elegant white cocktail dress. I pressed back against the wall. I hated these scenes, though they broke up the monotony of the night. When Amanda asked why, I told her witnessing such arguments seemed like a violation of privacy.
     As soon as everyone's attention was riveted, the one in the overalls struck with, "You think you so fine. You think you so slick but you so ugly, you've made me sick." She spat out the words rhythmically, punctuating each phrase with a snap of her fingers. "And everyone knows you bought that mess on your head from K-mart," she added, in case anyone was mistaking the brassy but luxurious locks for real hair.
     "At least, I don't have to walk the streets to get a piece of ass," the drag queen replied, addressing the watchers as much as her foe. Then swinging hips first, she slowly, deliberately turned her back on the other.
     "Don't you turn your niggerish back towards me, Miss Thang."
     "Niggerish? Exactly, who are you calling niggerish, Miss Polyester Tacky?" The cocktail dress whirled back around. The long press-on nails and rings rushed forward, poised to slap.

     "Niggerish, niggerish, niggerish," I heard my grandmother mutter as we stood on the down-town sidewalk, trying to hail a cab. She had been referring to the two women standing in front of Filene's basement screaming at each other. She seemed less upset by the profanities they hurled than by the fact they were fighting in public.
     "Be quiet," my mother had hissed at her. Words like nigger weren't allowed in our house. Just before my mother pushed me into the taxi, I saw one woman pull at the other's shopping bag. There was a tearing sound and clothing fell everywhere.

     By now, the men were only inches apart. Their arms flailed wildly but somehow, mysteriously, never seemed to land. All the while, their mouths worked furiously, spewing nastiness. I turned to Carlos, who was standing beside me. "Shouldn't they be stopped before someone gets hurt?"
     "Please, it's just two queens, Cheryl. What's the worst that can happen? A broken nail? A hair out of place?" Carlos's mouth half-smiled at me, but his eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. "Did you notice that gorgeous beast of a man standing next to the Madonna-clone to your right? He's wearing ripped jeans and a shirt tied around his waist."
     I slowly turned my head and saw the muscular black man. "Go for it," I said. "I'm going to find Amanda." I tried to keep out of the boys' way while they were cruising. I didn't want to cramp their style.
     While I wandered through the crowd searching for Amanda, the DJ turned up the music to drown out the fight. No longer able to hear the slurs, both the spectators and the two queens lost interest. By the time I found Amanda, everyone was dancing again. She greeted me with a kiss, and we started to dance. It was much too loud for conversation.
     All night Amanda pointed out the women she found attractive by nodding in a particular direction or leaning forward and shouting a time into my ear.
     "At three o'clock," she said. "Isn't she fierce?" To my right there was a sophisticated black dyke in a well-tailored outfit. Amanda had long ago told me that her ideal type was taller and more athletic than me. I was immediately irritated.
     "What exactly is 'fierce' anyhow?" I shouted back at her.
     "You don't know what fierce means? What kind of black girl are you?"
Charla, Amanda's ex-lover, had taught her all the black slang. I felt the sick tightness which usually appeared in my stomach just before I started to cry. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I liked the restrooms in this club more than most. The sale of liquor was prohibited at Foreward, and few bottles escaped the heavy frisking at the door. So the vileness that often characterized club restrooms was almost completely absent. There was no vomit on the floor. No drunk men, unable to wait in line, urinated in the sink. The scent of perfumes and colognes replaced the usual reek of sweat and shit mixed with industrial-strength disinfectant. The drug-dealing and sex were still there, but even they were kept at bay by the bathroom attendant. In an amazing feat of balance, the three-inch heeled queen kicked in any stall door which remained shut for too long or under which more than two feet appeared.
     On my way out, I paused in the ladies lounge to examine my face. On a red velvet couch, the two fighting queens sat, their anger and hysterics already forgotten. Slowly I began to glide a layer of lipstick over already bright lips. My face was fine but I fussed with my make-up in order to eavesdrop on their conversation about cruising.
     Apparently as a queen, the trick was not in cruising but in allowing yourself to be cruised. The idea appealed to me: being seduced seemed an almost blameless activity. The one in drag claimed that upon finding the right man, she would give out her phone number or perhaps accompany him home. Miss Mesh-Overalls however, explained that anonymous but safe sex in an alley was more her speed as she already had more attentive boyfriends than she knew what to do with. Their advice in mind, I went out to try my luck.
     I put on a vacant expression and stood in the corner nearest the restroom to wait. I hoped that one of the women whom Amanda found attractive would approach. Nothing happened. The sweet smell of Angel Dust began to nauseate me. I stared at the rotating silver ball on the ceiling; it refracted the colored lights so that magically strange shadows appeared on the dance floor. A few fags told me my ensemble was fabulous. One asked if the tall blonde in the Chanel outfit was my girlfriend. When I reluctantly admitted she was, he told me we made a beautiful couple. I tried to memorize his face and what little clothing he wore so I could point him out to Amanda. It would please her. We had spent more than an hour in Samuel's bathroom getting ready for the night.
     As I waited, I admired the five black men vogueing on the stage at the far end of the dance floor. The dancers were so unified by the music and the desire to impress the crowd, it was hard to believe that vogueing was a competition. With perfect rhythm and control, they challenged each other by dancing increasingly difficult and complex steps. They slid along the stage, twisting around each other like contortionists, limbs intertwining but never touching. Each dancer battled to keep his own identity in the interaction. If a voguer broke routine or touched another dancer, he automatically lost the vogue.
     Fascinated by the dancing, I had almost forgotten about cruising when the women began to approach. They were mostly Lipstick. It always seemed funny that the butches were so much shyer. The first two were white so I stared right through them as they looped by me. The next few were black, but, faced with success, I was suddenly too shy and embarrassed to continue. Time was running out. Amanda would come looking for me soon. Telling myself that I would never see the cruiser again, and if I did, so what, I smiled at the next black woman who looked interested. Working up the courage to let myself be cruised was hard. The flirting part, however, was a breeze. Within minutes, the woman was pressed next to me. I pushed my hips forward a bit so she could slip an arm around my waist. Our faces were very close. The woman was feeding me some line when I began to examine her. She wasn't that attractive. Amanda would be jealous but not impressed. Mere jealousy didn't seem worth a fight, so I gave my cruiser a small kiss on her neck. I was glad I'd freshened my lips in the bathroom. She'd have a mark to remember me by. I put on my best flaky cheerleader voice, "My girlfriend's probably looking for me. She has a terrible temper. Sorry."
     When I returned to Amanda's side, she demanded to know what had taken so long in the bathroom. "I was getting worried," she claimed.
     "Just trading make-up secrets with an old queen," I told her. She seemed to accept this explanation.

     That afternoon, Amanda and I went back to Carlos and Samuel's apartment to rest before the long drive home. She had her arms around me, and I fell asleep, feeling her chest rise and fall as her laughter mingled with the voices of Samuel and Carlos. It was these moments that I loved, when we weren't fighting, just very close. Then I realized that Amanda preferred talking with the boys about the beauty of the men at Foreward to talking to me about any subject at all. She had a high-pitched eager voice when she talked with them. The voice was saying, "Like me. Accept me. I'll laugh at your jokes and respond the right way." I knew that voice. I recognized it. It sounded like the voice I had had all throughout school. When they invited us to stay for dinner, of course the answer was yes.
     The first time Amanda brought me to the azure apartment of Samuel and Carlos, I was stunned by its beauty and grace. The stained glass windows and muted lighting were the epitome of chic. That spring, we had visited there often; meals didn't begin until ten or eleven and continued through several courses and many bottles of wine until club time, or the first after-hours party began. Carlos cooked while Samuel served to a table of six or seven guests from Boston and New York.
     Usually Amanda and I were the only women there, but that evening, we met Lyn, a dyke who had known Samuel in Chicago. Perhaps it was her presence or perhaps I was just more sensitive than usual, but internally I began to criticize the vintage store finds and knickknacks that crowded every surface in the apartment. The trendiness of the art deco objects no longer appealed to me, and the little black Sambos and Aunt Jemimas grated more than usual. Of course, after we left, Amanda and I had often complained of the distastefulness and vulgarity of Carlos' collection. The blatant racism of Jim Crow memorabilia seemed strange in a man who was so refined in the rest of his decor. It was not exactly that we forgave the offense, but Amanda didn't want to alienate their friendship with a confrontation, and I was loath to make a scene. We ate there week after week and never said a word.
     The night Lyn joined the group, nothing appeared different. But the humiliation of sitting, eating and trading clever sarcasm in a candle-lit room that was an insult to my very existence, finally struck. I wanted to scream or do something wild, something which would prove I was not the compliant, eager-to-please woman I seemed. But having been silent for so many months, I could no longer remember how to speak. I was merely a little more quiet than usual. I found myself unable to look at the apartment, the boys or even Amanda. Instead I focused on Lyn, whom I both blamed for my frustration and adored for her appearance. I was sure that when we got home, Amanda would talk about how attractive Lyn was.
     Actually, Lyn's face didn't startle me; it would have been odd to meet an ugly person through the boys. Still I admired her flawless complexion. I wondered if she actually had perfect skin or if she was also a consumer of Maybelline's Ebony Line. And I was intrigued by her neon outfit, a costume which I might have worn before Amanda, when I was more outrageous than sophisticated. I was positive that my glances were discreet but towards dessert, Lyn pulled her Lulu bob behind her ears, stuck out her chin, and boldly smiled bright red lips towards me. I was caught completely off-guard. I smiled back. Then I realized the audacity of my behavior. I excused myself to go into the bathroom. As I stood up, I glanced at Amanda. Her face was serene, but her fist was clenched.
     A hairless mannequin was posed just inside the bathroom door. Completely nude except for several maroon hand-towels draped over an elongated arm, she stared at me as I sat on the toilet gasping. Mouth stretched into an eerie plastic grin, she warned me to watch my step, as if I didn't already know I was treading on dangerous ground, as if I couldn't feel the earth slipping out from underneath me.
     As soon as I returned to the table, Amanda pulled me onto her lap, holding me firmly. I knew her gesture was as possessive as it was affectionate but I was so delighted by the security of her arms, it was not until they tightened that I realized someone had asked me a question.
     "Excuse me?" I apologized, hoping that I hadn't missed too much of the conversation.
     "We were just talking about Love and Lust. How did you and Amanda first get together?      Nathan here could use some hints on the subject," Samuel said.
Nathan ducked his head and pretended to blush, shyly pushing his long bangs out of his eyes. Everyone laughed. Nathan was just coming out. Barely twenty-one, last night had been his first at Foreward. You could almost hear the fags whispering, "fresh meat," as they continually circled, each anxious to be Nathan's introduction to the New York night life.
     "Well I'm not sure why we first got together." I said, stalling. I wanted to describe a circumstance that would impress people as both sexy and profound. I shuffled through images until I found an appropriate one. "I know, it was last fall, on one of our first dates. Amanda took me out to this totally romantic dinner. Then we spent the night in the Rosewood Inn --that's one of those women's guesthouses out in the country. I remember the room. There was a huge fireplace and one of those big brass beds with a crazy quilt and feather mattress. It reminded me of the doll-house I used to have--"
     "You're getting this out of a Harlequin Romance, right?" Samuel asked as he opened a new white wine.
    "This is for real. If you're not interested in my version, I'll stop, and you can ask Amanda for hers."
     "No, go on. I'm fascinated." Amanda's slow drawl and stroking hands told me she approved of my recitation, and so I continued.
     "Anyhow, I still wasn't sure. I mean I was dazzled by the whole scene, I mean I felt like I was on the set of a movie or something. But I didn't know about Amanda. I sat down in this arm-chair with flowered upholstery and I waited for her to make the first move. Amanda just talked and talked until the tension was so high I thought I was going to scream. Then all of a sudden, she goes, 'hold still,' and she reaches forward and she takes my silver studs out of my ears. I remember absolutely melting as she kissed me, then undressed me" I stopped at this point.
     "Then what? You had great sex?" Carlos said.
     "The best," I confirmed.
     Of course we had, but that wasn't the point. Amanda and I had already fucked several times by then. I'd had good sex with and been undressed by other lovers. It was the earrings that had gotten me. The pure intimacy of the act had surprised me. Taking them out assumed a familiarity with my body. Nobody had ever breached my privacy to that extent, at least not since childhood. I wondered if Amanda had realized her presumption. I was unsure if she knew how close it had made me feel to her and how much I'd later forgiven because of that one act.
     "The Rosewood Inn. Didn't you and Charla used to--" Samuel didn't finish. I imagined Carlos extending his long leg under the marble table-top, through its cast iron base, and kicking his lover. While the boys could discuss their affairs and exploits as much as they liked, it was clear that other relationships were a taboo subject between Amanda and me.

     She had had the best sex of her life with Charla, Amanda informed me after we had been together six months. It was one of those revelations that I wished had remained hidden. They were still good friends, and whenever Charla called or came by, I couldn't think. All of my energy was focused on keeping the resentment and jealousy out of my voice. In my battle to be civil, I was only able to mutter small talk and inanities. Amanda had also divulged that my apparent stupidity and limited conversation skills made Charla wonder why Amanda was with me instead of her. Charla's judgement and the idea that she wanted Amanda back made me angrier and more tongue-tied. But I couldn't really blame her. I often wondered why we were together myself.
     Two days after our dinner with Lyn and the boys, Amanda and Charla had a fight in which Charla called Amanda a racist. The string of black lovers, the African-American Art, the Black music and books were all bought by a woman whose own life and culture were so dead that she needed to steal ours. I would never have said such things, but Charla was more aggressive or perhaps just had less to lose than I. Ordinarily, Amanda would not have told me about the argument since she doesn't like to appear weak. But she was just hanging up the phone as I entered the apartment. She didn't have time to recover her demeanor. Perhaps she told me because I had caught her exposed, or perhaps it was because, as her current black lover, I was in the position to refute Charla's words.
     And as Amanda spoke, I sucked the cold sweetness of vengeance. I listened quietly, patiently. When she stopped, she was trembling slightly. It was the most vulnerable I had ever seen her. She looked at me with such openness, I almost wanted to kiss those soft lips and murmur words of consolation.
     "She's right," I said. "You do objectify women. Black women especially. Amanda, you act like those fags. Looks are everything to you. Women are to be looked at and fucked. I mean, I feel like I'm just another part of your art collection, the latest pretty black piece. You don't even like me. You just want me and think that you can own me because I fit certain labels. I just keep on waiting for you to trade me in for a taller model. You shouldn't treat people as if they're only categories. Not only is it wrong, it's shallow, and it's ugly."
     Those first few moments after I spoke, as I watched her crumble and start to cry, were exquisite. I had finally penetrated her shell, and the victory delighted me. My face was cold, my heart was hard and steely. I saw Page and the other Ellis girls in front of me. I saw the countless white friends who over the years had hurt me unintentionally by asking me to soothe their guilt and satisfy their curiosity. For a moment, I was no longer stoic nor considerate nor even reasonable. I was strong, and I cannot deny that moment was beautiful.
     But as I watched Amanda cry, the joy dissipated as quickly as it had come, and I was horrified at my words. For the truth has many sides and I had chosen to expose only one: the one that made me powerful and her weak. So after that glorious moment in which I hesitated and watched her, I pulled Amanda close to me, wrapped my arms around her, and began to sob as I begged her forgiveness.

* * *
     Often, Amanda and I go out at night. We dance to Pop, House, Hip-Hop and Reggae. The boys are on all sides of us but we dance very close, each trying to time her movements so that she is in sync with the other. Not long before I met Amanda, I used to work as a go-go dancer in a girlbar. Physically, it was hard work and I'm glad she takes care of me now. Still there was the delicious feeling of being suspended high above the crowd. I gyrated, bumped and grinded to the exact same music then, but it was an entirely different experience. I either danced with the bars of the cage or with my image in the foot-to-ceiling mirrors that lined the opposite wall. Other times I would whirl around, arms extended above my head, faster and faster, making myself dizzy, dancing wholly by myself.
     Three nights a week, I arrived at the club in jeans and a T-shirt. In an hour long ritual, I carefully dressed, usually in velvet or satin, and applied my make-up, body paint and glitter. Finally I was transformed into a girl who was wanted by women. The euphoria of being desired, even if it was only for my costume, intoxicated me so I didn't need the drinks the bartenders slipped me behind the manager's back with quick winks and smiles. Up in that box, I could see the women looking. They are shyer than the fags, so they pretended not to, but they looked. And here's the beautiful part: they could only look and adore; they couldn't touch me at all. Even after I descended, there was an aura about me which no one dared penetrate.
     On my nights off, I'd go to hard-core clubs, the nasty sort, where drunk under-aged white boys and girls sneered at each other from black walls and tables. The music was abrasive, the leather-clad, skin-head crowd homophobic but I didn't care. No one knew me there, and freed from my cage, I could dance in a violent frenzy. Arms slashing, boots kicking, the floor was a crowd of individuals smashing into each other over and over again as if such painful contact could save us from our numbed selves.
     So you see, I don't quite know how to dance with Amanda. Most of the time our rhythms seem off. Each night we try to match our motions, but I always start dancing with my image in the mirror or throwing my body wildly as if I'm trying to hurt her. Dancing with her is as foreign to me as the smooth, gliding waltzes of old black-and-white films. But I'm learning, and occasionally we get it right. Perhaps one day, she'll take me in her arms and we'll float across the dance floor. If that happens, I know we'll be beautiful.