Lesbian Life Underground in Milan

The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.

Literally...

Four young women, standing on the Milan metro platform at 11ish pm. One is tall with a mohawk hairstyle and a tender face. The rest wear their long hair gathered up in loose buns at the tops of their youthful heads. One of the blond ones, in cargo pants and chic glasses, hugs the brunette one who's just her size. Are they consoling each other? Or just drunk? What are they doing out so late (what am *I* doing out so late?...It's my last night in Milan and I'm on my own, coming back from the Navigli canal area, where I took myself to dinner at El Brellin).

They're not drunk. They're perfectly alert and they see me, and the men, watching them. They begin kissing ardently, as though they're alone, or as though they're showing off for an easy audience.

Am I under the influence of alcohol? No, I don't drink. Am I seeing a mirage? I flash back to another business trip: Miami, early-July, 2001, when a gorgeous couple of young women emerge from the ocean, naked, holding hands and walking gracefully past me up the beach. No one comments. Most try to pretend they don't notice. Both times, in Miami and in Milan, I express a little smile, of gratitude for their gorgeous display of affection, of desire, of rueful longing for the days when I was similarly youthful, of love and affiliation.

When the Milan subway-train arrives, I enter their car. In their continual, contrasting, chaste-ness, the mohawk-sporter and the other blond-bunned woman sit across from the couple, ignoring their behavior like indulgent, ennui-filled parent-figures. At first, the woman in glasses stands in front of the other one, doing a little dance with their knees. When she sits down, her girlfriend leans into her and they begin kissing again, but just briefly. This time, again, most seem not to notice, other than me, who is further delighted and trying not to be too baldly voyeuristic, and an older woman at the far end of the subway-car. Her expression is angry, disgusted and transforms into one of dissatisfaction when she catches my eye and I do not mirror her apparent revulsion.

My stop, the Duomo, is next. We arrive, and I hate to get off the train. As I exit, I force myself not to turn around for one more look at the bold young women.

Everything Is Relative

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

...Especially Age

Pausing to see how wild my hair looks as I pass the locker-room mirror after my shower this morning, I'm referred to by a pretty, shiny-white-haired woman. She looks at another woman and speaks to her while pointing to me, "When I see you and that young lady [she's referring to me!], swimming, I feel like a has-been. You're such strong swimmers."

I'm caught off-guard. Me, young? Her comment's so gratifying, but I feel bad to have prompted her sense that she lacks vigor. How can I respond graciously? I blow it: "Thank you and I hope to be swimming for a long time [like you obviously have been doing]." I slink to my locker, feeling ill-equipped socially.

Changing from my white beach-towel into my gray, wool suit and purple, cashmere turtleneck for work, I flash back to Monday evening, my first class of the Spring semester in my Education Masters program.

Understanding What It's Like to Feel Ancient

There are two others among the overflowing 14 of us, who are my age or older. Otherwise, everyone in the room looks to be directly out of ungrad., and most are women.

I'm torn: They're beautiful and at the same time, I'm feeling competitive with them in terms of appearance, and in despair that I cannot compete; it's my classic dilemma as a competitive lesbian: Often, when I see a gorgeous woman, I am moved by her beauty and then cannot just purely enjoy it; I compare myself to her.

Now, I need to share how I relate to this older woman's experience with her:

"Excuse me [I must speak up, as she's apparently hard of hearing], excuse me; your compliment made my day and I need to tell you that your point about feeling like a has-been reminded me of how I felt on Monday night. I'm 42, and I'm back in school, for my Masters."

"Oh, that's nice. In what?"

I tell her and she tells me that she went back for her Masters in Education, also, at 41.

"Your point about feeling older reminded me of how I felt in class on Monday night. So many of my classmates were so, so much younger than I, and I felt bad...but there's a happy ending to both our stories, if you think about it: I'm still in school and you're still in the pool."

"That rhymes!"

"Yes, but you get my point, right? We're very alive, being where we are."

"I'm 77 and I wish the rest of me looked as good as my hair," she said. "After all that, what's your name?"

We introduced ourselves and I felt so much lighter afterwards. To a 77-year-old, I guess I am a young lady.