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Through it all, I found it hard to look at him: The wonderful smell of this man made me want to laugh out loud with pleasure, as did the lovely, slightly mannered, slightly pompous way he spoke (so like my own slightly mannered, slightly pompous speech).And I recognized in that delight, to my great surprise, desire.When the subject shifted to an activist group she was part of, I said I’d be glad to help, if they needed a lesbian on their board. “You can’t call yourself that anymore.”I had not been not surprised when my fiancé’s friends — Washington insiders with the respect for convention that city inspires — expressed shock when they discovered I was a dyke.
Then, one by one, the men come to my fiancé and say, with evident concern, “Do you know that she’s a lesbian? “I know.” Their wives are a little less friendly after that, but they are scrupulously polite.We talked about languages we speak — Arabic, Portuguese, pidgin, lousy French — and Shakespeare plays we love, of which he could quote an impressive amount.He told me about early navigation by stars, about having been a race-car mechanic at Monaco, climbing the world's tallest mountains, his former work with NASA, his current work with a commercial space company charged with being the garbage collectors of the International Space Station, delivering underwear and chocolate bars to the space station and picking up its trash.(“We want to get a divorce,” she says of the husband she adores, “so we can go back to being lovers.” They married for the sake of immigration ease but object on principle to the state’s interference in private lives).Deirdre affectionately calls my fiancé Hem, short for Hemingway, because he is tall and built and owns a rifle and has hunted lion in Africa and has climbed most of the big mountains in the world and builds rockets for a living and a hobby. What about two men sharing a bedroom with twin beds?