On Femininity
A discussion over at LesbianDad these past few days has gotten me thinking, again, about femme identity, feminism, and queer politics. (And I should add that this post is in no way a negative reaction to that discussion; rather, I’m very grateful to LD for inspiring this post and for the commenters there who gave me food for thought. What I write here is actually somewhat tangential to LD’s original post.)
It took me some time to come to terms with my femininity. (An aside: I hesitate to use the word feminine to describe myself, mostly because I don’t think it quite captures the whole picture. Femme-inine allows for a bit more movement, a bit more subversiveness, a bit more, well, queerness. Though of course, the distinction is purely written. But for the sake of clarity, I’ll stick to femininity here.) When I first came out early in college, I went through what I saw as a mandatory transformation. I cut off my long hair, I packed my skirts and girly tees away in the back of the closet, I discarded my jewelry and make-up, I adopted a swagger, and I wore sports bras and Timberlands. I was under the impression, see, that in order to be truly gay, as a woman, I had to be gender non-conforming. This was in the context of a women’s college, where the rugby players were ersatz frat boys and where the “straight” girls who swooned over them were deemed “lugs” — lesbians until graduation (when, presumably, they would once again revert to a hetero life). “Lug,” you have to understand, is not a desirable moniker. Everyone was constantly straining to prove their authenticity.
So, I went through a vaguely uncomfortable and intensely self-conscious androgynous dyke phase. It didn’t feel right. But I wanted so badly for it to feel right, because I thought that otherwise, I would never be accepted by the queer community. But I would never belong to the straight world either. I would be in some sort of gender and sexuality purgatory.
Now, of course, I’ve come back to myself. A lot of that has to do with time passing, girlfriends coming and going, and general introspection. Everything that I realized I was not could help me figure out who and what I was. Here I am in my 20s, still not with a full picture, but at least with a more whole sense of self and a body I feel I own.
But a lot of it also has to do with reading and processing, feminism in particular. I’ve come to be able to articulate what I see as a central dilemma in feminism today: how can we both value and strengthen femininity as a valid realization of self and undermine it as an arbitrary set of patriarchal standards for women?
See, feminists in the 2nd wave (and forgive my gross oversimplification) accomplished a lot — they realized that a society in which men dominated women set the standards for how women were supposed to be. And the brave women of the 1960s and 1970s struggled to break free from those standards, to say, look, we can do and be all these other things. We don’t have to follow your prescriptions for how we’re supposed to look — we can let our body hair grow. We don’t have to act how you expect us to act — we can be assertive and aggressive and stalwart. We don’t have to be limited by what you think we should be — we can be professors and athletes and construction workers and business people. In a nutshell, “look at all these things we can be! We can be everything you can be, and more.”
The problem with that is that it makes femininity unenlightened. It reduces feminine women to women who haven’t yet liberated themselves from the confines of patriarchal standards. And it judges those women, too. It’s complicated, of course, because I’m sure there are many women who don’t have so-called “enlightened” visions of their gender presentation. I, too, have a slight discomfort with heterosexual women who seem to buy into the ultimate heteronormative notion of Family (dad works, mom stays home and watches the kids; dad talks politics and finance, mom talks interior decorating and child-rearing; etc.). It does seem to me that many of these women aren’t making much of a conscious choice about their gender roles; they’re not really challenging (either personally or socially) the rigid structure they’ve been socialized in. And I do think it is important to work on this, to figure out: how can we undermine patriarchy, and enable women to make decisions about their lives, their bodies, their desires, their families?
But the thing is, we need to do it in a way that doesn’t preclude femininity from also being a part of the solution. A feminism that relegates femininity to the lowest rung of self-expression, that says “but you can be MORE, you can be BETTER!”, that assumes that femininity is just a first step for women — this kind of feminism is complicit with patriarchy. It continues to buy into the notion that masculinity is better. Femininity is still undesirable.
We need — I need — a feminism that instead emphasizes the value in all expressions. A feminism in which weak and passive are okay, because they are just companion traits to strong and assertive. Chattiness and bared legs and emotions and sensitivity and make-up are okay. A feminism that calls for self-discovery, empowerment, and finding the way to true expression of the self, a feminism raises up femininity, celebrates femininity, enables femininity in all humans is a feminism that is for me.
But how do we do this? How do we strike the subtle balance between empowering women to be ourselves and celebrating femininity where we see it? How can we say, “you don’t have to be this way, you’re not limited to this expression of your identity” without implying, “you need to move on, break free, leave this antiquated self behind”? How do we recognize unempowered femininity and aim to empower it, while also strengthening and supporting those women who are purposefully and intentionally feminine? How can we do any of this without messy judgments and hurt feelings and alienation?
I don’t know. I’ll get back to you on that one. In the meantime, if YOU have any idea, please do tell.
How my life is taking over my life
I have not written in a while. This, you see, is because I have been completely occupied with the following two things:
1) Zoe.
2) Work.
Number 1 I like a lot. Number 2 I am not such a big fan of.
There were lay-offs at my firm back in January; luckily I was not among those laid off. However, every pretty white puffy cloud has a black lining (is there a better idiom for that? I’m pretty sure I just made that one up) and now that there are fewer staff, I am working more. Compensating for those who are now gone. Of course, I get paid over-time, so when I work a 90 hour week (for realz), at least I get approximately 398723 times more money on my paycheck than usual, considering the bountiful overtime compensation here. HOWEVER. It sucks up a helluvalotuvmytime. And honestly? I’m sick of it. In fact, I’m applying for different jobs. We shall see what happens, though I’m bracing myself for nothing much, because of the assinine economy and the fact that everyone and their mothers are all looking for (better) jobs.
Zoe, however, is a completely different story. Sometime in January or early February, we finally decided that we were “girlfriends.” Our official first date was November 29, though, so we count that as the beginning. Which means it’s now been… 3 1/2 months. And it’s been awesome. I’m falling in love with her, folks. Here are some of the things I love about her:
1) She has disarmingly beautiful eyes.
2) When she brushes her teeth, she gets toothpaste ALL OVER her mouth.
3) She calls me “baby,” which none of my other girlfriends have ever called me. In fact no one’s ever called me that. Turns out I like it.
4) She’s a sexy musician 
Sings and plays guitar in a sweet electro-funk indie band.
5) She has long, willowy hands. I love love love hands, they’re my favorite body part.
6) She is SO good in bed. SO good. SO GOOD. Did I mention that she’s really good in bed?
7) She makes me laugh. A lot.
And I’m going to stop there because if I keep going I’m going to get too involved in it and I will have a list that is 197892 items long, and obviously that is kind of boring for everyone who is not the one dating her. Which would be everyone but me.
The point is, I’m happy with her. And I’m excited for the future, excited about knowing her in and out, about fucking in new and exciting ways, about becoming best friends. About travelling with her (we are already planning a long weekend to Mexico!), playing music with her, reading books with her, going on bike escapades with her, writing a lesbian TV show that is way better than The L Word with her…
So I’m keeping busy. However, I would really like to not let my life get the better of me, and I would like to continue to document it here, just because I like it. There’s something kind of intriguing and exhilarating and simultaneously unnerving about sending my life to the Internet. Somewhat akin to sky-diving.?
Some thoughts on rape & hate crime
Warning: potentially triggering material follows.
A week before Christmas, a lesbian in Richmond (just north of Berkeley in the bay area) was gang raped–four men, one hour, weapons. Apparently, according to the SF Chronicle, she had a rainbow sticker on her car and they targeted her specifically because she was gay.
So there’s a $10,000 price tag on these guys, and they’re not only going to be charged with sexual assault, assault with a deadly weapon, robbery, et cetera, but their charges will also carry the added “hate crime” designation. Which obviously makes a lot of sense, right? I mean, their attack was pretty clearly motivated by–or at the very least, very charged with–violent homophobia. They probably would not have attacked her had she not had a rainbow sticker on her car, or if she had not in any way appeared to them to be gay. So it makes sense to me that they would be charged with hate crime. It is horrible to be attacked so viciously on account of one’s sexual orientation and it is clear that her being gay was a reason they targeted her.
However, it troubles me that these four men would get a heightened criminal conviction, be more highly sought, or be seen as far worse criminals than would be the case if the victim were a straight woman. For any woman (or man or child or anyone) to be gang raped is horrible beyond belief, and it occurs far too often that women are raped or gang raped or abused by men in any sexual or physical capacity. And we never hear any fuss made about it. Occasionally we see a paragraph in the newspaper about a midnight rape, and we think “oh, how awful” and then we move on, because we’ve heard it so many times before and we’ve forgotten how to be enraged by it. Or worse, we think, “god, what was that woman doing out by herself at that time of night? what was she wearing? I bet she was a prostitute/drug dealer/slut” and can quickly minimize our empathy.
But the truth is, it must be just as horrible for a straight woman to be gang raped at knife-/gun-point by four men over the course of an hour as it is for a lesbian. And men who rape or abuse straight women should not get off any lighter than men who rape and abuse gay women. Those men are all perpetrating hate crimes. Granted, the motivations may be different (”ugh that bulldagger needs to be taught a lesson” vs. “I’m going to get me some of that pussy”) but in the end, it’s always about objectification, dehumanization, assertion that “you belong to me, I can do whatever I want with you, and by the time I’m through you’re going to know that.”
I’d imagine that being raped on account of being a lesbian and being raped on account of being a woman would have somewhat different psychological effects, but they would both be pretty fucking traumatic. As I’ve written here before, I was raped when I was 15 by a complete stranger, and it had nothing to do with my being gay (as there’s no way the man could’ve known) and everything to do with my being a piece of flesh that he was entitled to possess. And I’m telling you, I don’t think it could have possibly been worse if I’d known it was because I was gay. Not that it would’ve been better, but rape is rape and you feel like shit, you feel dirty and violated, you feel stripped of power and dignity and personhood, you feel broken and bruised and hurt, you feel shattered and alone, above all else alone, because everyone around you carries on as normal, and the world doesn’t stop just because your world stopped. I can’t speak for other women (gay or straight) who have been raped or violated, but these are all the things I felt, and I am going to say one thing: it would have made a world of difference if I had known that I would be able to count on a reaction like the reaction this lesbian woman’s gang rape is getting from the lesbian community here in the bay area. If I had known that my going to the police would have inspired a public outrage, then I might have gone to the police. Instead, I had seen too many times that rape is one of those things that people shake their heads about but inevitably excuse, because there must’ve been something wrong with the woman, because only a certain kind of woman gets herself raped.
Rape is always a hate crime. Men who perpetrate rape have not one ounce of like, love, respect, or any positive human emotion for their victims. So I do think that the four rapists of the Richmond lesbian should be charged with hate crime. But I also think people need to understand that any woman who is a victim of rape is a victim of a hate crime, and that when any woman is raped, there needs to be this kind of outrage, this outpouring of love and care for the victim. We all need it. And I think the fact that it’s seen as more outrageous when a lesbian gets raped on account of being a lesbian than when any woman regardless of sexual orientation gets raped on account of being a woman is an indication that we as a culture all contribute to the dehumanization of women, and all contribute to the way in which men own and possess women’s bodies.
I understand why the lesbian population rallies in support of one of their own. That makes sense. My heart aches for her, my gut hardens and my stomach churns for her. My jaw clenches, my eyes well up. I tremble in disbelief, I am dazed. I want to find her, hug her, cry with her. I want to bring her back a piece of her soul, because I remember how long it took for me to get mine back. I want to hold hands with all other lesbians in solidarity and join together to figure out how to combat this violence.
But I also want this to be a reason to join hands with other women, with all women, and with men, in outrage, sorrow, and disbelief over rape of this woman and all women, and I want to use that solidarity to raise passion and fury, and change the way people think of rape and think of women in this country. Because every time a rape goes unreported because a woman is scared of being blamed, every time a rape is excused because the woman brought it on herself, every time another awful rape is passed over because it’s not newsworthy and it’s just the same old, every time a man gets off with a light sentence because if we took it all seriously our prisons would be home to a third of the men in America, every time any of this happens, we are all stripped a little bit more of our humanity and dignity. Gay and straight alike.
A new girl: Zoe
I’ve met someone new. Her name is Zoe.
I know I never discussed what happened with Jessie and me when I went to Vegas. Now’s not the time, maybe sometime I’ll talk about it. Now I want to talk about Zoe.
I didn’t mean to meet her. I mean, I meant to meet her–we met for drinks that first night on purpose–but I didn’t mean to fall for her. We tried valiantly to be friends at first. That was all the intention was; we knew we clicked and knew we should be friends. Turns out that’s kinda complicated for dykes–if you click, chances are… you click. We went out together several times, did various things together–went to an art installation opening, went out for drinks, went to the symphony. And then one night last week (or was it two weeks ago? I don’t even know anymore) we were out dancing at this club in the Castro, and then it was too late for me to take the N Judah (I could’ve waited for a night bus, I suppose, but I really didn’t feel like it) so I went home with her (she lives in the Mission), and then we were on her fire escape, she’s standing behind me as we’re looking out over Dolores Park and she says
“So I know we’re supposed to be just friends or whatever, but I kinda like you.”
and I say
“So what do you want to do about it?”
and she says
“Can I kiss you?”
and I don’t answer, I just turn around, lean against the railing of the fire escape, put my hands on her waist and pull her toward me. And then her mouth is on mine, her hands are travelling my body, and my mind is gone, there’s no going back.
I didn’t let her fuck me that night. We were drunk, and I liked her too much to let myself be sexually vulnerable to her. I didn’t want to get emotionally involved and then have it be a one night stand for her. And then be left feeling bereft and somewhat betrayed, not by her but by my heart which gives itself away too easily. So I was being cautious, and didn’t let her fuck me, but god I wanted it and she wanted it too, and we could feel each others’ wetness through our panties on each others’ legs. I couldn’t sleep that night, her body right next to mine, soft and aching for mine. We were both deliriously aroused.
I finally let her fuck me about a week ago, and I’m done for. I have never felt so complete in my sexuality, ever. And by “sexuality” in this context I don’t mean sexual orientation, but I mean rather the way I feel sexually. First of all, she turns me on like no one ever has, ever. Second, she makes it so clear, both verbally and with body language and sounds, how much I turn her on, more than anyone ever has. Third, she allows us to talk about it, both candidly and flirtatiously. And I feel like her sexual equal; she is more aggressive, which I love, but she doesn’t try to overwhelm me or patronize me or protect me. We are equally vulnerable and equally strong. And I, in my slight submissiveness, in my princess-itude, have just as much power as does she, in her slight domination and masculine energy. I love it, I can’t get enough of it. Our sexualities match, so perfectly, and I am so excited to keep fucking and keep on learning more about what turns each other on. I’m getting wet just contemplating it.
As for our relationship beyond the sexual realm, I’m not quite sure what it is. And for now, I don’t care. For now, it’s just right. I am content. Tonight, I am about to drop from fatigue, because she was here last night, and we fucked from 9pm, when we got here, until 2:30am, when we finally groaned and admitted that we should sleep because we had to get up at 7. Tonight, I’m alone, and I am going to go to bed, but all I can think about is how I want her to fuck me. Tomorrow night, we’re seeing each other again, to go to a performance of Handel’s Messiah (my favorite Christmas music ever) at Grace Cathedral, and the plan is for me to end up at her place, “looking sexy” on her bed while she packs, since the day after, she leaves for the east coast for Christmas. And then she doesn’t come back until New Year’s Eve–almost two weeks she’s gone! I’m trying not to go crazy thinking about it. Because at least for tonight, I have tomorrow night to look forward to
There’s so much more to say about Zoe. But it will wait.
Thoughts on Election Day
I haven’t posted since the election because I didn’t want to write about anything else before I commented on the election. But I have been having the hardest time processing it and figuring out what I even think about it, let alone being able to write about it coherently.
I took Election Day off from work and did No on 8 campaigning in Contra Costa County, one of the most conservative counties in the Bay Area. It was exhausting work, not in terms of being physically demanding but rather in terms of being emotionally draining. It was hard to put myself out there on the streets with No on 8 signs, seeking signs of approval and support or even just mild interest from passersby. I got called a “nigger-loving cunt-munching faggot whore” by one lovely young man. Cunt-munching? Kinda like it. Not gonna lie.
So I was in Contra Costa by myself most of the day, and then came back to San Francisco to watch the results pour in, also by myself. Lissa was working until 7:30 so I sat at a bar in the Castro and watched Obama win Pennsylvania, then Ohio, then Florida… And then when Lissa got out of work I made my way over to the Westin St. Francis Hotel by Union Square where the No on 8 election party was being hosted in a ballroom. We were just entering the hotel when Obama was announced winner, and cheers erupted all across the square. It was like when the Sox won the World Series in 2004, it was like New Years in 2000, only it was way more intense, way more jubilant, there was this prevailing euphoria. And I was carried along by it, weeping as I watched first McCain’s concession speech, and then Obama’s victory speech. The enormity of what we had just accomplished blew me away, took all my solidity out of me. I was like gel. How do I re-establish my conception of myself in an Obama administration? Under a government that I support? I have come of age in an era of dimwitted politics, an era in which liberalism was squelched by fear-mongering and dishonest pandering to an easily misled middle class. And Obama won! Incredible. And mind-boggling. And bawl-worthy.
But then the ballot counts of Prop 8 started coming in, and the mood quickly sobered. My tears became tears of dejection rather than victory. Lissa and I left the Westin around 1am, ready to collapse in bed. I cried myself to sleep, a complete emotional mishmash, not sure whether I was crying for joy or exhaustion or sadness or anger or confusion. And I woke up feeling nothing, really. After all, Prop 8 hadn’t officially been called.
Then over the course of the day, it was called. Prop 8 passed. And my feelings about this election have been so hard for me to decipher that I haven’t known what to write and how to write it. Then this morning, my mom forwarded me this editorial by Judith Warner in the NYT, and it was in writing back to her that I found my voice. Here’s what I wrote:
Thanks, Mom, for forwarding this. How poignant, and true; it just captures so much what this election has felt like for me. I’ve never really felt homophobia and heterosexism so fully as I did on election night. It was a kick in the gut. And it still brings me to tears every time I read something like this. There was an online editorial written by a black straight man calling on fellow black straight men to be queer allies, which had me bawling. There was the youtube clip of Keith Olbermann’s “Special Comment” on his nightly show (if you haven’t seen it, you MUST watch it) which also had me in tears. And now this too. It’s like now, whenever straight people call it what it is, openly, directly, and passionately, I get all teary. Like “oh my god, there are people who care!” Because on election night, watching all those tears streaming down the faces of Obama supporters on TV in Chicago, and here in San Francisco, I just felt so… left out. Of course I rejoiced in and celebrated his win. But I felt, for the first time really, so invisible. Here the first black president of the US was just elected, a triumph of civil rights, and many of the same people who voted for Obama also voted against gay marriage? What? How is that possible? I just couldn’t feel as happy anymore. And sometimes now when I walk around or go about my day, I wonder, “did that person next to me on the muni vote yes on 8? did that person still proudly wearing his obama button vote yes on 8? did that person who was crying for relief and joy at obama’s victory speech vote yes on 8?” It just has taken so much out of me.
So. Anyway. Thanks for passing this on, we need this kind of thing so much. We NEED straight people, who supposedly have nothing invested in this, to be loudly proclaiming “This is about ALL of us.” And it’s really not just about the specific right to marry–because obviously, that doesn’t really affect me right now and honestly I don’t even know that I think it’s the best fight for the gay rights movement to be fighting–but it’s about truly being pushed to second class citizen status. And even I feel the pangs of that.
The inevitable, accidental, coincidental run-in with the Ex-Girlfriend
I ran into my Ex today. I knew it would happen eventually; we both live in San Francisco, and we’re both gay, so we were bound to cross paths at some point. But I didn’t think it would be on a harmless Sunday afternoon downtown.
The day started off innocuously. Actually, it started off really well. For some reason, I was inspired to go to church. Don’t ask why, I certainly don’t know. I grew up singing in the choir at an Episcopal church in my hometown, a fairly conservative, traditional, docile church. But I’ve never felt particularly religious and so I stopped going to church when I left home. But yesterday, for some reason, I decided that I would go to church today, so I went to Glide Methodist church in the Tenderloin. It’s a social justice church, an anti-oppression church, an all-inclusive, welcoming church. So it advertises itself. And I can’t imagine it being more true. It was just, overwhelming. In a good way. I was so moved to be there and feel like part of this force. Especially with our brilliantly momentous election coming up, everyone there was so rallying around this notion of change, of choosing life. And they kept reiterating, “NO ON 8!” There was so much energy and camaraderie… I think I’ll be going back. I know I’ll be going back.
And then I went to vote. They have early voting here in California and I figured I’d do it now so I don’t run into any crises on Tuesday–since I’ve moved recently, I wasn’t sure they’d gotten my change of registration. Turns out I and half the city had the same idea, so I waited in line for three hours–THREE HOURS–at City Hall to vote. Phew. There were No on 8 people campaigning outside, though, reminding us: “Barack Obama says NO ON 8! Arnold Schwarzenegger says NO ON 8! Diane Feinstein says NO ON 8! My mama says NO ON 8!” Et cetera. Cute. And I VOTED!! I nearly cried as I was checking the box for NO on 8 and for Obama. Today I’ve just been really teary for some reason. Been feeling moved, awed, inspired by humanity. So it felt so heavy and meaningful to cast my vote.
And then I finally left City Hall after three and a half hours and there was my Ex, walking by. I was kind of stunned, and I think she was too; we didn’t really know what to say to each other. It was like this wall was up. We were going in different directions, so after a couple minutes of awkward, stammering “so how are you? Yeah, I’m great, I’m happy, blah blah blah,” we parted ways. “Would you want to hang out sometime? Like go with me to the Academy of Sciences?” I asked. “Yeah, sure, that would be cool,” she said, noncommitally. Sigh. Now I’m feeling drained.
Those lips, I kissed those lips,
I woke up with my arms around that body,
tangled up in those legs.
Those eyes, I soared and floated and sank in their gaze,
I ran my fingers through that hair,
fluttered my eyelashes against those cheeks,
Mesmerized by the fantastic reality of our lives and bodies intertwining.
No longer intertwining, as we stand here.
I see those lips, those eyes, that foreign body;
Tactile memories flood my senses, confuse my composure.
The air is thick with evaporated love, like carbon monoxide
Or laughing gas.
A couple feet away,
I could reach out and brush her cheek,
But my arm can’t interpret such a gesture,
and those few feet are unreachable–
What was once so effortless now so utterly impossible.
Processing
I haven’t posted in a while, because last week an old friend of mine from Portland was here, and then I was in Vegas with Jessie. Still processing that. It didn’t go so well, and I’m kind of in a funk about it.
Damn self-loathing lezzes. I can’t deal with it. I can’t go there, I never went through that phase and I just don’t think I can handle it. Her self-hating makes me insecure, because if she hates being gay that much, she must also, at least subconsciously, in some way, hate me.
Friends & Fucks, Or, How A Lack Of Sex Reminds Me Of My Ex-Girlfriend
No sex to write about today. I’ve been dry ever since Annika left. Which was only a week ago, so it’s fine. Actually, chances are I WON’T be having that much sex this year; it seems as though the people I would be fucking aren’t here, and the people who are here, I’m not fucking. Case in point: my Ex. I MOVED HERE TO BE WITH HER (among other, more compelling reasons), and we broke up shortly before my move. Oh well, it’s better this way.
My Ex and I had really boring sex. Really boring. Our first six months together were amazing, we tried all kinds of things and fucked at least once a day the entire six months. We were living together in Berkeley at the time; we shared a tiny room in a tiny apartment, and had two other flatmates who shared a bigger room. So we were FORCED to sleep together, and obviously it was very conducive to sex. Plus we were madly in love and hella horny. And it was summer and we were college students, so we were revelling in the delights of summer vacation (cough, work) rather than stressing about papers and exams and unreasonable professors.
Then we both went abroad. I went to Germany, she went to Brazil. If you were ever in doubt, LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS DO NOT WORK (unless you’re super super really fucking committed to each other, and want to get married, and also don’t want a social life in your respective locations). We did manage to stay together most of the year, but I was unhappy, and she was unhappy, and we didn’t realize that it was our relationship and holding onto it for dear life that was MAKING us so unhappy until we finally “took a break” in the spring, and were so much happier. I was so much happier anyway, she’d tell a different story, but I was happier and I was seeing/boning other people and I felt like I was living in the moment. And then I left Germany, went back college for my senior year, and we got back together.
And the last 8 months of our relationship were pretty miserable. We had sex like a total of 30 times the entire eight months. We stressed each other out. We fought and bickered and were competitive with each other and pulled and pushed and came thisclose to breaking up like 9 times. There were tears and shouting matches and holes in walls (that was her, folks, I don’t punch walls), and we were so convinced we should pull through, we were in love, it was enough that we loved each other and the rest would come together eventually, et cetera. And finally we broke up at the beginning of May and HALLELUJAH. I was really, really, really sad for about two weeks. And then I was bitter and angry for about a month (when I was here in San Francisco, knowing she was here too, not seeing her, and getting jealous that she had friends and a life here and I was subletting and had no job and was lonely as fuck). And then I got a job and got over it in about three days. And now, I don’t think about it anymore, except for now when I’m telling the Story of Our Relationship.
Exciting story, huh?
So anyway, the point is, occasionally I get a wee bit wistful that we’re not at least casual friends anymore. Not because I want to get back together with her (never, ever, I realize how much happier I am without her) but because I loved her, and I know her so well, and I care about her, and I think we *could* maybe be friends, or at least, we could have been friends if we’d never dated. And since I have a shortage of friends in this city, and my roommate Lissa is the only pillar I have right now, sometimes I wish that I could call her up and say, “hey, wanna go to Dolores Park and watch the soapbox race on Saturday?” (That’s what I’m doing on Saturday.)
Funny, I started out this post talking about lack of sex, and then I ended up talking about my Ex, with whom I had a lack of sex. How coincidental.
Maybe there are two points to my ramblings here:
1) I need friends.
2) I need fucks.
Coming Out interview
I was interviewed for the blog project Coming Out Stories yesterday, check it out here!
National Coming Out Day
Today is National Coming Out Day.
COME OUT COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE. (The Wizard of Oz, by the way, was one of my favorite movies as a little girl. I think I was in love with Judy Garland. And is it just me, or are there queer subtexts to it? Anyway.)
In honor of it, I will tell my coming out story. Which is not, just to warn you, terribly exciting. But since it is National Coming Out Day, and since I hope that people all over the US today are talking about being queer and knowing people who are queer and all those sorts of things, I will do the same. And maybe my coming out story, undramatic as it is, will add yet another voice to the mix of those who came out unproblematically, without even really having to, well, come out of anything.
For me, the hardest part was coming to terms with it myself. I was 12 when I had my first sexual dream about a girl, and I put it out of my mind. I was in junior high when I fell in love with the girl I called my best friend, but I never admit it to anyone, even myself, except in the form of excruciating journal entries in which I said such things as “please, God, send me a guy to prove I’m not a lesbian!” and “I think I might be in love with Alyssa, but I think she’s in love with Erin and no one will ever love me.” I was tortured. And the fact that three of my best friends came out to me (not publicly came out) and dated each other convinced me that I wasn’t really gay, I was just gay by association. They were rubbing off on me. So I put it out of my mind. And … just remained single and celibate.
Until I went to Germany for a year before college, and started dating guys. I didn’t like kissing them, and I didn’t like the sex, and I figured I was doomed to bad sex with guys who cared about me but not enough to give me orgasms. They were good guys (there were two that year), but there was something missing.
Then I went to college–women’s college on the east coast. Why did I go to women’s college? Certainly NOT because I wanted to date women. I almost didn’t go to women’s college because I was afraid I’d never be able to date, I’d never meet guys. But there was something about it that I just fell in love with, when I visited as a prospective student, so off I went. And within two weeks, I was out.
There was no defining moment, at least not that I remember. I was just watching and absorbing everything around me, and it wasn’t making sense anymore, being straight, identifying as straight. It just didn’t work. There was no grand announcement, no “Guess what? I’m GAY!” Because people were still starting to get to know each other, so it could just be something that was part of me right from the outset, when people got to know me. I was bi at first, because I didn’t want to do anything rash, that would limit me. After all, I hadn’t been with women yet. But it was pretty clear to me even then that I was a major queer.
I didn’t come out to my parents and family until my first major girlfriend came along. And then it was a phone call home that went something like this:
“Hey Mom!”
“Hi honey, what’s new?”
“Well I’m dating someone new!”
“Oh really? Who?”
“Her name is Stella.”
“…”
“Mom? You there?”
“Alriiiiiiight. You do know that it’s a hard life for gay people, right? I’m worried about you.”
Et cetera. She went into the whole it’s-hard-to-have-kids thing and the people-will-discriminate-against-you thing. DUH. And the is-this-a-phase thing. And my dad is STILL doing all of that. Sigh. But my brother and sister (both younger) were remarkably unconcerned and my parents try. They do try. My mom will send me newspaper clippings and links about gay and lesbian issues. “Thought this might interest you,” she says. Yes, Mom, because all things Homo interest me. But she’s trying. My dad generally avoids talking about it.
I’m not out to my grandparents. They would have conniptions and would probably disown me. And would probably then die of heart attacks. I have no plans to come out to them ever, unless I’m getting married/civilly united/domestically partnered and they’re still around. They’re 90, though, so I’m not too worried about that. I love them, but they’re ridiculously conservative and it’s not worth it to me to try to change them at this point. Or to make them hate me.
And with other people, like friends or employers or co-workers, I don’t come out. I just let it come up. It’s no big “so, you should know I’m gay” thing, it’s a “so I have a funny story, one time my girlfriend and I were blahblahblahing” etc.
I think coming out is slowly becoming obsolete. I think eventually, queers won’t have to come out any more than straight people come out. We won’t have to brace ourselves. Eventually, I think that will be true. I think more and more, especially in urban areas, this is already the case with young people. Sexuality is becoming more of a non-issue. I have hope for the future in this regard. But for now, coming out is still important, so important, for everyone everywhere, because the more visible we are, the more people will know we’re not going anywhere. We’ll become rooted in the American Consciousness. And the more people who know queers and love queers, the more we’re not going anywhere. You know? So, today, on National Coming Out Day, COME OUT!
I’m working on my roommate. She’s super gay, but has trouble saying it. She has trouble saying “I’m gay.” “I’m a lesbian.” “I’m queer.” I think today she might say it. Because it’s NATIONAL COMING OUT DAY.
Also, in honor of the day ‘n all, consider donating money to Equality for All to defeat Proposition 8 on Election Day. We’ll be so sad, so defeated, if it passes, if California constitutionally bans same-sex marriage. We’re so close. But right now, polls indicate that those who want it passed are leading by 5-7 points. So we need help. Just something to consider.
