| OutLoud
by
Sally Sheklow
FAMILY
SECRETS
Lesbian moms, hetero teen daughters,
and parental denial
Tess
is what they call a hottie.” My friend Deb
updated me on her teenage daughter when we met
in the produce aisle last week. Karen, Tess’s
other mom, tossed a jícama into their cart
and chimed in, “And she is totally boy crazy.”
One
of the first A.I. babies in our lesbian community,
Tess has hit the surly, uncommunicative stage,
which according to Doctor Spock typically lasts
from ages 12 to 40. She is driving her poor parents
nuts. Karen and Deb, whose Pope-unsanctified wedding
I attended 20 years ago, naturally want what’s
best for their child. They are in a dither over
the 15-year-old vamp’s heterosexual tendencies.
I
am one of Tess’s concerned aunties, the
circle of friends who attended her birth and provided
childcare when she was little. Now I am another
old lesbian dinosaur. She would sooner die than
acknowledge me in public. I grabbed a sack of
organic russets and asked, “What kind of
birth control is she using?”
“Oh,
she isn’t having sex yet,” Karen assured
me. In response to my raised eyebrow, Deb added,
“We would know.”
Yeah,
right. Like when we were 15, we told our parents
our personal business.
What
is it about lesbian moms? Is the next Homosexual
Agenda item going to be equal access to parental
amnesia? Weren’t they ever young and full
of hormones? Don’t they remember anything?
I
kept all kinds of secrets from my parents when
I was 15. We rarely talked—the original
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Mom and Dad
didn’t know squat about my life. I sneaked
out my bedroom window at night and returned undetected
before dawn. Not yet aware becoming a lesbian
was even an option, I expressed my budding sexuality
in frequent and exuberant lovemaking with my boyfriend,
a soft-spoken, attentive kid with a big motorcycle.
Looking back on those days, I realize he was the
closest thing to a butch dyke I could lay my hands
on.
The
guy who sat behind me in summer school civics
lived in a luxurious country-club home right on
the golf course. His wealthy parents were away
for the weekend, and their son was supposed to
be staying with a buddy, which in teenspeak means
“Party!” I like to think my behavior
contributed in some small way to current popular
wisdom—when kids say they’re going
to an adult-supervised party, their word is worth
bupkes.
What
a party! We ransacked the liquor cabinet, abused
the beds, and desecrated the swimming pool. We
drove their golf cart into the lake. High on mescaline,
my boyfriend and I had sex on the fairway and
then dug the word LOVE into the neatly
groomed sand traps.
By
the time the host offered me a ride home, I was
sure I had come down enough to make my curfew
appearance and slink off into my bedroom unscrutinized.
Safely inside the gate, I stopped at the swimming
pool steps. I reeked of smoke and spilled tequila
and sex. If my parents busted me, I’d be
under heavy surveillance for the rest of the summer.
I splashed my face, rinsed the sand off my arms,
and sluiced out my mouth. But I was hot and sticky
all over. The turquoise green water, shimmering
under the night sky, beckoned me. The pool looked
too good to pass up. I peeled off my clothes and
plunged in.
I
swam a full, languid underwater lap. A quick pop
up for air and another lap, during which I noticed
an odd screeching sound. I disregarded it and
resumed my mermaid glide. I heard it again, the
distant, high-pitched whine. The last time I came
up for air, the sound was unmistakable. My mother,
in full screaming rage, towered over me, the whites
of her eyes huge and menacing. Her neck veins
bulged. Her mouth contorted as she yelled my name.
She shoved a beach towel at me and demanded I
get out of the pool and into the house that instant.
Not until I turned toward the door did I notice
my father, and a patio full of guests, sitting
poolside, fully clothed, in stunned silence.
After
that I became seriously surly and uncommunicative.
Exposing myself had exposed my parents’ lack
of control over me, a huge embarrassment in front
of their friends. Their response was to crack down
and make my life miserable. I gently set a carton
of crimini mushrooms into my grocery cart’s
empty child seat. Mental note: Get condoms and foam
for Tess—and some clit info. She is entitled
to her private pleasures, and her parents are entitled
to their denial. I hugged my friends goodbye. “You’re
probably right,” I said, “I’m
sure Tess is doing fine.” Thank God(dess)
they don’t have a swimming pool … or
a golf cart.
Writer Sally Sheklow grew up
in Palm Springs, California. She lives in Oregon
with her wife and no kids.
If
you have any comments about this article, please
email them to letters@outsmartmagazine.com.
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