Lesbian Pulp Fiction. Katherine V. Forrest
the run-of-the-mill problems. You’re riding the horns of a most serious dilemma.” As Beth spoke, the moon hid behind a cloud.
In the thickened dark, Peggy began to swing her legs, feet splashing lightly.
“I can sympathize with you probably better than anyone else you know,” Beth said sadly. “I want to help you, Peggy. I—”
Peggy jumped erect on the dock. “I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want your help—or your pity or anything else…” She grabbed her shoes. “Just leave me alone,” she sobbed hurrying away.
“Peggy!” The nurse scrambled to her feet. “Peggy, wait a minute.”
As Beth tore after her, Peggy broke into a run. She was rounding the far end of the bathhouse, planning on a cut through the woods to the seclusion of her cabin.
The sand was cool and damp on her bare feet. She stopped crying, took a deep breath, clutched her shoes to her chest and sprinted across the beach. She could hear Beth running across the wooden planks of the bathhouse float, taking a shortcut in hopes of catching up.
Peggy stumbled, dropped a shoe. She backtracked, picked it up, started on her way. Beth, right behind her now, caught her by the arm, knocking her off balance. Peggy sprawled on the ground.
“I wasn’t finished,” Beth said breathlessly.
Peggy sat up. She glanced at the nurse, then away. She contemplated the beach in front of her. The moon emerged from the masking cloud, rendering the sand a silvery gray.
“Don’t you see?” Beth asked, dropping down next to Peggy. “It won’t do you any good to run away. Face things squarely. Get yourself under control.”
Peggy said sullenly, “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, that’s all.” She pulled on her shoes. “You said it’s partly your fault. Well, it’s not Beth. You can’t help the way I am, any more than you can help the way you are. It’s not your fault at all. Besides, you’ve done me a lot of good. Really, you have.” She was looking at the nurse now, talking to her rather than some spot on the ground. “You were doing lots of good even before—before anything happened between us, before I told you I heard you that night down here. Just being with you has always made me feel better.”
Beth waited until she was certain Peggy had finished. “I understand,” she said. “And I’m glad. But now that I know what’s bugging you, I can do you even more good. I can open your eyes to what lesbianism is, Peggy. It’s not a game, or a habit you fall into or out of at will. A lesbian is something you are—or aren’t. If—”
“How do you know I’m not?” Peggy demanded.
Beth’s gaze did not waver. “How do you know you are?”
“Because I’ve had a taste of being one. Because I want it more than I want love with boys.”
“Peggy, try to understand. You were here, one day, at a strange place, with strange people—strange girls. You learned another girl wanted to seduce you. You were terrified by the prospect, but at the same time excited. After that, a row with your boy friend. Tensions mounted. And then—” Beth hesitated—“then you found out what it is like to make love with another woman. That served as both an emotional and a physical release, and a powerful one. So you decided you were a lesbian.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. I only know that a few minutes ago, when I saw you, I was bursting with want of you. I wanted you to kiss me, thrill me—and instead, you pitied me.” Peggy paused. “Beth, you said yourself I’d find out eventually whether I were a true lesbian. So what difference does it make if I find out here, now, this summer with you—or if I wait till next year or some other time?”
Beth looked at the girl steadily. “Because if you wait only six months, that will be six months’ less torment for you.”
Peggy frowned. “Is it really that bad?”
Beth nodded emphatically in the moon’s platinum glare.
“What I can’t understand,” Peggy said, “is your concern. Someone must have initiated you, and I’m sure you didn’t hate her.”
“It’s not that I’m worried about your hating me some day, Peggy.”
“Yet it means something to you that I don’t succumb.”
“Of course it means something.”
“But why?” Peggy demanded. “Why should you care? You enjoyed our sex together as much as I did. You must still want me. And you certainly know that I want you. So why can’t we please each other? Why can’t we act the way we want to when we’re alone? What difference does it make, as long as we both know what we’re doing—as long as we both want to? Why should you care what I am, what I become, if we can be happy together even for a little time? Why should it bother you if I become a confirmed lesbian because of this summer?” Peggy gazed up into the nurse’s eyes. “Why, Beth?”
“Because I love you.”
Beth sucked in her breath, completely startled by her own words. Obviously, she had not meant to go so far.
Her eyes locked with Peggy’s. Then the nurse recovered herself and broke the trance.
Forcing a smile, she said, “Yes. I mean in my own peculiar way, I feel affection for you. A kind of motherly love, you might call it. A protective instinct.”
“You’re not old enough to be my mother,” Peggy said quietly.
“Well, I sort of feel that way toward all the girls at camp. I love them all—you know?”
Peggy shifted position so her body was closer to the nurse’s. “Beth, you don’t have to hide it. Don’t you know that I love you, too?”
Peggy had not considered it before, but now she was certain of her feelings for this woman who had befriended her, stood up for her, guided her in a strange, new kind of consummation.
Before coming to this camp, never in her wildest imaginings would Peggy have conceived of two women making declarations of love to each other. Yet it did not now strike her in the least strange that Beth and she were speaking to each other as if one of them were of the opposite sex. The only thing strange, as far as Peggy was concerned, was that she had not realized before that she was truly, gloriously, irrevocably in love with Beth.
Yes—she was wholly certain of her feelings for this woman who had befriended her, defended her, and guided her to the most profound physical fulfillment.
“Oh, I do love you,” Peggy swore. “I need you. Why can’t we make each other happy? Why must we fight ourselves? Why can’t I touch you—” Peggy’s hand reached out, her fingers trailing over Beth’s cheek—“feel how soft and delightful you are, whenever I want to? That’s not wrong, is it, Beth—to want someone, want to touch her? It’s not wrong when you love somebody, is it?”
Beth brushed a wisp of hair from Peggy’s face. “No, Peggy, it’s not wrong. But we must be sensible and draw the line. There’s no reason we can’t see each other often, have our usual talks, go—”
“Everything but make love, right? Well, I’m sorry, Beth. Sex is a part of love. Everyone knows that. I can’t be with you and not want you—and I won’t fight it anymore. So make up your mind. Either we must part entirely—or you must be mine entirely.” Peggy rose.
Beth reached out, pulled the girl down. “Why do we always have to argue?”
“We don’t have to.” There were tears in Peggy’s eyes.
“Peggy—” It was barely a whisper.
In the silence that followed, the two hearts were pounding as one. Bathed in moonlight,