40
6.2002
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HUMOR
..............▼..............
Last man on earth
How my boyfriend convinced me to become a lesbian
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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.