Old And Young Lesbian Stories

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Old And Young Lesbian Stories
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DEAR DEIDRE My wife has left me for our son's headteacher and the whole town are talking
BOTTLED IT My fiancé swears at me and puts me down every time he gets drunk
NOT-SO-SWEET DREAMS I fantasise about my wife's friends when we make love
HARD AT WORK My new job makes me feel so stressed that I've started having panic attacks
DEAR DEIDRE: I’M having a lesbian affair with my mother-in-law, and I am terrified my husband will find out.
Last year, he and I moved in with his parents so we’d be in a bubble for lockdown and they could help with the kids.
Most people moan or joke about their mother-in-law but I’ve always got on really well with mine.
She has a great sense of humour, is kind and looks great for 53.
She had my husband very young — he’s 35 and I’m 40.
She and my father-in-law have had a rocky marriage for years, and just before Christmas they split up, and he moved out.
One night, my husband was at work and the kids were in bed when she suggested we have a drink together and watch a film.
I noticed she was really dolled up and looked beautiful.
In the middle of the film she started crying and confessed she’s a lesbian — that was why her marriage had ended. I comforted and cuddled her, and then she kissed me.
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It felt strange, but really nice, so I kissed her back. She led me up to her bedroom and I didn’t protest. I’ve never had sex with a woman before but it was amazing and so intense.
Since then, we’ve kept on doing it whenever we can. As soon as my husband leaves the room, we have a kiss, and sometimes I’ll sneak into her bed when he’s sleeping.
One night, I fell asleep in her arms. The only reason we didn’t get caught was because my husband had a lie-in.
My feelings for her are growing stronger and I’m sure my husband will notice the looks between us, or catch us in bed. I want to be with her but don’t want to hurt him.
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DEIDRE SAYS: You know that if your husband finds out this will destroy not only your relationship with him, but his relationship with his mother – and your whole family.
He will be devastated that the two people he loves and trusts most in the world have let him down.
His mum may have turned to you for comfort, but encourage her to find support elsewhere and a relationship with somebody else.
Do you really think this relationship has a future? If not, maybe best stop now.
My support pack Can’t Be Faithful? may help to clarify things for you.
As for your marriage, are you still happy with your husband?
I’d advise you both to move back to your own home as soon as you can, and work on rebuilding your relationship.
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This article is more than 7 years old
This article is more than 7 years old
Jan tasted of Drambuie, smelt of Charlie perfume and, most importantly, was in the same gay club as me that chilly night in 1978
Julie Bindel aged 14. 'I could barely breathe with the excitement of being in love.'

Photograph: Collect/North News & Pictures Ltd
Fri 19 Dec 2014 11.03 GMT Last modified on Wed 11 Nov 2020 17.12 GMT
Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
I t was 23 December, 1978, and Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody was bouncing off the walls of the Casablanca club. I was only 16, too young to buy alcohol, so my friend David, camp as a row of tents in his bell-bottom Brutus jeans and tight cheesecloth T-shirt, and with tinsel around his neck, pushed his way to the bar to order two pints of lager and blackcurrant.
Maybe because it was Christmas , even the few straight men in the club looked gay. Spirits were high as the lesbians and gays danced and chatted, drowning out the dread of a closeted Christmas Day, during which relatives would ask the inevitable: “So, when will you be getting married?”
I had never been out in Newcastle before, and had travelled to the Toon from my home in Darlington with David, who worked in the same hair salon as me. Prior to that, I had been out only in Middlesbrough, where there was a small club that, once a week, admitted lesbians and gay men.
But on this occasion I had been persuaded to branch out and try to meet a nice girl to kiss under the mistletoe. My efforts at dating in the year I had been out as a lesbian had been somewhat unsuccessful. Aside from fiddling around a bit with a schoolfriend, on whom I had a massive crush – and who was off quicker than a rat up a drainpipe when we were “found out” – there had been only the odd snog in the back row of the cinema with unsuitable, self-hating lezzers I had met through the befriending section of Gay Times magazine.
It was not easy to be out and proud in the 1970s. It was perfectly understandable that the young women I met through Gay Times were scared and short on confidence. The stigma was intense, and being called “queer” and “dyke” in public kept us in a perpetual state of fear.
Meeting David in the salon meant I could have fun, as well as look for political activists. I was already a member of the north-east branch of the Campaign for Homosexual Equality (CHE) , and had been trying to meet feminist activists (which I finally managed the following year). All I needed to complete my life was a bit of romance.
Along we trolled to the Casablanca, passing Christmas party outings, carol singers, and groups of young men in shirt sleeves, despite the freezing weather. I saw a tall, red-haired woman look furtively around her before entering the premises. I could already hear loud disco music – maybe the Village People’s Macho Man , or Knock on Wood by Amii Stewart . What I do know is that Zing Went the Strings of My Heart when I bumped into the red-haired woman by the cloakroom. I fell immediately and heavily in love.
Jan was training to be a nurse, and had recently split up with her girlfriend. As we began to flirt, the Bay City Rollers’ Bye Bye Baby came on and a rather butch-looking woman in head-to-toe tartan asked me for a dance. “She is with me,” said Jan, and I melted at her words. Sixteen-year-old me was captivated by the sophistication of this 19-year-old, educated, utterly glorious-looking lesbian who oozed confidence and smoked French fags through a holder.
We sat on the steps of the club in the cold and rain, avoiding the deafening sound of Wizzard’s I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day , which I changed in my head to “I wish I could be with her every day”. As party animals pushed past us, shouting “merry Christmas” to puzzled-looking passers by (among the many outrageous outfits, one man was wearing backless, glittery leather chaps, with no undercrackers, and a Santa beard covering his meat and two veg), we leaned in and kissed. Properly. Tongues and everything. Jan tasted of Drambuie and smelled of Charlie perfume.
I could barely breathe with the excitement of being in love. It was so different from a crush, I thought. Crushes are for girls; I am now a proper woman and a bona fide lesbian. Jan asked me to stay with her that night, and I pretended to be nonchalant. This is difficult, I discovered, when shaking from head to toe, and unable to speak.
Our last dance that night was to either Gladys Knight and the Pips or Al Green . I remember the smell of poppers as the boys prepared themselves to go on clubbing elsewhere into the early hours.
Jan told me she had Advocaat at hers and that she would make me a snowball and feed me mince pies, which she did. We had them for breakfast.
I am not a huge fan of Christmas, but every year, as soon as the seasonal songs and snowballs come out I am reminded of my coming of lesbian age. Jan and I lasted only a couple of months, but Christmas will always remind me of falling in love that very first time.

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It was just an innocent slumber party—two 16-year-old girls eating pizza, dancing to Beyonce and giggling over boys, the same way I did with my friends at that age, except back then we were dancing to Fleetwood Mac. But I soon realized I’d unwittingly put my daughter in bed with the object of her affection when her sleepover buddy came out to me in a series of text messages.
I hope you don’t care I like girls… I’m not going to tell my mom… She thinks it’s a choice…
Oh, to be the trusted confidante of a teenage girl! My heart and, let’s face it, my ego were thrilled.
But then I thought: Hadn’t she and my daughter just double dated to homecoming with boys? Then she texted that it would be different if she didn’t have a girlfriend. I pondered that text for a moment before the light bulb went off. That girlfriend was my daughter and they just had a sleepover.
I guess I should have figured it out. Two years earlier, I’d walked in on my daughter with another girl. Her bedroom door was shut, the room was dark, and the two of them looked sheepish when I peeked in. That friend was a known troublemaker and I didn’t trust her. Unexpectedly and unbidden, she’d blurted out, “I’m not gay or anything!”
“Okay…” I said, as I turned to leave my daughter’s room, making a point of leaving the door wide open and turning on the lights in the hallway. That girl came and went a few times throughout high school, usually leaving some kind of upheaval in her wake. I’m fairly certain that at some point she broke my daughter’s heart at least a little bit, but at the time, I didn’t understand what I was walking into. Whether it was denial or cluelessness on my part, I didn’t know it was significant.
Now that I was putting the pieces together I felt deflated. My kid was being outed. I wasn’t going to freak out like the other mom, but I was hurt that my daughter hadn’t told me herself. I guess I wasn’t such a trusted confidante after all.
“Are you her girlfriend?” I took a deep breath and asked my daughter after school the next day.
“Why didn’t you tell me, honey? Were you scared?”
“Not really scared,” she said. “Just trying to find the right time.”
So what changes when your teenage daughter has a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend? I had no precedent for this, no decree set down by my own parents or anyone else I knew. I’d had gay high school classmates, but they weren’t really “out” and no one was paired up publicly. I wouldn’t have dared bring a boy into my room while I was in high school. Do the same house rules apply to same-sex relationships? If two teenage girls want to be treated like any other couple, doesn’t that mean we should leave the bedroom door open and demand that all four feet remain on the floor? Otherwise, aren’t we guilty of fostering a double standard?
There were parents in our community who allowed co-ed slumber parties and bought beer for their kids—I wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t a super strict parent, but I never would have given permission for my daughter to have a sleepover with a 16-year-old boy. Why would I be okay with her having a girlfriend stay? I thought about the differences. The most obvious is the potential for pregnancy, which, besides potential unfortunate social stigma, leads to life-altering decisions about abortion, adoption and teen parenthood.
With the likelihood of babies off the table, what else mattered? Hormones are hormones and the heart wants what the heart wants, and that’s where her relationship with this girl was just like any other. But what remained the same was the maturity level and broken hearts. I talked with my daughter (well, it was probably more of a lecture) about how, early in relationships, it’s easy to confuse desire for love; and that, just because our bodies feel like they’re ready for sex, it doesn’t mean our heads and our hearts are prepared. It was the same talk I’d had with her older brother, the same one I’d have if she were dating a boy—except with her I didn’t talk about condoms.
“If you get physically close to someone when you’re not emotionally mature enough to handle it, you can get hurt,” I said.
“It’s not like that, Mom,” my daughter said. And maybe it wasn’t like that yet, but one day, with someone, it would be. Just like any mother, I want to protect my kids from heartbreak. But, of course, we can’t and probably shouldn’t even if we could. First forays into love and sex, gay or straight, are painful but necessary teachers. How else do we learn about boundaries, trust and resilience?
Also like other teen relationships, regardless of sexuality, teen trysts tend to flame out quickly. So while the smoldering embers of that romance burned my daughter without discrimination, I got a reprieve on figuring out my house rules for same sex relationships.
After my daughter turned 18, I let her next girlfriend spend the night. I wouldn’t have been so hospitable to a young man in her bed, so I’m definitely guilty of having a double standard. It’s one I can live with though, because I don’t want her to be sneaky and secretive. And, more than anything, I don’t want my daughter to ever be ashamed of whom she loves.
Mary Novaria writes about family, friendship and everyday life on A Work in Progress and recently completed a memoir about life in the sandwich generation. She tweets @marynovaria .
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