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About Just out. (Portland, OR) 1983-2013 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 6, 2002)
40 6.2002 Zuluuf, Oui £uh*Uf Oui £iUi+Uf Oui £ali+Uf Oui CaiuUf, Oui Caluuj. Oui Zatuuf Oui CaiuUf, HUMOR ..............▼.............. Last man on earth How my boyfriend convinced me to become a lesbian L u c y 's Social Hour... 5 . 0 0 - 6 : 3 0 M -F a p p e t i z e r s & cjrinks f o r less $ 4in»er Monday through Saturday 704 N VV 21 st & I rvi n<j 501 226.6126 H U tq in s R ESTA U R A N T & BA R UITR CAFE Sustainable cuisine deeply rooted In the Northwest. + Serving fresh panini sandwiches. Reservations 503.222.9070 1239 SW Broadway Ô Jefferson + Delicious homemade soups & bold salads. + + Local hormone free beef burgers + Many specialty & breakfast items too! * •f Using local & organic ingrediants. 4 Restaurant & Lounge . O- Local organic beer, wine, & fresh juices. + + Spacious booths for groups and always quick service. + + Yummy kids menul + Visit us at www.starkys.com 503 . 230*7980 2913 SE Stark f Now Open 10*5 Weekdays & 8-5 Sat. • Sun. + + Expanded breakfast menu + 3024 NE Alberta + 503-335-8233 Hours: Lunch - M-F 11-5 Supper - Tue-Sat 5-2 Sun & Mon 5-10 Breakfast - Sat & Sun 8 3 here do lesbians come from? Are we bom this way? Do we choose it? Is there a maniacal Dr. Dykenstein in some clififside la-BOR-at’ry piecing together exhumed body parts and jolting them to life on stormy nights with a giant Hitachi Magic Wand? Bom, chosen or created, lesbians roam the earth trying to find each other. Not an easy task in a world where all our identifying hair styles are co-opted by mainstream fashion. If we are lucky enough to detect others of our kind, we must initiate contact. But some of us are slow. I didn’t jump into the arms of my first lesbian lover; 1 was pushed. Thank God(dess)! I may have stayed lost in hetspace forever if it hadn’t been for my final boyfriend. Kind and gentle was he— nothing like the other overpowering, self-absorbed, clit-ignorant college boys I knew. Boyfriend had a pretty face and was as sweet as a bee charmer. His high tenor warbled through “Bridge Over Troubled W ater” like a choir boy, which he had been. We hiked to our special woodland hideout where he sang to me while I braided wildflowers into his long, silky hair. We pranced and spun in the meadow. We were stardust. We were golden. And oh, so high. Boyfriend lived across from an all-women communal household where he bought his monthly lid. They didn’t like men coming over, so he asked me if I’d be his weed runner. I crossed the street with his money folded up in the pocket of my long tie-dyed skirt. T he pot-women were friendly. I enjoyed visiting the commune but was eager to get back across the street and enjoy the purchase with my far-out guy. Boyfriend was a good dancer, meaning he’d just slip off into his own world while I did the same. We liked to go out dancing, but I always got hit on at straight cluhs. N ot being the "keep your hands off my woman" sort of man, Boyfriend suggested we try our tow n’s only gay bar. We w ent on a Thursday— “W om en’s N ight.” I had no idea my own queer streak was as wide as k.d. lang’s vocal range, but somehow I felt right at home. I adored being surrounded by strong, con fident, manless women. I relaxed around them. But I also felt kind of sorry for them because they didn’t have a great guy like my long haired swirly hoy groovin' over there in the comer of the dance floor. Visions of the bar women danced in my head w hen Boyfriend and I w ent back to his place. He com plied with my request for dick less sex and cheerfully indulged my fantasy Living « ¿ j by Sally Sheklow of him being a woman w orshipper at my goddess temple. 1 had one terrific guy. O ne day in our woodland hideout, my danc ing queen gently suggested I might be a lesbian. That really hurt. It meant I’d failed at my efforts to comply with years of conditioning to be more feminine, more soft-spoken (so boys’ feel ings wouldn’t get hurt and so I wouldn’t come off as some kind of queer). Boyfriend’s comment stung. But he’d plant ed the seed. Back at th e bar, he danced, and I studied th e bar dykes. I searched for any indication I m ight be o ne of them . I d id n ’t walk I or dress the way they did. I was terrible at shooting pool. I d id n ’t even own one single bandanna. But I got all • nn^y imagin ing what kissing one would feel like. In a mysterious bout o f overactive bladder, I kept dash ..... ing off to the women s restroom. I leaned against the stall and longed for one of those bar dykes to pounce and smooch me into submission. Boyfriend’s need for my weed-running services suddenly increased. He sent me over to the commune so often, I final ly ended up staying the night. O ne of the roommates shared her bed with me and taught me everything I needed to know about being a happy lesbian. Really happy! Before long, I only went across the street to Boyfriend’s house to make my monthly deliveries. He was good-natured about it and never once said, “I told you so,” although he certainly had. After college he moved away. I like to think his next girlfriend pushed him into the arms of the Radical Faeries, with whom he traipsed off into the woods to dance and sing with his kin dred spirits. The “bom vs. choice" argument reminds me of him. Was I bom this way? Did 1 choose it? O r did I just happen to have a wonderful boyfriend who steered me toward my natural destiny? If you nin into him swirling around the dance floor, please thank him for me. I may have forgotten to do that. J H This is the final installment o f SALLY S hekl OW s column in Just O u t. You can still find her m Eugene W eekly as iveil as queer [mblications around the country. Find archives at wwtu.sallysheklow.com.
