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Chapter 11: Visions of Ladyslippers Danced in My Head

Matty McEire

Part of a series. Read the rest of the series here.

A week after I moved in with Angel, Irma and Hopi came over for dinner. Angel, as usual, had prepared a sumptuous meal, and we all sat around the kitchen table stuffing ourselves with tossed salad, spaghetti with homemade marinara sauce, and perfectly seasoned garlic bread.

“So, how’s the new living arrangement working out so far, you two?” Irma asked.

“Great! Angel cooks, and I eat something besides Big Macs,” I replied as I inelegantly sucked in a long strand of pasta. “But I also do dishes, so it’s not a totally one-sided affair, you know.”

“Affair?” Hopi questioned, raising one orange-blonde eyebrow chidingly. Hopi was smart as a whip and always quick with a well-placed, droll comment. One-liners, and in this case one-worders, were her specialty.

I blushed from ear to ear. “Perhaps that wasn’t the best word choice.”

Everybody laughed. Angel helped me recover from my predicament. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Hopi! Matty and I are good friends. It’s been really wonderful having her here. We get along great. If Matty wasn’t here, I’d probably still be pining away for Marcie instead of getting on with my life and enjoying time with my friends like we’re doing tonight.”

“And living with Angel is really helping me get over Z, too. We make each other laugh. We have fun together just doing nothing it seems. I love living here.”

“Sounds great,” Irma approved. “So, along with all your transitions, have you made any New Year’s resolutions?”

“Yeah, I actually have made a few,” I responded. “One of the main things on my list is to find a different job. I have really loved working for the Y, but except for the summers, it’s only part-time, and I’d really like to be making more money. The Y hasn’t had any full-time openings the whole time I’ve been there, so I think I’ll have to start looking elsewhere. It seems like the job market around here is really tight these days, so I’m not exactly sure where to start. I guess I’ll just have to keep checking out the ads in the newspaper.”

“What’s your degree in?” Irma asked.

“I’ve got a B.A. in psychology. There’s not too much available with that background unless I get some kind of Social Services intake worker position or something like that.”

“I hate to ask this,” Hopi said, “but can you type?”

“Yeah. I’m actually a very good typist – fast and accurate. My dad made me take a personal typing class in summer school after my freshman year of high school. I kicked and screamed about it, but it’s actually come in handy on many occasions. I worked in several clerical jobs while I was in college.”

“How are you with medical terminology?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty good with words in general, but I don’t have any experience really with medical terms.”

“Well, I don’t know if you’d be interested or not, but we just had an opening for a secretary in the Physical Therapy department at the rehab center where I work. It would be mostly transcribing PT notes. I could put in a good word for you if you think you might be interested.”

“Would I have to dress up? I mean skirt and pantyhose kind of dress up?” I asked with a look of revulsion on my face. “I don’t do drag very well!” That comment made both Angel and Irma hoot.

“I think you could get away with nice slacks and a blouse,” Hopi reassured me.

“OK. Maybe I’ll give it a try. What have I got to lose, right? What do I need to do?”

“I’ll bring you an application after work one day next week.”

“Sounds good. Thanks a bunch!”

Hopi nodded a “you’re welcome” as Angel refilled everyone’s wine glass.

“Looks like Hopi may have gotten you started with that resolution. What are the others? Maybe we can help you with those, too,” Irma suggested.

“Find me a new girlfriend?” I kidded. “No, really, the other main ones are to spend more time doing something for the lesbian community here in Asheville and to learn more about this new ‘women’s music’ thing. Between Angel and me, we’ve acquired about a half dozen women’s music albums, but I know there are more out there. It’s just hard to find them.”

“Matty, believe it or not, I think I can help you with those, too,” Irma offered.

“Really?”

“Yup. You remember my friend Callie? The one who’s involved with N.O.W. You and Z and I visited her in Durham last October.”

“Yeah, sure I do.”

“Callie has a friend who is in the same graduate school program with her at Duke. Her name is Joanne. She and her partner Laurie are starting a new venture to help distribute women’s music. It’s a mail order company that they’re calling ‘Ladyslipper.’ Have you heard anything about it yet?”

“No. Tell me more!” I exclaimed, lurching forward in my chair and nearly knocking over my glass of wine.

“You know how difficult it’s been for us to find ‘women’s music’ albums. They’re not in any of the record stores around here at all.”

“Right. I’ve had to get the ones I have up in Philadelphia from a gay bookstore. And Angel got the ones she has in D.C.”

“Exactly. Or if you’re lucky enough to hear one of the performers in person somewhere, you can buy the record at the concert. Well, Joanne and Laurie had the same problem. So they decided to try putting out a catalog of the albums and make them available through mail order. They printed the first catalog a few months ago. It has all the ‘women’s music’ albums in it, plus a lot of other music recorded by women on small, independent labels – folk, jazz, rock, whatever they could find.”

“Cool! So how can I get one of the catalogs?” I asked.

“Well, here’s the exciting part. They are starting to do events called ‘listening parties.’ Since you never hear any of this new women’s music on the radio, your only option for discovering anything new is by going to a concert or by knowing someone who has the album and will play it for you. What the Ladyslipper women are beginning to do is arrange with someone to host a party at her house and invite all her friends. Then they bring catalogs and inventory, and play cuts off of the various albums so women can hear them and buy the records they like right there at the party. And I have agreed to have a listening party here in Asheville.”

“Irma, that is great! When are you going to do it?”

“We’re going to do the first one in the spring after the bad weather is over. Hopi and I are hosting it at our house. I’ll let you know the date once it’s set up, and you need to invite every lesbian you know.”

“No problem! I can’t wait! Is it spring yet?” I implored.

Irma laughed. “And you know what else I found out through them? There are women’s music festivals now. With a lot of the new lesbian musicians like Meg Christian and Cris Williamson performing and hundreds of women attending.”

“Now you are blowing my mind, Irma! Where? When? How?”

“Apparently they are springing up all over the place. Kate Millett, the writer, organized one of the first ones out in Sacramento, California, back in ’73. Then Kristen Lems started one in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, the following year. That one has become an annual festival, happening every June. In ’75 there was a festival in San Diego and another one in Boston. Last year another one started up in Michigan, which the producers also plan to make an annual event.”

“Jeez-Louise, Irma! It sounds like I better get that job in the PT department where Hopi works just so I can fund my future road trips!”

It was a very enlightening evening. Irma shared all sorts of information about what was happening in the broader lesbian community. I was so excited I doubted I’d be able to calm down enough to get any sleep at all later that night. And once I did get to sleep, I was sure to have visions of ladyslippers dancing in my head! Irma and Hopi left just as a shower of snowflakes began to stick, forming a thin, white blanket on the porch and cars.

“Be careful driving home in this,” Angel cautioned them.

“We will. And thanks for dinner. It was yummy!” Irma replied, holding onto Hopi’s arm as they descended the stairs.

Angel closed the door and started to clear dishes from the table.

“What are you doing, Angel?” I asked. “That’s my job in this affair, remember?” I winked at her.

“It’s getting late. I’m going to help you so we can get this done before midnight and get some sleep, my friend,” she responded, returning my wink.

So we cleaned up the kitchen together that night with me washing and Angel drying as we listened to the first side of The Changer and the Changed. Once we had finished, we relocated to the living room. Angel flipped the disc over to side two, and sat down next to me on the couch, pulling a crocheted afghan over our legs. Maybe Hopi was a little psychic with her one-word question at the dinner table, or maybe she was just picking up on something that I was not even consciously aware of yet. Cris finished the first song and started singing “Dream Child”:

I love to see you in the low-light, love
And touch your secret weakness with my fire
Let’s burn together all through the night
I’m just a dream child of desire
Yeah, I’m just a dream child of desire.

Before Cris started the second verse, Angel pulled me closer, and drew me into a deep, mind-melting kiss. There was no good reason to hesitate. We were both free of our previous commitments. Besides, there was no way I could have resisted her dark beauty and sensuality. My brain kicked off and my passion kicked in. We left a trail of discarded clothing from the living room to Angel’s bedroom. I had more than visions of ladyslippers dancing in my head that night.

As it turned out, not only was Angel reticent to live alone, she also preferred not to sleep alone. From that night forward, even though I maintained my own room in the house, I slept in Angel’s bed whenever she was at home and not out working the third shift at her job. It was a mutually satisfying arrangement. I suppose you could call it a rebound relationship, but it was fun all the same. Irma and Hopi, of course, razzed us without mercy once they found out, which, as usual, did not take long in this small lesbian community.

Hopi, as promised, brought me an application for the PT secretary job, and I was called for an interview not long after I submitted it. I obsessed for days about what to wear to the interview, tearing through every article of clothing in my closet and drawers trying to piece together a suitable ensemble. I came up with some nice, navy cords and the most feminine blouse I owned – one I hadn’t worn in over two years for that very reason. I had to borrow a belt from Hopi because all the ones I had were ones I’d made myself, and they were much too masculine looking. My friend Janis loaned me a purse that went well with the borrowed belt and some clunky-heeled shoes I found that I hadn’t worn since my college graduation ceremony. Despite feeling like I was wearing a costume for a part in some weird play, the interview went well, and I aced the typing test. They offered me the job, so I gave notice at the Y and began working at the rehab hospital two weeks later.

Even though people tend to hibernate in the winter, our house was always a hot spot on the lesbian map with friends dropping over, Angel inviting people to dinner, and the occasional party. In February Angel threw a surprise party for my birthday. Everybody was there: Tara, Verlee, Irma, Hopi, Janis, Boe, Pilgrim, Georgia, and even Z. I had come to terms with the end of my relationship with Z; being with Angel had certainly helped. I was able to be around Z again without feeling sad or uncomfortable. Z was not involved in another relationship, but was again deep into another semester of school. I was pleased that she had come out to help me celebrate my birthday. We had our first real post-breakup conversation there and made the transformation to being friends again. She asked about my music, and I told her about my progress in learning to play some of the new “women’s music” myself. She asked me if I would consider playing a few of them there at the party. I felt suddenly shy; I hadn’t played any of those songs in front of anybody before. It took a lot of encouragement. Z went back into my bedroom with me and sat on the bed while I pulled the guitar out of the case, tuned it, and warmed up a little. Then she carried the guitar into the living room for me while I retrieved a straight-backed chair and a pint of Jack Daniels Black from the kitchen.

Angel saw what was happening and did a nice fade-out on the stereo. It got very quiet in the previously noisy house as the others gathered around to hear me play. I sat down on the chair and arranged my music in front of me on the coffee table. Then I swigged a hit of Jack Black straight from the bottle, took a deep breath, strummed an A minor chord, and launched into Cris Williamson’s “Waterfall.” My nervousness eased with the first words: “Sometimes it takes a rainy day, Just to let you know everything’s gonna be all right, all right…” My nervousness completely disappeared by the end of the song when I realized almost everyone in the room had joined in on the chorus: “Filling up and spilling over, It’s an endless waterfall, filling up and spilling over, over all . . .” When we finished everybody clapped. I just grinned. I had just started my first performance of lesbian songs in a room full of lesbians. This felt so great, so right. I was hooked.

“More, more!” they prodded, and I obliged. My first lesbian set list continued with Meg Christian’s “Valentine Song,” Alix Dobkin’s “A Woman’s Love (Because She’s a Woman),” and Margie Adam’s “Best Friend (The Unicorn Song).” I threw in an old Kitty Wells country/western tune, “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels,” as an encore. They still wanted more. I didn’t know any more “women’s music” songs yet, so I appeased them with my steamiest version of James Taylor’s “Steamroller” as my final song, which garnered whistles and cat calls. I was the happiest lesbian in Asheville that night. Over the past year and a half I had progressed from discovering I was a lesbian, to becoming a “practicing” lesbian, to evolving into a lesbian musician - still practicing in a whole new way!