Scintillectually Yours

I have been thinking a lot about labels, lately. Specifically, the L word. No, not the show and not Laboutin (although if anyone wants to donate a pair of killer open-toe combat boots with a rockin’ stiletto heel, I take a size 6 ½). Lesbian. That’s the one. It may sound utterly ridiculous, especially as I’ve been “out” for roughly 26 years, give or take a few years of trying to conform to nonconformity.

Everyone wants to eschew labels. Everywhere you turn, you’ll hear that old adage about not wanting to label oneself. Or we have new labels: “queer,” “genderbent,” “pansexual.” I tried pansexual on for size recently on Fetlife. I had read a wonderful post by Curvaceous Dee and felt inspired by the term. At the time, I was still dallying with my ex-fiancé who happens to be an FTM transsexual. During the time that we were together, I actually let him talk me into claiming I was “straight.” Although to be perfectly frank, we’d have never even dated, much less become engaged, if we hadn’t met on Yahoo Personals…as women looking for women. He wasn’t even considering transition then and had come to terms with the fact that, as a man trapped in a woman’s body, he had to label himself lesbian although he truly is straight (long, complicated story…perhaps for another time…perhaps not, as it is over and done).

“Bisexual” didn’t cut it for him. He didn’t like the idea that I was still open to 50% of the population even though we were monogamous and headed for marriage. I wanted to respect his wishes to be man and wife, man and woman, (can we all sing together? “Little houses on the hillside, Little houses made of ticky-tacky…”) and so I tried to adapt to this June Cleaver image. I even, and it still shames me to remember this, shrugged my shoulders (publicly) at Prop 8, thinking it had nothing more to do with me. This coming from a woman who had married my female partner of 14 years, 4 days after my home state of Massachusetts began handing out marriage licenses to same-sex couples (another long story…moral is: just because you can doesn’t mean you should). I turned my back on the community that had nurtured me from the day that I came flying out of the closet to tackle the woman who now, 26 years later, is my lifelong love. The fallout that ensued was horrific. My BFF, Femme Fairy GodMother, and I had the first and only fight we’ve ever had. I mortally wounded her along with every other gay man, lesbian woman, and queer soul I was ever lucky enough to call friend or acquaintance.

I even, if you can believe it, tried to tell myself that I didn’t miss pussy. Me! I may be high femme but I am the world’s leading carpet muncher and dammit if I couldn’t wait to get my face all in it the first opportunity I got after the old man walked out. Okay, admittedly it took awhile to find that someone with whom I really cared enough about to bury my face in her crotch (this isn’t the 80s anymore, after all) but wow…I sooooo missed it.

So here’s the thing (to borrow a phrase from another Sapphic sister of mine), I am SO a lesbian. I am not straight, I am not bisexual, I am not queer, I am not pansexual. I kick it old school in that great butch-femme way. My woman looks like a man (check it out for yourself…Androgynonamous rocks my fucking world!) and gets called sir more often than not. As a baby dyke I listened to Chris Williamson, Tret Fure, and Meg Christian. I was there when Amy and Emily came out. I heard Ellen’s toaster joke on TV the night it aired. I listened to Betty at Boston’s Gay Pride before anyone even knew who they were. I read all the lesbian pulp fiction and prayed for glimpses of women who actually seemed to enjoy other women in porn long before The Crash Pad series came out.

So, stick it to me, glue it on me, tattoo it on my fucking forehead. I AM A LESBIAN. And I am thrilled to take back that label and call it my own. I will forever love the company of women and I honestly missed my community. You can take the girl out of the MichWomen’s Music Fest, but you can’t make her drink the Kool-aid. Never again.

And you? You can call me Ms. Dyke, thank you. Because yes, yes I am!