Why We March

Lesbian Pride Flag

The Closet Sucks!

I just want to scream every time I hear about how someone doesn’t care what I do, as long as I don’t “rub it in their face.”

So what exactly is rubbing it in your face? Mentioning my girlfriend? Commenting that I went to a lesbian club last night? Unless you’re reading my blog, I’m not going to regale you with intimate details of my love life!

When you’re in the closet, everything that you say about yourself becomes a lie, or at best a heavily-edited version of the truth.

Casual conversations become mine-fields of potential outing. Unless you flat out lie, simple questions must be met with a delicate dance of truth evasion.

In an effort to not make straights “feel uncomfortable,” when you are living in the closet you are always off-balance.

Always uncomfortable.

Living a lie.

That’s why I came out. I figure you can get over your momentary discomfort at my truth easier than I can get over a life of constant evasions.

But I also know that coming out is not without a price. Your discomfort at my casual reference to my girlfriend can lead me to the greater discomforts of social ostracization, violent hate crime and loss of income and the ability to provide for my family.

Fear of all these things is what keeps so many of us in the closet.

Why should your comfort come at the cost of my terror?

Why should I hide, hate myself, and try to change, just because you don’t understand and are afraid of my attractions?

I won’t. No longer. I am out! We are out!

That’s why coming out is brave. That’s why we’re out and proud!
That’s why we March!

Both Sides

A Midevil butch and femme

I really appreciate the butch-femme dynamic–from both sides!

See, even though I’m most often attracted to studs and butches–and love following on the dancefloor, having the door held for me, dinner paid for, etc., love, love love recieving in the bedroom–a part of me wants to be the one doing all those things.

I’ve mentioned her before, but I have a straight(ish) femme friend, and hanging out with her has given me an outlet for the butch side that I try so hard to hide. When I told her about my plan to dress like a stud for Halloween, she looked at me funny, and asked how that was different from how I normally dressed. I looked down at myself in my over-sized concert T-Shirt (Bob Marley) and baggy jeans, and realized that I did always seem to dress more masculine when I visited her. Now I do it consciously. Last time I didn’t even wear a bra. (When you’re already big, loose titts could be man-titts lol.)

Over time I’ve also been taking on more of the tasks that she usually assigns to her no-good menfolk: installing her AC, locks and curtain rods. When I come over I bring bread and salad and she cooks elaborate and delicious meals.

Recently she was talking about how she had to mow her lawn.
“Well I could have my son do it, but–” she started going through a list of possible dangers of lawn-mowing: dismembered limbs, gouged eyeballs, concussions…etc…this woman has a seriously over-active imagination.
“I’ll do it.” I told her, feeling wonderfully capable and completely disregarding the previously un-thought-of perils of lawn mowing.
“How much would you charge for that?”
“I couldn’t charge you.” I replied, unconsciously puffing my chest out and feeling deliciously chivalrous.

I could never be in a relationship with my friend, even if she was my “type”–I’ve seen how she obsesses over her partners, and I would not like to be the subject of that level of neurosis. (Plus, it may sound wrong, but she’s told me enough about her sexual  history to make me not want to go there.) Even so, sitting there at the dinner table with her and our six kids–I feel the greatest sense of peace.

Heading home from her house with the mantle of female masculinity settled comfortably around me, I wondered how I could make the transition back to femme to go out that night?
Usually switching is not so much a choice as an instinct, it’s like I get gender-role exhaustion: when I go out excessively feminine, the next day I’ll go out as a boi, and after a boi day, I get tired of the negative reactions and extra–idk–work that presenting as masculine in society usually takes for me. Then I settle back into my daily low-key femme ways.

But with my friend it wasn’t work, it wasn’t tiring, it just felt natural…and right…hmm…(?)

With the kids in bed, I decided to start by shaving. After shaving my chin, pitts and those random hairs on my chest–I started feeling more femme–and was soon dithering between four skimpy, sparkly outfits.

What can I say, I love to follow on the dance-floor!

Young Stud

Young stud crouching down--looking pensive & fly.

DZ from Studology 101:

“You know you are a lesbian when you are physically, mentally and emotionally attracted to another woman.”

Between the Lines

I was waiting in the clinic with my daughter amidst a miasma of coughing, praying I didn’t catch whatever they all had, when an older Butch struck up a conversation with me. She was there with her daughter.  (I’m guessing the girl was adopted, she was Asian, I’m guessing Thai, Vietnamese or maybe Cambodian, while her mom was white. I know a lot of folks find it easier to adopt from Asia than here in the US. There’s a whole generation of Asians being raised by white families all around the country, especially in my white upper class neighborhood. It should be interesting to hear some of their stories as they come of age–but I digress.)

We got to talking, and she told me she was a teacher.

“What grade do you teach?” I asked.

“Oh I teach all grades.” She replied. “I’m a gym teacher.” Can you get more cliched? I’m not dissin’–just sayin.’ She ran a hand heavy with double masculine styled wedding rings through her hair. “I keep my hair short, because I sweat all day at work, and if I have it longer I get acne.”

“Acne? really?” I replied, but I was really thinking: you don’t have to justify your hair to me, you’re butch, I get it!  Why do butch women always feel like they have to explain themselves to me? “Yeah I used to have short hair too…but I let it grow out.” It feels like an inadequate reply. I wanna say, yes, I’m a family too! But how to work it in?

“Yeah my son says,” she took a deep breath and faced with a smile. “Us guys have to stick together.” I smiled back.

“Oh you have a son too?”

“Yeah he’s at home with his other mother.” She changed the subject, “Your daughter has nice hair.” We get that everywhere we go. Through the genetic convergence of Irish, Black and Jewish, she came out with a flaming red head of ringlets/afro, depending on how it’s styled.


“Yeah my daughter always want’s curly hair.”

“I think everyone wants what they can’t have.” I replied. “My daughter wants it straight.”

“We curl it sometimes with a curling iron.”

“Oh really? I don’t know how to do anything with hair except wash it and let it dry.”

“Me neither, her other mother handles that.” I couldn’t help thinking how much I had in common with this butch woman.  I wonder what she saw in me? It was a casual day for me, so I was in a hoodie, loose jeans (they used to be slimming but now they’re baggy lol) and hiking boots, I guess I looked kinda butch too, despite my shoulder length, somewhat unkempt hair. Or maybe the slightly greasy unkempt thing added to the affect.

“This is my guilty pleasure in waiting rooms.” I told her, grabbing a copy of Glamor off of the coffee table. Heavy perfumes wafting off of it, stinging my nose. “I hate when they load it down with perfume, I like natural smells!”

“Yeah me too.”

Leafing through pictures of sexy women and wishing I could take it home to add to my collage, it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that my ex-girlfriend’s cologne was the only artificial smell I ever liked, but I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. What’s wrong with me? Am I afraid to be out? She’s living fearless, why can’t I?

We talked a bit more, and I satisfied her curiosity that I was a single mom. I never did tell her explicitly answer her unspoken curiosity about my sexuality, although I laced in plenty of hints I think. Still, again, what’s wrong with me? Why is it still so hard to be out and proud?


My Awakening Part 1

I got my period for the first time at a Lesbian music festival. I was eleven. My mom decided to let me get my ears pierced in honor of my the few spots of blood in my panties marking my incipient womanhood. A gorgeous butch with sparkling blue eyes held my hands while her partner did the piercings and instructed me on how to care for them.

My first sexual memories come a few months later. I used to drape a scarf around my face, dancing in front of the table lamp and pretending that my shadow on the wall was a beautiful mysterious woman. I still think women in headscarves are incredibly sexy.

At twelve I was at a new school with new friends. At night as I explored my body I’d think to myself: “I like–rabbits!” I threw that last word in as a joke to myself. I knew what word belonged in that sentence, but was afraid to even think it all the way out to myself. Although my mom had shown me that being gay was okay, society had told me different. I knew I liked girls even then–I knew what I felt on those sleepovers, lying next to vivacious, red-headed Anya–the sweet torture of being so close to her and yet feeling so terrified of touching her or telling her how I felt.

When I was about thirteen talk among my friends turned to boys. I don’t know how many of my friends boy-crushes were real, but I knew that mine was wholey manufactured. Well, not entirely manufatured; he was about the closest thing to black my lilly-white high school had. He had dark olive skin and a suspiciously kinky black jewfro, which, at the time of my “crush” was braided into a hundred different braids that sprouted from his head in all different directions. I spent hours in science class admiring those braids,like wild, distant cousins of the neatly turned out braids sported by the cute and unfriendly girl at my Mattapan summer camp. (Mattapan’s a black neighborhood in Boston. Not entirely sure why my mom sent me to camp there.)

I lost my Junior High friends in the transition to high school at fourteen. There wasn’t any drama, it was just hard to maintain our friendships with completely different class schedules. I fell in with a group of friends that were more nerdy than I was used to–nothing wrong with that, but there was no one in the group I really connected with.

Then one day as I wandered through the halls after school feeling lonely and depressed, I noticed a room with some people in it. A hand-lettered sign on the outside proclaimed it to be the gay-straight alliance. Inside was a friend-of-a-friend of mine. Gathering up my courage, I stepped inside.

You Might Be A Lesbian If…

  1. While kissing your boyfriend you keep thinking of how his mouth reminds you of eating pussy.
  2. After your boyfriend goes down on you you barely think about it the next day except to kind-of wish he hadn’t–but when a woman kisses you that night for less than three minutes you can’t stop thinking about her the next day.
  3. You find dicks disgusting and don’t want to touch them never-mind have them anywhere near an orifice.
  4. You find yourself constantly checking out women everywhere you go.
  5. You really, really love eating pussy.

Okay, this post is not about you, you’ve probably guessed it. It’s about me.

I might be a Lesbian.

Okay, I am a Lesbian.

I need to admit it, own it, and stick to it even if it means being celibate until I find the right woman.

(And no, he’s not my boyfriend I just thought that sounded better for the sake of this post.)

Coming Out in the 21st Century


I laughed…