Submission Read online

  Submission

  Robin Roseau

  Table of Contents

  Shame

  Clubbing

  Hotel

  Weekend

  All Good Things

  Stress

  Attack

  Life Is Hell

  The End

  Part Two

  Employment

  Unexpected Visitor

  Love

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Shame

  I couldn't help who I was. Oh, I had tried. Certainly I had tried. I'd been fighting my natural proclivities, making myself miserable in the process, since my teen years. As I'd grown older, it hadn't gotten any better.

  I remember when I admitted to myself I was attracted to girls. It was one of those "ah ha" moments, where suddenly it all made sense. I'd fought the realization for two years from when I was thirteen and had a crush on my best friend, Becky Sue. I told myself of course I liked her; Becky Sue was amazing. Oh, she wasn't a classic beauty and the rave of the school. But she was cute and really, really sweet. We'd been friends since forever, and I loved her to pieces.

  But Becky Sue wasn't the object of my "ah ha" moment. I was fifteen, a freshman in high school. And she was Ms. Davis, my high school computer science teacher.

  Get your head out of the gutter. It was an unrequited high school infatuation. Ms. Davis, if she ever recognized my infatuation at all, probably thought it was "cute" and nothing more. Nothing happened beyond the events in my admittedly overactive imagination.

  I remember the first day of class. Ms. Davis was a new teacher, her first year out of college. I was expecting the dorky computer literacy class to be taught by a dorky computer nerd, perhaps some guy still living in his mother's basement or maybe some old nerd. My transcript had only said, "Davis", after all. I was sure I was in the wrong room when raven-haired Ms. Davis closed the class door at the bell then moved to stand before the students, still jockeying for seats. I had a crush even before she began speaking.

  Oh, I didn't realize what it was for months, but I found myself excited about computers. Ms. Davis may never have known about the emotional turmoil she caused me, but she was pivotal in my later life choices.

  I remember the exact moment I realized I was half in love with her. It was winter semester later that year. She leaned over me from behind me to look more closely at my screen; I'd asked for help with some problem I was having. I don't remember what the problem was, but I remember this: she smelled wonderful.

  It only lasted a moment. Ms. Davis leaned over me, her head next to mine briefly as she read the screen. She looked at the screen. I looked at her. She immediately identified my problem, straightened, and told me how to resolve it.

  I barely heard her.

  I realized then and there something that had been staring me in the face for a while: I liked girls.

  It took me a long time to get used to the idea. At first, I was horrified with myself. I bought into that whole "gay is bad" thing society tried to push on us. How stupid. I reacted in two ways: I signed up for every class Ms. Davis taught, which was a form of exquisite torture but was the best choice I could have made for my future career; and I became exceedingly depressed and even a little self-destructive.

  It was my mama that cured the depression. She told me a story about the daughter of a friend of hers -- she wouldn't say who it was, just that it was someone she'd gone to college with -- who realized she was attracted to women. And Mama said, "She's struggling, but I am confident she will learn to be true to herself and who she is."

  At the time, I thought it was accidental, but I asked her about it years and years later, and she said, "Oh honey. No. I wasn't sure if your moods were because you were fighting your nature. Yes, I knew you were gay, perhaps even before you did. I thought perhaps you and Becky had a fight when you came out to her." I came out to Becky, but it was some time later. "I wanted to let you know it was okay. I hoped you would know you could talk to me."

  And I had. It took another two weeks, but I asked Mama if we could have a girl's day out, and when it was just she and I, I blurted it out to her over a shared malt at the malt shop. "Mama, I think I'm gay." I started to cry, but she moved around the booth to sit next to me, pulling me into her arms.

  "I know, honey. I'm so proud of you. I love you with every fiber of my being. Thank you for telling me."

  She soothed me, hiding me from inquisitive eyes at the same time. Then we spent the rest of the day together, doing Mom and Daughter things we never did. She told me that at times it would be hard, that society wasn't really ready to accept who I was, but that she and Daddy were.

  "You can't tell Daddy!" I told her, almost breaking into fresh tears.

  "Oh honey," she said. "He knows. He figured it out before I did. And he loves you every bit as much as I do."

  I was so lucky. I know a lot of girls have a hard time telling their parents. I've have a few friends, older friends now in their fifties, who moved out of state so they could hide from their parents who they were.

  Isn't that terrible, to have to run from your parents because they couldn't accept you if you were gay. What a stupid basis for judgment, and of your own child.

  I had it so lucky with my parents.

  And so, there were times I wished I wasn't gay, a few times I've wished I could will myself straight, but other than that initial fear, I've never been ashamed of it. It's made things harder, but that's society's fault, and for that, society should be ashamed. But I shouldn't be. I am who I am.

  But I need to get back to Ms. Davis. I'll say again: she never did one single thing out of line, and I didn't even have my first real lesbian experience until college. So kindly keep your mind out of the gutter.

  There will be plenty of opportunity to explore the gutter in a while.

  Ms. Davis wasn't a classic beauty, not by any stretch of the imagination. She was, well, wholesome, I guess. I've mentioned her raven hair, which she wore straight and shoulder length. She had a nose that was perhaps a little big for her face, accentuated by the glasses she wore.

  You're wondering how I could have a crush on her? Well...

  She had an amazing voice, deep for a woman, and precise. She was fresh out of college, but she arrived with a presence that I didn't recognize as a teenager, but I realize now must have been carefully cultivated. She spoke with authority, delivered with respect.

  I thought she was brilliant.

  She was kind, and she always had time for her students. And she was effusive in her praise.

  It was her praise and my reaction to it that ties to my self-rebellion. I became, well, almost an addict for her praise. Her smile could put me in a good mood for an hour. Praise might last a day.

  A frown could put me into a two-day funk.

  I had never been like this before. Sure, like any kid, I sought parental approval, but it wasn't like this. I didn't go out of my way to do things simply because I thought my parents would offer approval for doing them. But I sure did with Ms. Davis.

  I eventually grew out of my infatuation with Ms. Davis, more or less. I look back at those times with a mix of pleasure and embarrassment, the little puppy dog following her around hoping for scraps of praise. But she was always kind to me, and I owe her a great deal. And so, Ms. Davis, thank you. You served as an inspiration, and you probably don't know it, but you helped me realize the truth about myself.

  But my search for praise didn't stop with Ms. Davis. It became a common theme in all my future romantic relationships, and it wasn't usually very healthy of me. By my sophomore year in college, I still didn't have enough self-awareness to realize what I was doing, and it was one of my girlfriends who told me, after a fashion.

  Her name was Ela
ine. She was two years older, a senior. It is probably not entirely accurate to call her a girlfriend. She had picked me up earlier in the year for nothing more than a hookup. I must have pleased her, because every few weeks, she called me, inviting me over "for dinner", which really meant for sex. At the time, I didn't realize I was doing it, but I did anything I could to please her. I did anything she asked me to do; I did anything I thought she liked. And I let her do anything she wanted to me.

  Anything.

  Oh, Elaine's needs were pretty tame, and nothing we did together was out there. But when she realized I'd let her do anything she wanted, she experimented a little, maybe to decide what she liked, maybe just to see if I had limits on what I would allow.

  This had been going on for months, once every few weeks as Elaine's schedule and libido fit together. It was late after an evening of what I realize now was pretty tame sex. I'd spent the entire evening doing everything Elaine asked. She'd asked for a pedicure, so I'd given her one, in between orgasms. I scratched her back, and during a break, cleaned the kitchen. Naked. While she watched. And told me how hot it was.

  I'm not sure which of us enjoyed that more.

  I finished the kitchen, and she pulled me back to her bed, telling me what she wanted. I did it, and judging by her reaction, I did it very well. Eventually, panting heavily, she drew me back up to lay with my head against her shoulder, her musk still coating my mouth.

  "Oh, my submissive little plaything," she panted, "you are so good at that."

  I preened at the praise, but then thought about what she had said. "Your what?" I asked quietly.

  She laughed. "Plaything," she said. "I do enjoy when you come over to please me, Cassidy."

  That's me -- Cassidy Jane Ellis.

  "Before that," I said. "I'm not submissive." I was a feminist, after all. How could I be submissive and a feminist at the same time?

  Elaine laughed, then she realized I was serious.

  "Cass," she said. "You do whatever I tell you. You practically beg me to tell you what I want. Of course you're submissive. Why do you think I keep inviting you over to play? You're so much fun. Do you know when I call you? When I've had a shitty day, because I know you'll make it all better. You do whatever I want. You let me do whatever I want. It's such a rush!" She hugged me tightly for a moment, perhaps not realizing the turmoil she had just caused. She paused just a moment. "But it's time for you to go. I have an early class. Make sure the door is locked on your way out."

  I didn't know what to think. I slipped from her bed and wandered around the room, finding all the places she'd thrown my clothes. I dressed carefully, not looking at her. I think Elaine realized I was upset. She got out of bed and pulled me into her arms, kissing me gently.

  "Thank you for coming over tonight," she said gently. "Cassidy, you're kind of dorky, but you're smart and sexy too. I was really in a bad mood when I called, and you made it all better." She bent down a little to look into my eyes. "Are you mad at me?"

  "No, Elaine," I said. I offered a smile. "I had a nice time, too."

  "Are you upset because I only call you when I need cheering up?" She paused. "I thought about getting more serious with you, but I'm graduating soon, and you have two more years. I don't want to get serious and then break up, and I don't want to do the long distance thing."

  I brightened at that. "Really?"

  "Really," she said. She looked at me with a worried expression. "You're not in love with me, are you?"

  I considered her question carefully. I realized I wasn't. "If we'd gotten more serious, I think I would fall in love," I admitted. "I think. I don't know. I've never been in love."

  "I was," she said. "It was wonderful right up until it totally sucked." She kissed me again, briefly. "May I call you again?"

  I nodded slowly, and then, still naked, she walked me to her apartment door. I stopped there, still troubled by what she had said. I turned to her. "May I have one more hug, Elaine?"

  "Of course, Cassidy," she said. She pulled me into her arms.

  And groped my bottom.

  It might have been the wrong choice, but it wasn't. I actually giggled at that, which may have been her intention. We kissed once more before she sent me on my way.

  I was troubled during my walk home. Submissive? What did that even mean? Perhaps it was odd that I didn't mind she called me her plaything, but that I minded being submissive.

  Elaine did call me again, twice more before the end of the school year. I did whatever she wanted.

  But I was troubled.

  The school year ended. Elaine graduated, and I never heard from her again. After that, I rebelled against my own nature, going out of my way to prove she was wrong.

  I made myself miserable.

  I eventually grew to accept who I was, sometimes over-accepting it. I've made -- and I suppose continue to make -- some pretty poor choices.

  If there was anything about myself I'd change, it is this. But I am who I am, and fighting it hasn't worked.

  Acceptance has felt a whole lot better.

  Clubbing

  I stepped into the San Francisco club, looking around briefly. I'd been here before. And I'd been to other clubs like this one before in places like New York, New Orleans and Key West. In Minneapolis, we had lesbian bars. We had more gay bars. And we even had a couple of gay leather bars.

  But we didn't have anyplace like this. Oh no. Minnesotans were far too wholesome for a club like this. When I got this itch, I had to travel. In cooler months, I headed south to New Orleans or -- my favorite -- Key West. But it was Memorial Day weekend, and I didn't want mid-80s weather, and so I had come to San Francisco for the weekend.

  At first I didn't see any open tables, but one wall held a long counter with tall stools, and there were open spaces. I headed that direction, choosing my seat carefully. I didn't want to be in the middle of a bunch of open seats, but I didn't want to take the only seat between two other groups, either. There were two women sitting together, their stools turned towards each other. I took the next seat over, behind one of the women, and I angled myself slightly away from her.

  I took more time to look around. Leather was the dominant clothing of choice, but there were other, more outrageous choices including latex, PVC and rubber. There were corsets, scantily cut tee-shirts, collars, leashes, and, well, you get the idea.

  It wasn't a gay bar. It was a queer-friendly fetish club.

  Clubs like this weren't easy to find, at least not for me.

  I looked good. Oh, at nearly forty years old (sigh), I wasn't young anymore. But I looked good. I was dressed in a soft style. I didn't own any of the more outrageous clothing choices that were on display. Instead, I was wearing a black corset dress with sheer sleeves and a long hemline. It gave me a very feminine appearance while helping to hide some of my age-related defects. My feet were caged in a pair of strap heels. I say "caged" carefully, as I'd chosen these shoes specifically because they could look very innocent, but they gave a bondage look if you were so inclined to consider them that way.

  I was, of course, so inclined, and I imagined any woman I'd let pick me up at this club would be so as well.

  A waitress made her way to me. She was dressed far more provocatively than I was and heavily inked, and only a little older than half my age. She pointedly checked me out anyway, but I decided she was simply working on her tip. I imagined that it was a tactic that worked well. I ordered a cosmopolitan. Hey, I know it's a cliché, but I like them. They're just the right mix of alcohol and sweet without being cloying, and if someone asked me to dance, I could finish it off before accepting.

  I didn't leave untended drinks when out clubbing alone. Who knows what might land in it?

  The waitress moved on, and I watched her while she did so. She wasn't my type, and she was little more than a child, but she was cute, and I didn't mind looking at her. But she disappeared into the crowd, and I went back to scanning the room. I ignored the guys. A few tried to catch my eye,
but I didn't even hesitate with them. There was no reason to encourage them, after all.

  I would rather have found a lesbian fetish bar, but even in San Francisco, there weren't very many all-women clubs; I only knew of one, and it was small. There were private parties, but I wasn't hooked up and had never been invited.

  But that was okay. I would make do.

  The waitress returned with my drink. I paid for it right away, not wanting to run a tab. I left her a little something extra as thanks for the flirting, and she caressed my arm as she left, her own thanks.

  It felt nice. What can I say? It had been a while.

  I rotated in my seat, watching the room while carefully sipping from my drink. I enjoyed looking over the edge of the glass and leaving lipstick marks on the rim.

  Maybe about now you are asking me, "What were you doing? What was wrong with you?"

  Nothing was wrong with me. I knew what I wanted. I didn't necessarily know how to get it -- or I wouldn't have had to travel two thousand miles to find it. I wanted a casual, kinky encounter with a strong, confident woman. I didn't want to be abused. In fact, I wanted to be cherished. But if I were tied up at the same time, I was all for that.

  I'd made poor choices in the past, and I was sure I'd make more in the future. I'd been abused. Sometimes the abuse was obvious; sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes I'd come back for more, anyway.

  I already told you: I wished I could change this about myself. I knew it wasn't healthy. I knew I made unhealthy choices. It wasn't that I was void of self-respect. It wasn't that at all. It's just that I hadn't found someone I liked who treated me the way I wanted to be treated.

  But I wasn't done trying to find her. And in the meantime, I traveled to New York, San Francisco, New Orleans, Provincetown, Key West, and even London a few times, scratching those itches.

  A guy stopped and stared at me for a moment, clearly checking me out. I turned away, ignoring him. A lot of men get it; a lot don't. This was one who didn't. He moved back into my line of vision, perhaps thinking a second look was all I needed to succumb to his charm. I turned back to my drink, offering him a good look at a cold shoulder.