Thoughts Answered

Often, I have tried to figure out the moment I decided I was gay, or I first knew I had a girl crush, or I knew I was attracted to girls, at least sexually because I fantasized about them while I made out with my boyfriends - going back in time to try to understand why I never knew I was gay.

And then I met someone. I stopped asking. It didn't matter anymore why I hadn't known at 13 or 15 or 17, because I met my love and that was all that mattered. Her friends accepted me in a way that I had never known before, because all they saw was my out and comfortable side. Over the past months I've settled into a beautiful serenity with myself that I've never felt before.

And then last night I had this dream. It came out of nowhere, my last thoughts of the night solely focused on British TV show Doctor Who, and somehow answered all the thoughts I'd left alone all those months ago:

We arrived in New Zealand, my lovely boi and I, and were driving to a little vacation spot, eager to see the exotic animals and the rainforest. The water was pouring down and the road was narrow, slicing a thin path between two vast bodies of water, but we were so happy just to be together.

We arrived at the camp to see a few others, a man and his girlfriend or wife, and another girl with them, mingling in the main kitchen. They greeted us and helped us with our bags. Before I knew it I had been dragged off by the separate girl, who was offering dry clothes and towels. She brought me into a bedroom where I gratefully took a towel from her to help with my hair.

And then she started pushing, asking about having sex with men and why shouldn't I just try it? She kept talking about how much she enjoyed it, how much she enjoyed the taste of men and I couldn't handle it. I wanted to find my boi. I stalked into the kitchen where my boi was wrapped in a towel at the table, and clambered to sit at the tabletop where I felt safe.

"Why are you in a towel?" I asked.

"My bag fell in the river and everything is wet," she responded and I laughed, heart relaxing.

"Sorry. I stole a shirt and underwear to sleep in. I'll get them, they're in my bag," I offered with a smile and a kiss. The lighthearted moment faded as I pulled away because the girl was in the doorway again.

"I don't understand why you won't just try it. You'll like it," she promised. I wanted to rip my hair out, I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her about the time I was almost raped in high school, or when I was molested in college, but I knew I'd only be proving her point by showing her my bad experiences.

"I have tried it," I insisted. "I have had it sweet and nice, I have had normal relationships with men, but it was never right. It was always wrong, so inherently wrong, and no matter if I gave consent to them I wasn't giving consent to myself because it was never what I wanted. It always felt like being molested, and I can't even blame anyone but myself because it was me who allowed it to happen," by now I was shaking and crying, but I could feel their eyes burning me.

"So can we drop the subject now, please?!" I slammed my fist on the table and turned into my lover's side, not wanting to hear what anyone had to say. What I felt mattered, and I had said my piece.

I was worried about my boi's reaction, but I shouldn't have been, as I felt an arm protectively curl around my back and I cried into her shoulder.

When I woke up, I realized that maybe the moment doesn't matter, maybe I don't need to know exactly when I figured it out, or why I didn't realize it earlier. All those years of discomfort still take a toll on me occasionally, still sneak up on me when I don't expect it.

When I think about girls who are coming out later, I can't help but wonder at the sneers they endure from lesbians, at what other pain they must have to face. Do they also have years of giving consent to others without giving self consent burdening their backs? Though I'm now part of the "always been gay" club when I go out, I have to remember never to pass judgement. It wasn't that long ago that I wouldn't have been accepted.

Feeling Proud

LA Pride was a big hit with me. Of course, you know that I live in a little tiny village where my neighbor churns butter and we all sing in the streets as we bake bread and open our shops, so Pride seemed huge.

I spent the day with the boifriend and a bunch of friends. There's something about being surrounded by people who are happy and excited, by people who are a part of our culture, by people who smile when I hold hands with my boi, or we dance together, or kiss. There's something about making friends with the people standing nearby, walking down the street, passing too close, ordering at the bar - something about the easy way our bodies ebb and flow and belong to everyone and no one as the good vibes keep rolling in.

The parade went on for forever and a day and I made out like a bandit with stickers and a free flag and lots of other stuff. I was fairly tipsy and warmed from the sun by the time we decided it was going to continue forever and moved into the shade of a bar. I don't drink a lot, especially in the beginning when my boi's friends made me nervous and I wanted to make a really good impression.

I felt so comfortable, so alive, so happy and free, so in love, that I felt free to drink and keep drinking, though I had water between - felt free to enjoy myself and my relationship and our friends and this beautiful community full of beautiful, glittering people all around us. I felt connected to all of them.

Of course there was some drama, I mean, we're still lesbians, but none of it was between me and my boifriend. I feel so lucky for that. Lucky that I feel like we're on the same page. Lucky that I feel so loved, lucky that we're communicating, lucky that we fit in all these little jigsaw ways, lucky that we can see an outline of something on the horizon that doesn't seem crazy, that's not a complete compromise for one of us.

I feel proud to be gay, proud to be part of this family, proud to have found friends in my boifriend's group, but the most proud to be with the one I love.

Radar

Some people spend every minute of their active days noticing the people looking at them. Maybe it is the touch of makeup he is wearing or maybe she is paranoid because she is still so closeted and uncomfortable, or maybe because the danger of being gay is still so very real in our society. But they walk down the street and they worry.

I don't ever think about watching, because no one looks twice at me. Some days I stop to peer into the faces of passers by with a broken heart, wishing that someone would recognize me for what I am. Some days I long for a kindred spirit, for a judgemental glare, for some sort of reaffirmation that someone else can see in me what I see in myself.

A gay woman.

But they all keep walking, so absorbed in their lives. I'm not pretty enough to turn heads, nor odd enough to attract attention, and so I am invisible to them as they talk on their cell phones or rustle up their children or dig their keys from pockets and purses.

And I spend long afternoons with my boifriend's head on my lap or our fingers interlaced and my heart swells with joy. Our eyes meet and there's so much between us and I know someone is seeing me, really looking into me.

I'm so glad someone else can see it. I'm so glad I can have this loving, caring relationship with someone so wonderful and beyond my wildest imaginings.

But I also can't help but wonder sometimes what's wrong with me, that everyone else pings on the radar, and I don't.