Queer Love 411: Lesbian Visibility Month

*April is Lesbian Visibility Month.

*Names changed to protect confidentiality.

Gay af.

Though I wholeheartedly identify this way now, I didn’t always. For many years, beginning at a young age, I believed myself to be bi.

In kindergarten I fawned for a boy named Tim*, ever since the day in art class when he’d politely asked to borrow the bunny stencil I was using. Later that day I gushed to my diary about his really really green eyes.

Ten was the age I first dated a boy. We met at summer camp. With his blond hair, blue eyes, and baby face, Darren* made an adorable lesbian.

And at 18 on vacation to a Greek island, a boy named Demetre and I held hands overlooking hilly vineyards, while a donkey partially shrouded in shrubbery snorted from a few feet away.

To be clear, bisexuality is valid and common. Plenty of women and gender nonbinary individuals comfortably identify as bisexual. Others realize they are attracted to multiple genders, beyond the two presented as the only options by our culture’s gender binary (perhaps opting for the label of pansexual or queer). Those who don these identities are not in denial, or brainwashed by comp het.

Still, not everyone is bi — especially not in a dead-even, fifty-fifty sense. And it is also a reality that not every person who initially identifies as bisexual does so for the uncomplicated reason that they simply feel it in their heart.

Despite my early experiences crushing on and dating boys, time brought me to the gradual realization that I was gay. It took a few years though, for several reasons — a mixture of societal pressure, male veneration, and lack of collective focus on women’s pleasure among them.

In my case, there is the perhaps not entirely ground-breaking observation that heterosexuality and liking men was “normal” and expected.
Like all girls my age, I was steeped in comp het, which Emily Crivograd refers to as “the theory that women act or believe they are attracted to men because of a patriarchal society.”

After my first round of girl crushes plunged (unwanted) into my unprepared psyche at the age of 13, I feared fully owning the lesbian label. Bi felt safer. Gay felt riskier. It also seemed less common, accompanied by limiting stereotypes that would be difficult to shake.

I related to a species that Peter Fimrite wrote about in the SF Chronicle — one that is “almost certainly semiaquatic, wading and swimming along the coast — but could not fully commit to the sea because they would have been eaten by giant squid-like cephalopods.”

That I equated the “giant squid-like cephalopod” with our homophobic society to me indicates that when younger, my bi identification served as a shield from the full bright light of my gayness.

When we’re younger, our attractions may be especially informed more by what we think we are supposed to want than by what we genuinely desire. This brings me to a second reason some women might identify as bi before ultimately realizing they are gay: because women aren’t taught to be as in touch with their physical desires.

Historically, far fewer resources have existed to connect us to our own individualized wants and needs. Many of us have internalized that our sexual desires just aren’t that important compared to our (male) partner’s — or even, that we don’t have any.
In fact, according to Daisy Bernard in a babe.net article, “The full anatomy of the clitoris wasn’t even recognized by western science until 1998.” A gay guy friend of mine admitted to having once thought that girls just “weren’t sexual beings.”

“I find that when women are asked, ‘what is it you want?’ The most likely answer is ‘I don’t know,’ because they’re not used to asking themselves that question,” said Emma Thompson, in an SF Chronicle article about her new movie that chronicles a 60-something woman’s sexual awakening. “It’s not on the top of anyone’s agenda what women might want, sexually, what might give them pleasure or if they’re satisfied. It simply isn’t.”

Some women who are emotionally or intellectually attracted to a person might wonder if the physical attraction could grow. I was among these women.

How I ultimately decided I wasn’t bi

As I got older, the giveaway was this: when it came to getting physical with men, inebriation began to feel like a requirement. While I’ve also attributed to this to potential demisexuality — ie, maybe I just take a while to warm up — this wouldn’t explain my ability to feel attraction towards, and engage in physical intimacy with, girls while sober, but not with guys.

If we were to base labels solely off of behavior, then some might observe mine (particularly in the past) and label me fluid. But merely having had a history of bisexual behavior doesn’t warrant the tattooing of a life-long “bisexual” label onto one’s hearts and loins.

As author Jill Gutowitz put it, “I wondered…could you date boys, and also be a lesbian? (Yes, and I did that for years — it’s very different from being bi or pansexual).”

Glennon Doyle had never had a relationship with a woman before meeting Abby. Though she’d been partnered with a man for most of her adult life, she now identifies as gay.

To be fair, at times I did experience the faintest flicker of what one might refer to as attraction with men. It sparked when I rested my head on Daniel’s shoulder, feeling safe burrowed against his black hoodie as the two of us watched Borat. It sparked again when our hands grazed against the coiling mountain of curly fries that loomed between us as we both reached for one.

What’s become clear to me, though, is that this “something” isn’t enough to keep the flame of a long-term relationship burning. What I feel for women could take down acres upon acres of forest, strong enough to burn for several lifetimes. My attraction to men, on the other hand, is and was more like a trick candle on a birthday cake — one that could never stay lit for the entire song.

Even back when I was trying to date men, I think I identified with Terry Castle’s words from The Apparitional Lesbian: “While Garbo sometimes makes love to men, she would rather make love to women. Thus, it is for her preference that we call her lesbian. It is more meaningful to refer to her as a lesbian.”

~
Some might ask why the nitty-gritty of labeling even matters. Who cares if you’re gay or bisexual? Isn’t there only a minute difference between the two anyways? Just go live your life, I can imagine some saying.

Unfortunately though, sexual orientation in some ways, and in many parts of the world, isn’t yet a non-issue. After coming out at 18 my eyes began to open to all the subtle (and not so subtle) ways that heteronormativity shrouds everyone. My repetition of “gay” and “lesbian” as self-identifiers were the engines I used to power against those hetero waves that threaten to engulf us all.

When I blend in, it doesn’t feel like equality — it can even feel like a form of erasure.

And so I label myself (proudly) gay.

I know that despite Darren, despite Tim having captured my kid heart with his lime-green jelly bean eyes, despite Josh and Daniel, despite having dated boys and men — a woman is my future. My heart is a staunch lesbian pumping inside my chest. I can safely say that for as long as I’m alive, she will beat her gay drum song, hoping that some day or another, the right woman will hear it and play her own in return.