It’s spring of 1986. I’m 35.
I’ve already done my thing as a high-profile, award-winning investigative TV news reporter at WFAA in Dallas. Now for some real bustin’ out of the closet.
Turns out my zeal to produce a great lesbian reveal in Big D is complicated by my personal situation, a relationship with a woman to whom I have pledged my love and a woman I am just about to meet.
AS I WALKED towards a large booth in a dimly lit corner at the back of The Bronx – a bar and restaurant in the heart of Dallas’ gayborhood – the only place I saw to sit was next to her. So I did, and so began the slow motion.
Time kicked back. My blue jean butt touched the darkness of the chipped and nicked hardwood of aging church pews, while a soft breath of magic floated past my lips and nose. Across cheekbones. Lightness slid down my arms, skimming delicate blonde hairs. One slow sensation, but really a contagion so delicious. My inner thighs felt it, delighting in the attention.
Her essence, a soft fog teasing at me, held most of my attention as I glimpsed the small group of women, maybe five, sitting in the booth. One of them was engaged in a very animated telling of a story. The rest were tuned in to her words, one had her elbows propped on the table, her fingers intertwined. The storyteller paused, then let go a punchline that made one gal slap her hand on the table top in sync with a big ol’ laugh. A couple of the gals were sipping on draft beer and one almost choked when she laughed at the gal laughing.
I didn’t dare turn my head but an iota, just enough to catch a glimpse of her peripherally. She was to my left. Slow motion. I sensed her looking at me as I slipped into the booth, sat down on the pew, and became acutely aware of a gentle pull of soft, sexy waves receding across wet sand, back into gulf waters. I shifted a bit in my seat then picked up the glass of water on the table in front of me and took a sip, turning my head her way, swallowing.
Her hair was blonde, wispy, falling over her shoulders, an ethereal quality about her lent itself to her allure. She was wearing an off-white shirt, buttoned up the front, short sleeves loosely rolled up, shirt tucked into a pair of washed denim jeans. Her body was slight.
She and I had come to The Bronx for a meeting with a small gathering of lesbians to continue our foray into gay politics and raise the visibility of lesbians. She and I had not yet had the pleasure of meeting.
She introduced herself, said it was nice to meet me, all the while smiling slightly, and ever so seductively, I was thinkin’. I gave her my name in exchange.
It was then, sitting beside her, that I absorbed the soft, airy and certainly intimate vibrations of her voice, with each word crossing her lips slowly. I breathed them in, gentle with a sweet-savory flavor.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I answered back. Holy shit, I thought to myself.
The Bronx was a popular place to go. Located on Cedar Springs Road near the corner of Oak Lawn Avenue, the restaurant and bar was at the nexus of all gay activity in Dallas.
This beating heart of Dallas’ gay community was made up of bars (mostly for the men), Hunky’s Hamburgers, a delightful gourmet pizza place, a flower shop, and Crossroads Market — a bookstore that catered to gay men, which translated to a dearth of lesbian books.
At the time, the word lesbian was a hot button to push, culturally and socially. It would be more than a decade before Ellen Degeneres leaned into that airport microphone during Season 6, Episode 4 of her show “Ellen,” grappling with her words before she declared, “I’m gay.”
Gay was the go-to word. It wasn’t until 2006 that The L Word series on Netflix began its first season. In the public square, the word lesbian was not lady-like, and not a word to be used lightly in public, unless you were whispering it softly, scattering kisses on your gal’s neck, in which case you were really playing with fire.
The word gay is not a bad word, per se. But it doesn’t feel quite right to the ears of many a lesbian. There are those holdouts who prefer to be called gay women and these days, queer or gay. Just gay.
I have referred to myself as gay, in my past mostly. Bottom line, I am a lesbian, a woman who shares intimate love with another woman. I am gay and happy when I am enjoying a pride parade or repartee between a couple of gay men. But I am lesbian as a matter of routine.
So, back to the meeting at The Bronx involving two groups of lesbians, Among Friends and Lesbian Visionaries. The Friends were new to the gay scene in Dallas, maybe only three months into their formation. There were three of us on the board. The Visionaries had been around a bit longer and were more established by half a dozen months or so. Both had similar goals: lesbian inclusivity and visibility in the “gay” community and the larger world of Dallas. A nod to the strength-in-numbers survival strategy - commitment and connection.
The woman who had turned me to mush when I first walked in was part of Lesbian Visionaries, as were three other gals sitting across the table. I was representing Among Friends.
After an hour or so, the small group of us agreed we’d stay busy moving forward with our lesbian insurgency — pushing for the Dallas Gay Alliance to include “lesbian” in the name of the organization, for example. You’d think that was a no-brainer, but no siree Bob, it was not. So it remained at the top of the list until 1991 when the boys finally gave in.
Our lesbian insurgency also included orchestrating events, lesbian get-togethers and then relying on Lil to get out the word — Lil being short for Lesbian Information Line — via a recorded message letting lesbians in on the details of such gatherings.
“Just call LIL” and a phone number printed on “business” cards we handed out at bars and social gatherings — pot lucks, camping forays, and such. The phone number could be found in many places around the community, including stapled to the various telephone poles along Cedar Springs.
Back to The Bronx. Our small group quickly dissolved after saying our goodbyes and sharing a few hugs. She and I, apparently feeling a bit of something, remained. I turned towards her and we caught each other’s drift.
“Would you have time for a drink?” One of us asked the other. “Yes, that would be nice," we agreed.
We walked over to the bar and sat next to each other on well-worn wooden swivel stools with backs, no arms. A couple of gay guys down the way from us were wrapped in an animated and sweet exchange of shared stories that were prelude probably to dancing later on. And then, who knows?
I took my eyes off the guys and glanced at the vodka and soda the bartender had set in front of me. I looked up at the winsome gay fellow tending bar. “Excuse me. Do y’all have fresh limes?” He shook his head yes. “Would you like me to bring you some wedges?”
“Please and thank you.”
He turned and sashayed his way to the limes. Love that!
My forearm rested on the bar rim, barely six inches away from her touch. That soft tease and a few sexy vocabulary words sprinkled in our conversation that evening at the bar was the closest we came that night.
She spoke softly, answering my first few questions.
“Are you from Dallas?”
She grew up in Fort Worth, but most recently had been living in Denton, just north on I-35. She was involved in the lesbian community there, populated by gals attending Texas Woman's University and North Texas State University, now University of North Texas. She was not a student at either school but was involved with the women’s music scene going on in the Denton area, which had its own vibrant lesbian milieu.
She came to Dallas, she said, to get away from the angst she had found herself in. Time to shift the flow of conversation.
“What do you do? ” she asked. I told her my story about being a high-profile TV journalist at Channel 8 news in Dallas and then leaving the profession because I wanted to get more involved in the lesbian community.
She had never seen me on TV, she said. “Really?” I asked, looking directly at her loveliness and raising my left eyebrow ever so slightly. Then, using my TV voice, I demonstrated my signature sign off, “Kay Vinson, Channel 8 News.”
It was time for us to begin discovering each other’s stories. There had been no time for that at our meeting.
Our conversation was intense, political, and filled with “what ifs.” She was the one behind LIL, collecting information from messages left on her telephone answering machine (remember those?) and then recording it on LIL’s line in that voice of hers, sweet and savory.
She was instrumental in powering up Lesbian Visionaries and was friends with a wide swath of gay proprietors along the “strip” — the heartbeat of the gayborhood — and others who volunteered in the community, which at the time was in the throes of the AIDs crisis. She knew a good number of the players all-round, gay male movers and shakers, including, of course, the all-important politically active ones.
She was also a custom jeweler, having recently set up shop in the back of Crossroads Market, in the very heart of the ‘hood. In this rented space, she was a meeter and greeter, befriending lots of the gay men who had the money and were interested in custom jewelry — for themselves, their boyfriends, and their mothers.
Now that she knew her way around the gayborhood, she wanted to expand the community, i.e. get the girls and boys together under the same rainbow tent. I was absolutely on board with that one.
As we continued weaving conversation together at the bar, it became crystal clear she and I were on a similar path. My vision was raising the visibility of lesbians in the gay community, putting them in seats around the table, particularly in the political arena.
While the topic did not come up in conversation that night, it wouldn’t be long before we started planning for what else? A lesbian bookstore in the heart of the gayborhood, a sapphic delight of great measure.
Of course, we made plans to talk again. Very soon. Oh, and yes, she lived about five or six blocks away from me and there was a nearby restaurant where we could have lunch and talk, she mentioned, as we walked out of The Bronx.
I didn’t process that last bit of information very thoroughly. I wasn’t ready to absorb it. We stood outside and said goodbye. Don’t remember a hug. She was parked down the block. My green Subaru four-door was parked at the curb just outside The Bronx. I got in the driver’s seat after watching her walk away.
As I drove home, my window down, a breeze offered several hits of fresh night air while I prayed to the goddesses I’d be able to quickly downshift the gyrations inside my head, tamp down the rapid nervous beats of my ever lovin’ heart.
I was now ten minutes from home, where my partner was expecting me. I held out hope the goddesses would lend assistance as I opened the front door.
My partner and I had been living together for several years by this time, probably three. Our home was cozy, on a neighborhood street corner nestled in deep green carpet grass and big lovely trees. She and I so enjoyed traveling in Mexico, once for two months. Our life and times together had grown into a beautiful thing, and she was a catch — very creative, hair a soft strawberry red. The love we shared is always with me, still. Pasamos muchos momentos maravillosos y amorosos juntos.
I drove my car up into the driveway, and sat there for a minute. Took some deep breaths to bring me back to reality. My gal was home, through the living room picture window I saw her walk into the hallway and turn right, towards the bedroom we shared. I gathered my thoughts.
As I walked up the one step to the smallish concrete porch, opened the front door, and put one boot over the threshold, I still had one boot back at the bar, finishing my drink.
…….to be continue
You bring the Bronx back to life with your description. I miss it!
Well, the tension builds. You are managing to blend a titillating love story with LGBTQ history. It’s a revelation and a joy to be on this journey with you. Fascinating.