John stopped his snail's pace demolition and regained some of his deep voice. "No, this is the only thing that does matter, the only f.u.c.king thing."

I heard his fax machine whirring on the other end. The one-page agreement was coming through my end. His signature - he had such beautiful handwriting, remember? - was half of a scrawl.

"Is it alright?" he asked. "Is it alright?"

"It's perfect," I said. "Your story is perfect; everyone is going to be blown away. You're going to make grown straight men cry."

You know, like Russ Meyer.

I have Preston's contracts in my drawers and all his beautiful books on my shelves. His Flesh and the Word collections were my inspirations for Best American Erotica. The truth was, gay writers, every year through the nineties, wrote "the best" erotic fiction in America, and everyone else was only struggling in the back of the heat.

Why were they better? Because their audience was not sitting around wondering whether it was okay to be s.e.xual, to be a man, to have a s.e.xual literate mind. They demanded it.

Women, our intended audience, were just crawling out of their eggs. Was it okay to be a mature woman? Was a wh.o.r.e's integrity something to cherish? Did our education, our power, add up to something that wasn't only maternal?

Straight men, or "ostensibly straight men," as John would have said ... they were so guilty. Drowning in the muck of it. Loathing themselves, hiding, unable to see the beauty in themselves or any other man.

Most of the businessmen I met in the s.e.x trade were like that ... not okay about s.e.x. Deluded with the material payoff. As s.e.xist as ... Archie Bunker. Their question to me was the same question as square America's: What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?

In the late eighties, I made a movie show-and-tell called All Girl Action: The History of Lesbian Eroticism in Hollywood All Girl Action: The History of Lesbian Eroticism in Hollywood. I put all of my most thought-provoking film clips inside it. Russ let me have a print of Vixen, the first American feature to include a lesbian s.e.x scene - and perhaps the most amusing one produced to this day.

We premiered my show at the art deco Castro Theater in San Francisco at the annual gay film festival. One of the festival veterans, Bob Hawke, was instrumental in making sure I could show each clip in its original medium: 16 mm, 35 mm, Betamax, whatever. We had four different projectors set up for every movie format.

After the festival, I wanted to settle in with Bob for a long pot-filled evening of queer film gossip, but I couldn't find him. His number was disconnected. A volunteer at the festival interrupted my search, grim-faced - "Bob's gone, Susie," she said. "He said he just couldn't live anymore."

What was this treachery? I didn't know anything about his personal life. What happened? I couldn't process the losses anymore.

In 1999, I was invited to speak at a Los Angeles film conference. I walked into our panel's auditorium and directly into the black-polo-shirt-covered chest of Bob Hawke. I was all made up for the cameras, but it was for naught - my mascara streamed down my cheeks in tears.

"I thought you were dead!" I cried - the first time I've ever greeted anyone with those words. I hit his chest with my fists.

Bob held me tight but struggled with an explanation: "No, no," he said. "I just ... I just dropped out for a while. I should have told you - a lot of people - I should have ..."

He asked me if I had seen a new movie he'd produced, Chasing Amy.

One of the event producers pa.s.sed me a handful of Kleenex. "Uh-uh, I haven't," I said. "It's supposed about lesbians, right? When did you start producing movies?"

This was the opposite of suicide, right?

Bob got a strange look on his face. "Well, lesbians, not really. It's more about ... you!" Then he flinched, as if I might punch him again. "Actually, you should see it. You really should."

I came home, and wondered why Chasing Amy was about me. I had not been chased lately. Why had no one said anything to me? Were all my friends too sn.o.bby to see a Hollywood film about lesbians? Probably. I rented the video.

Chasing Amy turned out to be a story about a slacker who falls for a bis.e.xual d.y.k.e. She's blond, femme, tough. He's a square guy - not a d.y.k.e daddy - and not at all sure if it's okay to be with someone as "open" as Amy.

Every word that comes out of the heroine's mouth blows the young man's puritanical mind. But he likes it. There's a scene where Amy's on a swing at a playground, and she starts talking to him about s.e.x: ALYSSA "f.u.c.king" is not limited to penetration ... "f.u.c.king" is not limited to penetration ... HOLDEN HOLDEN Well where's the penetration in lesbian s.e.x? Well where's the penetration in lesbian s.e.x? She holds up her hand. She holds up her hand. HOLDEN (CON'T) HOLDEN (CON'T) A finger? Come on. I've had my finger in my a.s.s but I wouldn't say I've had a.n.a.l s.e.x. A finger? Come on. I've had my finger in my a.s.s but I wouldn't say I've had a.n.a.l s.e.x. ALYSSA ALYSSA Did I hold up a finger? Did I hold up a finger? She waves her hand. She waves her hand. HOLDEN HOLDEN (A beat; then he gets it) (A beat; then he gets it) You're kidding?!?! You're kidding?!?! She nods. She nods. HOLDEN (CON'T) HOLDEN (CON'T) How ... ?!? How ... ?!? ALYSSA ALYSSA Our bodies are built to pa.s.s a child, for Christ's sake. Our bodies are built to pa.s.s a child, for Christ's sake.

It was so strange to hear a conversation of mine coming out of her mouth on my television set.

The two characters proceed to have an affair. The boy rejects Alyssa not for being a d.y.k.e, but for having f.u.c.ked around too much ... she has been the high school "s.l.u.t." Ah, that was familiar, too.

I wrote to Bob that I had published a new book, a little further afield than Amy. It was called Nothing But the Girl, a book of lesbian erotic photography. The book had a dedication, which I copied for him: This book is dedicated to all the lesbian artists who would not, could not, and cannot imagine being in this collection: because you fear for your job because you fear for your jobbecause you fear abandonmentbecause your lover is a closet casebecause your family is ashamed of youbecause someone threatened to take your kids awaybecause the academy didn't like itbecause the gallery disdained itbecause your estate does not wish to cooperatebecause it's politically incorrectbecause it's politically inopportunebecause you don't approve of the word "lesbian"because you don't approve of the word "d.y.k.e"because you don't approve of "p.o.r.n"because you think s.e.x should really be privatebecause it was different when you grew upbecause you don't see the point in bringing this out into the openbecause you don't feel like living anymorebecause you didn't mean it that waybecause you're locked upbecause you're doped upbecause what did lesbians ever do for you, anywaybecause it hurts to be criticized and cut downbecause people are cruelbecause you're not a herobecausethe first cutthank youis the deepest

Motherhood

You can house their bodies but not their thoughts.

They have their own thoughts.

You can house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls live in a place called tomorrow, Which you can't visit, not even in your dreams.

- Kahlil GibranI got pregnant in 1989, when I was thirty-two, the same age as my mother when she had me. I was due in early June, which inspired a flood of Gemini good wishes from my got pregnant in 1989, when I was thirty-two, the same age as my mother when she had me. I was due in early June, which inspired a flood of Gemini good wishes from my On Our Backs On Our Backs readers, who were as surprised and curious as everyone else. readers, who were as surprised and curious as everyone else.

"Did you inseminate or did you party?" asked Marika at our Christmas party. I laughed so hard, she said, "Oh! You partied."

I did party. But I also was falling in love. And then out of it. My bis.e.xual heart was in a bit of torment.

It was the eve of a baby boom - I didn't know any other women my age who were taking the plunge. They'd all done it a lot earlier, or had foresworn the whole racket - that would've included me.

My daughter-to-be, Aretha Elizabeth Bright, surprised me in every way - including her late-June Cancerian arrival. She had eyes like dark moons, and when the midwife put her in my arms, she looked into me like no one has ever looked at me before.

When Aretha was six months old, a neighbor of mine saw us walking home from the grocery store, baby tucked into her stroller, a loaf of bread sticking out between her curly head and the diaper bag.

"Look at you!" he exclaimed, as if a figure of the Madonna and Child had sprung to life. Well, I didn't mind if he wanted to make a fuss. The oxytocin was flowing through my veins.

This old codger, Mr. Hera, had always taken a dim view of what he knew about me from the newspapers - he'd make a chauvinist what's-the-world-coming-to? remark whenever we ran into each other on garbage night.

He leaned over to admire Aretha's little face, then looked up at me with a smile: "Now, isn't this the very best thing you've ever done with your life?"

I covered my eyes with my hands and laughed. "On no, Mr. Hera, please, don't ruin it." Then I straightened up and touched his shoulder. I'm a few inches taller than him. "You know, Mr. Hera, you're right, you're right - more than you even know."

My pregnancy and my daughter's life worked on me like True North. I had to Protect the Baby, but I ended up Protecting Me. My maternal certainty was a tonic. I knew whom I had to defend. Malingerers, fakers, and self-destructive impulses were red-tagged and booted. I had a magnet in me for doing the right thing.

How could someone like me, who got pregnant by accident, unpartnered, uncertain of her future, find motherhood so gifted? Is there really a time to every purpose under heaven?

When I was pregnant and staring at my enormous navel, I wondered if this was my comeuppance. All the time I spent as a child fuming, crying, hiding, swearing I would never put another human being through such cruelties as were visited upon me ... Would I now be humbled?

I did get pregnant unexpectedly. I spent the first thirty-one years of my life being either a lesbian or a complete martinet about birth control and all of sudden ... I got sloppy. It was out of character. So was my pregnancy test ... I burst into tears when I got a (false) negative. "It can't be true; it can't be true!" I sobbed in the car next to my friend who drove me home from my doctor's appointment. She was bewildered at my rage and tears. "But you never wanted to have children!" she said.

That was true. I could convince anyone about zero population growth; I would rant about the narcissism of parental conceits. I'd written articles on why a woman's worth is not the sum of her womb. I'd write them all over again, too.

But the real reason I couldn't imagine having a baby was that I was afraid of my temper, afraid of doing those things for which you can't ever fully apologize. I knew that my mom had been "sorry" that she had hit me (after all, it wasn't as bad as she'd been hit). She didn't remember threatening me (after all, we did survive). Maybe it was my fault sometimes; isn't that what kids think? Mommy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It changed nothing for her. But then, her actions had very little to do with me.

If I stayed pregnant, if I had the baby, I had to take a vow. But a real vow entails keeping your promise ... could I keep a pact that had been broken to me, however much in sorrow? Could I say to my daughter, "I will never hit you, I will never lose you. I will never hide the truth from you, I will never try to extinguish you?"

It's not like anyone "planned" to do differently with me.

My conception appeared madcap to many of my friends. Yet I think I had a lot better idea of what I was getting into than my mom did when she was thirty-two.

I had a soft spot for the man I conceived with, but we knew we weren't destined for longevity, nor he for any kind of parenting. We talked about it frankly. I told him, "I'll never ask you for anything, but I know, wherever you are, you'll be proud of her." He asked me to take care of his family belongings before he went on the road again - I knew he trusted me. He was the High Plains Drifter, shimmering into disappearance in the heat.

Rotation

I met Jon shortly before I got pregnant; we became lovers and friends and stayed that way for the next twenty-some years. met Jon shortly before I got pregnant; we became lovers and friends and stayed that way for the next twenty-some years.

I met him because my tires needed to be balanced. He will tell you that I arrived at the mechanic's garage in a black catsuit, like Emma Peel, and that I tried to lure him away to a beach down the coast where everyone strips off their clothes and huddles, making love in driftwood caves that other nudists erected to protect themselves from the wind.

It's true, I flirted with him; but it was because he was a really good talker, handsome, and completely alone in a run-down tire shop in the Outer Sunset. It was such a sweet escape to have a moment of screwball comedy in the Ocean Beach fog.

He didn't come away with me the first time. The only remembrance from the tire shop is that we kissed goodbye, my low-profile tires beckoning. I don't think I'd ever kissed my mechanic before.

He kept my number, which I'd scrawled down on the credit card receipt, and six months after our meeting, he left a message at my office: "Do your tires need rotating?"

My whole life needed rotating.

We both had other lovers, we both had messy breakups, we both had recently ended relationships with "older women" whom we cared for dearly. We also had a talent for putting ourselves in peril by climbing into bed with some scary characters. I remember once when my current shady character and his scary girl sought each other out and took each other to bed. It was two con artists sizing each other up. They wanted to see what the other one was capable of. Maybe they wanted to compare notes on the thrills of f.u.c.king Raggedy Ann and Andy. The bandits competed to see who was the most deadly. It was a draw.

During my thirtieth year I had started seeing a therapist, and even though she barely said a word, there is something about sitting in a room talking to yourself, a kind face across from you nodding at your every word, that is bound to reveal a few things.

I made a joke to her one day, "Well, I have to say, at least my new friend Jon isn't trying to kill me or himself or anybody else." He took great care. Everyone enjoys those qualities in a lover. But at my low ebb, distressed at breaking up with Honey Lee and embarra.s.sed by my leaps into the abyss, Jon was like a hand that unexpectedly reached out to me. It wasn't a matter of whether I was attracted, or not - I just had to grab it. I grabbed - and my attraction grew exponentially.

Jon has a good story from when he worked as a marine rescue guard in the oceans of the northern California coast. He saved people from drowning, and retrieved corpses from the water. One day, his crew got a message that there was a woman, fully clothed, ranting and raving and dog-paddling out beyond the city wharf. The Fire Department directed one of their swimmers, Logan, to jump in with Jon and swim out to the victim with a raft. Logan approached the woman, his red lifeguard float in front of him, and called out, "Grab onto this."

The vic yelled back, "Get that away from me; it's just an extension of your p.e.n.i.s!"

The woman was a strong swimmer, albeit intoxicated, and not yet fatigued by the cold. Jon swam a little closer to her. He complimented her great swimming; he suggested that they could swim together, that he'd follow her. He was counting on her not being in condition to last out there too much longer. Her fantastic gender lecture notes grew quieter, less frequent. All three of them started paddling down the surf line; as she tired, they harnessed her with the rescue float.

I think I wore out, too, though perhaps not as gracefully. Pregnancy gave me such a new kind of appet.i.te. I was hungry for someone whose patience preceded him.

My first trimester was biblical. Each promise, made in great sincerity, came to pa.s.s. The family members who drew close to me at that time were in love with Aretha from the time she was an unnamed twinkle. Jon, who is her dad in every sense of devotion. G.o.dmother Honey Lee, her second home. Aunt Temma and Tracey. Auntie Shar. My dad, his wife and family. And my mom, too. For an only child without a ring on my finger, I was loved, and Aretha was cherished, in one abundant circle after another.

My mom's the one who sealed the deal on picking her name. I'd been reading baby name books until my eyes were crossed. I sent Elizabeth a list of a few that I liked, including "Aretha."

My mother wrote back the next day, with great excitement. "Oh Susie, Aretha is Greek for 'the very best,' the most outstanding and virtuous. That is the perfect name for the perfect baby." She wrote the Greek letters out in cursive.

Neither of my parents knew one thing about R&B, or about most popular music. The day after I got my mother's message, my father sent me a color travel postcard of the stone ruins of G.o.ddess Aretha's Grecian temple, which lies in what is now Turkey.

Only Bill and Elizabeth, of all the people in the world, would respond to the name "Aretha" with the enthusiasm of the antiquities.

I knew family ghosts don't go away. I've enjoyed the beneficial ones. But I knew that abuse loves reruns. Penance and exorcisms don't work. I still needed a plan to keep my promise to be "a good mom," something stronger than good intentions.

I would probably lose my equilibrium - or come close to it. I confided to Jon, "If I f.u.c.k up, I have to tell another adult what happened, right away, and get some help picking up the pieces."

It made Jon cry; he knew how hard this was. He had been raised with the same "discipline methods" and tempers as I was. We were sitting on my bed; I was folding my Grandma Bright's pillowcases.

"Plus, if I lose my temper, I have to tell her that I was wrong - and that there's no excuse for it. ..." I looked up at him. "You know, I think you can tell your kid those things no matter how old they are. They know what's going on."

And it came to pa.s.s. I remember calling Jon from the pink bathroom in our apartment when Aretha was three. I had yelled at her and pinched her arm hard. I was a dragon. It was over nothing, of course. I had done the full Halloran Vicious Intimidation. It was like falling off a log.

I can't see the truth when I'm losing my marbles - but five minutes after the explosion, I can. You imagine you're going to feel so great when you unload on someone - and instead you despise yourself.

Jon came over. He stayed and stayed and stayed, and I realized that, wow, proximity to another grown-up was 90 percent of the battle. If there's more than one of you in the room, one can go crack up and take a cold shower while the othersteps in.

People talk all the time about the benefits of a "couple" taking turns parenting - but let's face it, there were lots of times we could have used a third, and a fourth.

I broke the physical abuse regime in my family tree. That gives me awestruck pause. But I didn't stop using my mean mouth with my loved ones. I could take a time machine back two centuries and there would probably be waiting for me a redheaded woman with her freckles practically popping off her face when she loses her temper.

When Aretha was eleven, she'd reached that age when we could start to have deeper talks about stuff. One day we drove to the drugstore for shampoo and lemonade. I parked the car in the shade and said, "You know, I realize things are usually fine - we work things out when we have a problem. But there're times when I go off on a tear, and you probably know by now, there's a tone to my voice when I'm not being rational."

She nodded, wary that I was considering a demonstration.

I wanted to continue without crying. I felt like I was handing her a secret weapon. "I know you can tell from one word when I'm messed up." I exhaled. "And I want to tell you now - 'cause I can't tell you when I'm angry - that you should just turn your back and walk away from me."

Aretha's brown eyes got just a little bit bigger. "But you won't ..."

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I won't like it. I'll try to get you to stay and argue with me. It won't be cute."

She nodded her head, like, Duh.

"But don't worry about me; I'll be fine. As soon as I'm standing alone in a room with no one to hear my bulls.h.i.t, it's like a pail of cold water. I sober up fast. I don't want you to stand there and take it, like I used to; it's poisonous.

Aretha winced. She didn't like hearing about my mom and me, like we had a hereditary bad seed.

"Honey, seriously, if you stand up to bullies, sometimes all it takes is turning your back on their nonsense. Let 'em try talking to your dust."

"But what if you get mad?"

"I'm already crazy, totally crazy, when I'm in that zone. But when I can't lash out at you, I come to my senses sooner, and I will always be so sorry. I'll be so proud of you for not putting up with it."

"I don't know, Mom. Why do you have to go there in the first place?"

I could see her point. She had that prep.u.b.escent wisdom. I think today she would possess more understanding of where an irrational outburst comes from, and more sympathy. But children's innocence is correct. Why would I need to tell my loved ones to take cover and spray me with Mace if I could just control myself?

People ask me all the time about how I've parented my daughter, hoping for some s.e.x education tips. "When should I say 'X'? When should I tell them 'Y'?" They want their kids to be confident, s.e.xually savvy, not neurotic like their own generation.

What you tell your kids is so ... secondary. It's what you do, what you do every day, that they'll learn from.