Rubyfruit Jungle

by Rita Mae Brown

Why does it get to me? Why can’t I just write off those people the way they write me off? Why does it always get through and hurt?

Polina had no idea to what

lengths I was willing to go and neither did I.

Oh well, maybe the only beauty left in cities is in the oil slicks on the road and maybe there isn’t any beauty left in the people who live in these places.

Her eyes widened and she started to balk, but I wasn’t in a sympathetic mood.

Women kissing women is beautiful. And women making love together is dynamite. So why don’t you just let yourself go and get into it.”

So here she was and how convenient it was too because I had half forced her into it. This way she could avoid responsibility for making love with another woman; the wine helped a lot on that account too.

“When I make love to women I think of their genitals as a, as a rubyfruit jungle.” “Rubyfruit jungle?” “Yeah, women are thick and rich and full of hidden treasures and besides that, they taste good.”

But I could sense Polina and I weren’t going to have much of a relationship. I couldn’t survive the stories, and I couldn’t understand why they were about men.

I tried to ignore the sex, but Polina was getting more and more into it.

“You know Mom wants to sleep with me?” “Oh yeah?” “She won’t admit it but I know she does. I think I’d like to sleep with her. She’s very good looking, you know. Too bad it would freak her out. Incest doesn’t seem like such a trauma to me.”

There were times when I felt lonelier with them than without them.

But if I had money maybe I could slip out of that dilemma. I mean, if I had money I wouldn’t be at the mercy of chance, peanut intellects, and amputated emotions so much. With money you can protect yourself.

Amphibians must think we’re inferior creatures since we can’t go in and out of the water the way they can. Besides being biologically superior, that ole frog is more together than I am. That frog doesn’t want to make movies. That frog hasn’t even seen movies and furthermore that frog doesn’t give a big damn. It just swims, eats, makes love, and sings as it pleases. Whoever heard of a neurotic frog? Where do humans get off thinking they’re the pinnacle of evolution?

I congratulated myself on being small enough and skinny enough to slip through the drainpipe.

The lady behind the counter told me Mrs. Hershener hung herself three years ago and not a soul knew why.

there was Leota—same cat eyes, same languid body, but oh God, she looked forty-five years old and she had two brats hanging on her like possums. I looked twenty-four. She saw herself in my reflection and there was a flicker of pain in her eyes.

you afraid you’ll get killed in the streets—all them Puerto Ricans and niggers?” “No.” There was an awkward silence. “Not that whites can’t be violent too. But you’re up there where all kinds of people are bunched together. I’m not prejudiced, you understand.”

“Are you married yet?” “Don’t you remember? I told you when we were kids that I was never getting married. I kept my promise.” “Oh, you just haven’t met the right man.”

I want to make the movies, not be one of the pawns in them.”

“Leota, have you ever thought about that night we spent together?” Her back stiffened and her eyes receded. “No, never.”

“I don’t think about those kinds of things. I’m a mother.” “What does that do, shut down the part of your brain that remembers the past?”

You one of those sickies? I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all, a pretty girl like you. You could have lots of men. You have more choices than I did here in this place.” “I thought you said you liked your husband.”

“Leota, I will never marry.” “You’re crazy. A woman’s got to marry. What’s going to happen to you when you’re fifty? You got to grow old with somebody. You’re going to be sorry.”

What a gruesome thought. Christ, you’re twenty-four and you’re worried about being fifty. That makes no sense.”

“Let’s stop this shit. I love women. I’ll never marry a man and I’ll never marry a woman either. That’s not my way. I’m a devil-may-care lesbian.”

At least in New York City I can be more than a breeder of the next generation.

Professor Walgren, head of the department and dedicated misogynist,

Pornoviolence was in this year and all the men were busy shooting bizarre fuck scenes with cuts of pigs beating up people at the Chicago convention spliced between the sexual encounters.

“All right then. Go put your stuff in the back room but mind, no women are coming to this house while you’re in it—not even the Avon lady. You hear me?”

You don’t have to worry about taking care of me, girl.” “I’m not worried.” “See, you don’t care.

“You said I wasn’t your child and you were glad of it.” “Oh no, I didn’t. I never said such a thing.” “Mom, you did.”

He studied me and then with a resigned sigh: “It’s just as well. You ain’t the kind to settle down. You always said that but I didn’t listen to you.”

Doc told Carl he was crazy to be with another woman. One was enough, was his thought. Put a paper bag over their head and women are all the same. Why couldn’t Carl be happy with the one he’s got? I was right in the room when the doctor said that. At least Doc was on my side. I was a good wife.

Thirty-one years ago and her life froze in that year.

He grew to love you. Loved you as much as if you were his own. Course you didn’t turn out like I expected but you’re still mine. All I got in this world.”

You go out there and marry some man and he’ll keep you. You’ll have money then. You’ll be sorry. There’s no security with a woman.” “Hell, you married a man and you didn’t have money. And security—you’re secure when you’re dead.”

“Mom, I don’t hate you. We’re different people, strongwilled people. We don’t always see eye to eye. That’s why we fought so much. I don’t hate you.”

I wished I could walk down the streets and not hear those constant, abrasive sounds from the mouths of the opposite sex.