I USED TO BE SUCH A GOOD GOOD SWIMMER

Mark and I had come to a point in our relationship where it was OK to hang out as friends – so casually, in fact, that we decided to go on vacation together. There was a big 3-day music festival in a beach town – I don’t know any other way to describe it except that it was like Lollapalooza meets outdoor waterpark. There were going to be plenty of lesbians there…because Tegan and Sara were scheduled to play.

So there we were, Mark and I, at a picnic table on a rooftop overlooking the main stage. I was sipping a mojito while he browsed through a newspaper and drank scotch on the rocks. Palm trees swayed in the breeze behind us.

“There are so many hot girls here,” I said dreamily.

“You should go talk to one of them,” Mark laughed. “Get out there. You know you want to.”

“OMG,” I mumbled, hiding my face. “No.”

Just then a mob of girls ran up the stairs shrieking.

“What the hell…” I muttered.

“Holy shit,” said Mark, his jaw dropping.

I followed his gaze to the center of the mob and instantly understood. Tegan and Sara had arrived – in bikinis. I almost spilled my mojito on myself, and had to shut my mouth with my hand.

Tegan and Sara looked annoyed. The heat and the fangirls were really getting to them. And they’d just gotten here.

I remembered something I’d read once about Sara having a possible tattoo on her lower back, and leaned over in my chair to get a better look at her backside. She must have felt my eyes on her, somehow, through the crowd, because she snapped around so that she was front-facing and glared at me. I almost tipped my chair over attempting to recover, my cheeks flushed. Mark spit out his scotch laughing.

“Shut up,” I growled.

“That was awesome,” he snorted.

Seconds later, a little boy who had come up the stairs with Tegan and Sara burst through the mob and ran toward us. He looked terrified – like he wanted to crawl under our table.

“Hey,” I said gently. “Are you OK?”

He shook his head and pouted. “I want my mum.”

I eyed Tegan and Sara. “Were you with them?”

“They’re my cousins,” he nodded.

Suddenly I made the connection. Of course. They’d tweeted about it earlier, that they were excited to bring their 5-year-old cousin with them to this festival. (I wasn’t sure how they’d managed to convince the kid’s parents; it was a very adult event, but there was a waterpark, and what kid doesn’t love waterparks?).

“I’ll protect you from that crowd,” I said. The poor kid was shaking. “Want to sit in my lap?”

He didn’t need a second invitation. In seconds he was burying his face in my shoulder.

“It’s OK,” I soothed him, rubbing small circles on his back. Mark looked at us sympathetically. After about five minutes the kid calmed down.

“So do you like Tegan and Sara?” I asked. “I mean, their music?”

The kid rolled his eyes. He’d probably been asked this at least 100x a day.

“Not really,” he said.

“What?!” I exclaimed in mock horror. “But it’s so awesome! Everything is awesome...” I started singing, bouncing my leg.

He laughed and hid his face behind little hands. “That one’s OK.”

“Still, it must be pretty cool to be at a show with them right now,” I said. “You get to go backstage and hang out with the tour managers…”

He made a face. “Yeah, I guess…”

I looked up and noticed the crowd had dissipated. It was quieter. Tegan was strolling toward us with a margarita in one hand. OMG. OMG. OMG!!

“I see you met my cousin,” she said. My heart leaped into my throat. I was afraid for a moment that she would accuse me of kidnapping or something, but she clearly thought it was cute.

“Yeah, he’s delightful,” I said with a smile.

The kid hopped off my lap and ran over to Tegan, throwing his arms around her. “Let’s go backstage now, TeeTee.”

Tegan looked at me and we both laughed. She was beautiful. I tried not to stare at her body – her smile alone was enough to light up the whole rooftop. My tongue stuck stupidly to the roof of my mouth.

“Thanks for looking after him,” she said sincerely. “He gets freaked out by crowds. It’s his first time on tour with us.”

“No problem,” I said casually, taking a sip of my mojito. (I’d managed to play it cool. Good.)

“Hey,” she said suddenly, checking her phone and whipping her head around. “Have you seen Sara? We’re supposed to be on in 5, and I can’t find her anywhere. She just disappeared.”

“She’s probably off somewhere drinking rum and reading a book,” I said.

“What?” Panic flooded Tegan’s eyes.

“No! I’m just kidding,” I laughed, sobering up. “No, I really haven’t seen her. She’s probably backstage already, have you checked there?”

“No, but you’re probably right,” she said, agitated. She didn’t look convinced. “Walk with me, OK?”

I exchanged a brief conversation with Mark through our eyes:

Holy shit!! Can you believe this is happening?!
No I can’t…OMG.
I’m wondering if she’s going to go out on stage in that bikini…
I don’t know, but I sure hope so!

 

“Sure thing,” I said to Tegan, standing up and flashing her a smile. We made our way down from the rooftop and began weaving our way around the outer edge of the waterpark toward the back of the main stage. The kid held her hand and had to run a little to keep up.

“Hey, I’m sure she’ll be back there getting ready, OK?” I shouted over the noise. “And if she’s not, I’ll be your backup!”

Tegan laughed a little, then looked at me. “Wait, would you really?” She paused. “Can you even sing?”

“I know all of your songs, and all of Sara’s parts,” I assured her, with more confidence than I felt.

She started singing:
Something’s so sick about this / My misery’s so addictive
And I sang under her:
Sick about this, so addictive

She stopped and stared at me, grinning. “Perfect. Sold.”

At that moment, a loud beeping interrupted us and I found myself pulled out of my body into a dark room, in a bed.

Fuck you, alarm. Fuck you.  😂

IF I SAVED YOU FROM DROWNING

Nothing is straight or narrow about the way T&S have changed my life.

 

(This is what I was working on last year for the high holy day of Tegan and Sara’s birthday, but never got around to finishing. Revisiting it, I found it to be rather poignant, and although this is last year’s perspective, it’s a love-letter I think needs to be shared.)

The first time I heard of Tegan and Sara, I was in the car with my ex-boyfriend Mark. We were sharing our music with each other. He’s into alternative stuff, and although I like a lot of foreign music, my taste in English music is admittedly mainstream. He played something for me. To this day I don’t remember what song it was – perhaps “I Hear Noises” or “I Know I Know I Know.” Something indie. Something alternative that you have a taste for or you won’t like. Their sound struck me as raw, unschooled. Juvenile almost. (Don’t hit me.)

Mark was telling me their life story – that they were twin sisters from Canada and had been writing their own music since they were children. I was half-listening. The part about them being children is what I heard, and my brain retained it as, “T&S are child songwriters.” So I thought they were about 15 years old, and the song that was playing supported that theory! Oh god.

About a year later, I was starting to have feelings for women, and I looked up “lesbian music artists.” I needed some jams that jived with my feelings, you know? Of course, Tegan and Sara was one of the first results, after K.D. Lang and Melissa Etheridge.

I typed their name into the search bar on Spotify and caught my breath in amazement at the picture that popped up: dreamy eyes and gravity-defying hair, x2. No shit, I thought. I’d tap that!

The #1 song was “Closer.” So I clicked on it. And that was all I needed: I was hooked on them forever after. It wasn’t as if it contained any explicit lyrics that screamed, “I’m singing to a girl and this is awesome gay music!” but there is something distinctly gay about this song.

All you think of lately / is getting underneath me
All I dream of lately / is how to get you underneath me

A girl doesn’t sing that to a guy, OK? I was at work listening to this, and I was grinning like a big stupid idiot. I clicked on the artist bio and started reading. A subconscious piece of cognition pulled up the conversation I’d had with Mark months ago and matched the details. Twins. Canada. Write their own songs. Play a lot of instruments. Wait a minute…

I sent Mark an IM. (Did I mention we used to work together? Yeah. We did.) “Hey, do you listen to Tegan and Sara?”

He replied excitedly, “Yes, I played them for you in the car, remember?”

“OMG! Well, get this. I just looked up lesbian artists, and they were one of the suggestions…I’m listening to their new album and it’s AMAZING!!”

“They’re lesbians?! Huh. I had no idea. And I don’t think I’ve heard the new album…”

Mark was an old fan. He didn’t exactly keep up with them, and Heartthrob was not his style anyway. I, however, would not have started listening to any of their earlier stuff nor discovered the amazing world that is T&S if I had never heard this album. I’ve always been a sucker for good pop – call me shallow – but I credit Heartthrob with reaching me. To all the fans who have called them sellouts for their involvement with mainstream music in the past few years, please remember this. Not everyone likes indie rock right away.

(Side note: I eventually fell in love with all of their songs, one at a time. Another one would get stuck in my head and I’d find myself singing it and then I’d add it to my playlist. I’d have to say that as of now I personally prefer the older stuff, although I very much support their exploration into pop. No matter the genre, they really own it.)

And so: the happy, sugar-sweet sounds of Heartthrob resonated with what I was feeling inside. Buoyant, ecstatic, full of light. All of the feelings that come with falling in love. And I was falling in love – with a deeper part of myself as I realized more of my true identity, and with an entire demographic of people. With women.

I listened to this album constantly at work. It made me feel good about myself. And when I would walk the 3 blocks from my apartment to Juneway Terrace Beach in the evenings and absorb the smiling sun and the long shiny hair and bronze skin of long-limbed women, whose hips I suddenly now wanted to press mine against, “Drove Me Wild” or “Love They Say” would pop into my head and I’d sing it to myself quietly, giddy with hope. To this day, I cannot listen to Heartthrob without having flashbacks to that beach and all of the feelings I felt there. The joy of watching the women, and the sudden sharp despair of realizing that I had a boyfriend, and my future was boxed in, forever.

I would get up from my spot on the rocks  – as the sun was finally setting and the night sky was changing overhead – and turn away toward the the little graveyard to the north, to begin the long lovely walk to Evanston. I tried to drown my sorrow in walking. I tried to flush from my ears the sweet synth and bouncing beat of Tegan and Sara. As the months went by and I acted the part of a model hetero girlfriend, I stopped listening to that album, because their music was now a knife going in. I replaced the music with crock pot meals and Christmas decorations and lots and lots of hetero sex. I reached a place of fragile calm where I almost believed I was happy.

A few months later, I was sitting abandoned at my parents’ house, alone, shattered, without a job, laptop or change of clothes. I didn’t know how to exist without Mark. I would wake up in terror, crying, shaking, unable to sleep, eat or breathe.

I want your lungs to stop working without me…

Well, they damn well did!

Lesbian or not, my love for him as real; he was my best (and at times, my only) friend and now he was gone. He had said that he couldn’t co-exist with my mood swings anymore. That he questioned the validity of our relationship if I was so traumatized by being with a man. It was my fault: I had killed our love.

I wanted to die. I raided my parents’ medicine cabinet for the most lethal OTC drugs I could find, and recovered only an expired bottle of hydrocodone + acetaminophen pills (I didn’t realize they were expired – but I did when I took about 6 of them and they didn’t do anything). I thought of getting drunk and diving into the lake. I thought of many things. I don’t want to list those things here, now. But I didn’t.

I didn’t because one night, sitting at my brother’s computer, I happened to remember Tegan and Sara, and began watching music video after music video, interview after interview. They were like old friends waiting for me, receiving me with open arms and soothing empathy. I found myself sobbing while hearing their coming out stories on “It Got Better” and smiled through my tears at their adorable funny banters. And Heartthrob again became the soundtrack to my life: I migrated gradually from “How Come You Don’t Want Me Now?” and “Now I’m All Messed Up” to the triumphant “Goodbye, Goodbye” and that tender torch-song “Closer.” The whole world was at my fingertips, thrumming with possibility and hope and yearning. I plugged into Tegan and Sara like a drug. Every day I found hope because of them.

One night, watching “Body Work,” it hit me that Sara Quin is the hottest thing since fire was invented, and thus a new love drove out the misery. I haven’t felt suicidal since.

MY LIFE TETHERED LIKE

I swear I only have one poster in my apartment (so far)…

“I have some tough stuff to go over this week,” I say walking into the room. My therapist looks at me with interest. I never start a session this way. “I’m telling you now so that I don’t chicken out,” I explain.

We go over some paperwork, some business items. She drags me back to it.

“What sorts of tough things?”

Dammit. Now I have to say it. I take a deep breath.

“It’s….well, I think I overdosed on Tegan and Sara this week.” My cheeks flush. Why? Why does this only happen to me? “I know it sounds weird. But they’re my drug.” At that moment I realize I don’t even know if she knows who the fuck I’m talking about. “Wait…you know who they are, right?”

She laughs and blushes a little herself. “Um, YEAH I do!” (Fellow fangirl? Fuck, it didn’t occur to me right then and there to ask her. Would have been useful information.)

I laugh. “OK, good. So it occurred to me last night that this is something I do. I escape my unfulfilling mundane life and my emotions that are intense as fuck by escaping into some obsession, whatever it is at the moment. If there’s a story to accompany the obsession, it’s better. So all weekend I’ve been reading fanfics, writing a fanfic, watching interviews, talking to my friends as if I live in Vancouver with Tegan, researching their lives and even reading the books that inspired some of their songs, and when I had to snap out of it last night in order to get ready for work, I broke down sobbing. This can’t keep happening.”

She just looks at me. I hate it when she does this – this NOT reacting. I can never tell what she’s thinking. She does it for a reason – to get me to talk more. And it usually works, goddamn it.

Oh hey readers, and I haven’t written in five months……..Hi.

So much has happened…SO MUCH. What you need to know is (1) things didn’t work out with the last girl I was dating – I freaked out when things got too serious and ended it after date #4; (2) I had my first Pride weekend, which was almost a disaster due to my social anxiety but turned out OK; (3) instead of OD’ing on drugs and having suicide attempts I started therapy again, had a psychiatric evaluation, and got on 2 prescriptions; and (4) I missed you guys. ❤

So, back to the spam…I wrote a lame little verse last weekend about Tegan and Sara:

I use you like
A drug. I overdose
On you; and when
Your magic is spent
Or my mind ceases
To make you real for me,
I shatter.

That’s pretty much how it is, this business of obsession. But SO MUCH is going on with them this year. It is the year to be obsessed before I move on. Excuse me while I fangirl for a hot second.

They dropped a hot new album, Love You to Death. It’s their queerest album yet, with songs like “Boyfriend” and “BWU” explicitly addressing the fact that they’re in relationships with women. That elusive “she” finally shows up in lyrics –

All the girls I loved before
Told me they signed up for more…

BAM! But wait, there’s more. Sara comes out as not wanting to get married (I applaud this – marriage is a difficult institution); Tegan revisits old relationships and takes a tough honest look at her own behavior; both reveal a bitter history in regards to their relationship with each other – we fans had no idea just how bad the fighting was. (There were fistfights. And hair pulling.)

It was cruel of me to do what I did to you
It was wrong of me to hurt such a big part of you…

There wasn’t a single dry eye in the fandom the first time we heard “100x” and “White Knuckles.” The sisters have reuinted, though, and things are good now, as far as we can tell. (They bought houses across the street from each other in Vancouver, so that’s adorable as fuck.)

The official tour has started, and as of right now I’m planning on going to 3 concerts…more on that later. I may have stayed up pretty much all night waiting for the tickets to go on sale. Teehee.

In other news, I’ve been seduced by the dark side and have fallen for Tegan. I’ve been cheating on Sara for a good couple months now. Yikes. (In case you’re wondering, yes, that part makes it into the fanfic. I’m preparing to be murdered by fans. But it will not break up the band.)

I’m hoping that the medication helps with the obsessive nature of my interests and emotions. In the last few days, I’ve felt more chill, even during a trip to Walmart, which always gets my blood boiling. LMAO. On the not-so-bright side, I never fell asleep last night, and this has been happening about once a month where I don’t sleep at all – not because I’m not tired, but because anxiety keeps me awake.

Tomorrow is my lovely ladies’ birthday, so I thought it was high time I made a comeback. 😀

THE BAD’S GOT TO FIX ITSELF, CORRECT OVERTIME

It finally happened.

By “it” I mean two things: a) I met a girl who’s adorable AND really into me, and b) my mom finally said what she really thinks of me, 8 months after my coming out. This weekend delivered a grand fucking mashup of emotions in a variety so disjointed it puts Cubist art to shame.

Let’s start with Saturday night: the date I wasn’t all that excited about. It really had very little to do with the girl – she made my heart flutter the first time she responded to my message on Tinder – it was just the fucktastic hole of depression I’d sunk into that had blinded me from anything else. (I’m terrified of the moment she finds out this is part of who I am…don’t even get me started.)

I decided to drive that night because the neighborhood of choice was not easily accessible by my beloved 22 bus, and taking an Uber would have been a tad bit of an unjustified expense. (SPOILER ALERT) In the end, I was glad I drove.

My date (let’s call her Sofia) was absolutely head-to-toe, radiantly, genuinely adorable. She’s 5’2” (Sara Quin’s height, don’t judge me for noticing) and moved to the U.S. two years ago from Mexico. For those two years, her English is admirable – far better than my Spanish would likely be in reverse circumstances – and she possesses a sense of honesty that’s refreshing. One day last week, she freaked out and texted me that she had to tell me something: she dates both men and women. I laughed and told her that I also had a confession: I’ve never had a girlfriend before, and this whole dating women thing is still less than a year old for me. If she’s OK with my lack of experience, I’m OK with her diversity of experience. She was relieved, and we bonded before even meeting. She’s just, well, sweet.

So we had our first date. It started with dinner at 7 pm – we couldn’t figure out what to order because we were too busy looking at each other and smiling shyly over our menus – and then we walked down a block to get donuts for dessert. It was colder than I prefer outside. But the damn cold was my friend, because all of a sudden the beautiful girl next to me was holding my hand. I was so surprised a silent squeal made its way to the base of my throat and hovered. There’s something gloriously free about walking down the street holding hands with a pretty girl, smiling like an idiot, not caring what the people think. (I did feel like we got some stares. But that was probably also because we were both smitten and tripping over our own feet.)

After the donut shop, we camped out in a bar with ambiance (a very cute ambiance during the evening, but a very bitch-slappingly drunk ambiance beginning around 11 pm, when the straight girls start making out with each other and the guys start Snapchatting themselves dancing with bottles of beer) for approximately 4 hours – yes, you heard me right. I did not get home until 2:30 Sunday morning. This was a SEVEN-HOUR FIRST DATE. You know what that means.

She was so easy to talk to. This is how the seven hours passed; they slipped through our fingers like water. We were racing to finish our mojitos – we’d decided earlier in the week that our first date should involve a race of some kind, and the winner gets a kiss – when she put her face close to mine, just enough that I could feel her breath on my skin, and said, “I really like you.” It was enough to make my bite my lip imagining her lips on mine.

I quickly finished the mojito and slapped the glass down on the table. “Done.”

She gasped. “You must have cheated.”

“I didn’t. I won.” I glanced at her flirtatiously. Then the room spun. I told her so.

“We’re waiting until you’re completely, 100% sober before I let you drive home,” she said.

“Fine,” I replied, and we sat there until I was well past sober.

“Do you want a ride to the train station?” I asked her, finally, when the night was winding down.

She looked down the street. “I mean, it’s just right there – “ She caught my eye, and amended her decision – “Okay.”

We got into my car. We sat there for a moment. I wanted to be a baller, say something romantic, kiss her. My heart dropped to my toes and I heard a sound like the ocean in my ears. I couldn’t.

I went to put on my seat belt.

“Wait!” she exclaimed.

“What?”

“I have to do this, or I’ll regret it.” She leaned over and suddenly her mouth was on mine, and the way she moved her lips made my brain fly out of my head and into the night sky, and simultaneously melt into soup. If they gave doctorate degrees in kissing, this girl would have one. It felt like all of the kisses in my life were lined up and revealed to be ugly little stick-figures of kisses compared to this one. It’s said among lesbians that “kissing a girl is 100% different from kissing a guy.” They’re right. It was fucking magical.

It was magical for about 2 seconds, until a truck came roaring around the corner and we were blinded by headlights. We stopped kissing, laughed our asses off, and resumed kissing. 10 minutes later we decided we should probably get to the train station, because it was almost 2 am.

I was double-parked on a busy street in front of the train station, but still she was kissing me, even though cars were honking at me to move and people were staring for real now. It was amazing. I haven’t felt so alive in months.

We’re doing a second date soon – possibly tomorrow. I feel like I can be myself around her. And I feel like it’s going somewhere.

Sunday morning (OK, it was noon, you got me) I woke up feeling different. Something had changed. What was it? Oh yeah, I remembered, and a giddiness came giggling out of me.

I went shopping – I need clothes for the next date – and amidst a fury of adorable texts from Sofia, I noticed an email from my mom. It said something about dates for a sibling hangout in Chicago, so I opened it immediately.

AND THEN THE BOMB DROPPED.

About a week ago, I asked her when my brother Liam gets out of school for the summer. I’m scheduling the rest of my days off till June, I told her, and I’d like to finally have the chance to spend a few days with him, just the two of us. I had lots of ideas: we could go shopping downtown, visit all the technology stores he’s been wanting to see, go to the beach, eat junk food, watch HGTV on my giant-ass TV, just hang out like we used to.

I didn’t explain all those ideas, but perhaps I should have, because based on my mom’s email I feel like what she thinks to be my list is as follows: get 15-year-old brother drunk, bring Liam to a gay club, send him home with a guy, have a huge homo party in my home and fuck a girl in front of him.

Her response to “May I have my brother over for a few days? I’ll pay for his food, pick him up and drop him off” is as follows (edited down to save space):

 

“I’ve been thinking about your offer to show Liam around Chicago. I’m sure he would love it. What days were you thinking about?

As parents we were responsible for everything we allowed you to do when you were still under our care.  We are currently responsible for Liam. One day we will stand before God and be held accountable for how we raised our children. It says in Luke 17:2: It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones to stumble. We are NOT perfect parents. We are just trying to do our best. With that we have a few requests/comments.

First of all, we would request that you do not drink alcohol while he is with you.

Second, put away any gay magazines, books, etc. and please do not discuss this issue with him.

Third, we do not have a lot of money, so we are not able to send him with much.

Fourth, we would like it to be just you and Liam and not anyone else that he does not know. If your aunt and uncle, or Mark (editor’s note: the self-same boyfriend with whom I was living in sin just over one year ago, and she wouldn’t let him visit us when we lived together) come along, that’s fine. He knows them. 

Fifth, I would like to know what your plans are each day. Keep in touch. Maybe take some selfies and send them.

I hope you will not be offended by these requests/comments. We love you both so very much and want this to be a wonderful time together. It’s very sweet of you to spend some vacation days with your little brother.”

 

I might as well have been slapped in the face by my own mother in the middle of the store. Note to self: don’t EVER read emails from your mom in public anymore. You never know what delightful horseshit they may contain.

It’s possible I may be overreacting, but WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

No alcohol? FUCKING OBVIOUSLY, HE’S 15.

I have to put away my gay items?! What exactly does this include? I don’t have a whole lot. I suppose my Tegan and Sara merch is out of the question! EVEN THOUGH WE LISTEN TO THEIR MUSIC IN THE CAR TOGETHER AND HAVE BEEN ALL FUCKING YEAR.

I have to “not discuss” my being gay with Liam? News flash: I’m already out to him. Once you’re out, you’re out. I’m not going to pretend to be straight to protect their comfort level.

And I have to send her my plans for each day, and send selfies to prove it because otherwise, you never know what sort of buttfucking might be going on around here.

And who is this “we” she refers to? Because I’m 99% sure my dad had absolutely nothing to do with this email, in fact if I had a relationship with him, I’d consider forwarding it to him and asking if he agreed.

And on top of it all, I’m not allowed to be offended by any of this.

FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.

The whole thing was pretty much a list of ways in which I’m a failure of a daughter and a person, ways in which she doesn’t want Liam to grow up to be like me (there was more, but I don’t feel like getting into it here, not yet). We return to a basic question: does she think “gay” is contagious? That by spending time with me outside the realm of her absolute mind-control he will suddenly become attracted to men? Or, worse, he might grow up to be open-minded… When “liberal” is the worst thing your kid can grow up to be, you know you’ve got issues. It was then that her absolute homophobia struck me. She’s literally afraid of my gayness. The idea of me not enjoying being rammed with a dick makes her so uncomfortable that she’s willing to put our relationship on the line for the sake of it.

The idea too that she can do “damage control” on Liam’s future, “save” him from turning out like me by controlling his environment through censorship and essentially controlling his mind is getting more and more tiresome – and slightly creepy. She wants to control what we talk about, label certain issues “taboo” because I have different opinions from her on the matter. She performs random inspections of his phone (he outsmarts her and hides all the apps) because she’s absolutely paranoid that he’s watching porn or being solicited by male sexual predators, or, you know, viewing the word “shit.”

Side note: I’m not advocating a childhood sans rules or technological restrictions whatsoever, but you’d have to meet my mom to see what I mean. When I was a teenager I wasn’t allowed to talk to a new friend because he was Catholic and not Evangelical Free and therefore his views were different from theirs. I was only allowed to listen to Christian music, only allowed to hang out with Christians, only allowed to read books approved by her.

That was a long rabbit trail…

Anyway, I’d like to tell her that I’m incredibly insulted, that until she’s ready to acccept me for who I am, get educated and acknowledge that gay  irresponsible perv, then I don’t need to be part of her life. I’m done bending over backwards to visit all the time. I’m done taking her shit.

I don’t want to lose Liam, though. I haven’t said a word to her since Sunday – just deleted every one of her texts. This morning she accused me of having stopped loving her, to which I also have not responded. She should fucking know better.

I’ve been attempting to balance these feelings from hell with the euphoria of meeting Sofia for the past few days, and it’s been really, really weird.

Final note: Sunday night, I texted Sofia about the email, just to let her know why I wasn’t responding right away, apologized if I was telling her way too much after only one date. She was incredibly sweet and supportive about it – “Are you OK? You can call me and talk if you need to, I’m here for you.”

I’m trying not to get in over my head, but I think I might have found myself a keeper.

 

LIKE STEEL IN MY PALMS

A constant game of falling short –

This is about my 6^th attempt at writing this entry, this “comeback” to blogging and to life, this big hollow promise that I’ll be better in the future – when you know and I know that I can never make those promises.

And I’ll be curled on the floor hiding out from it all –

In the last month and seven days I have come to terms with the fact that I am, without a fucking doubt, legit crazy. I’ve approached on tiptoe the brink of insanity and somehow managed not to topple over, and each and every time it’s a quiet tattooed arm that pulls me back. Yanks me back to myself. To her I owe my life.

Oh, and I’m feeling directionless, yes –

But that’s to be expected. I’m not whole. I am an ocean of darkness. My tides change like the moods of the wind: purple, ghostly, rich dark and wet like the jackets of rain drenching her: sometimes I confess that I imagine her arriving on my doorstep with her hair like the night plastered all about her moon-face and her eyes welling over with apology. It’s on nights like these that I would embrace her in the doorway and take her inside by the fire where I would undress her in the exhausted glow of embers whose prime like mine is long past. She isn’t whole either. She’s been hurt so many times that her hurt sings out of her without beckon and makes its way into suspicions she has about all forms of love. Like this one: she doesn’t know me. She wouldn’t like me if she met me.

I never claimed to be sane.

This life looks like a sentence –

She can only comfort me so much. As far as I am concerned she is a myth. Her sister too is a myth, and though I have heard their sad songs pouring out of dark spaces like a cathedral, I have to pinch myself to get myself to believe that somewhere in this universe two perfect beings are actually waking up hung over and getting on planes and yelling at their cats and arguing with their girlfriends over whether the ex who’s coming over for dinner tonight has any intentions of getting back together. And that they are blissfully unaware of their heroic daily act of saving my life.

Reader: Are you SERIOUSLY talking about Tegan and Sara again?

Me: Yes. #sorrynotsorry

Meanwhile, when I try to make art it looks and sounds and reads like a 5-year-old tipped over a bucket of car grease.

 

Are you still reading? I’m surprised.

You’ve found me shaking, sitting under a table, eyes wide in shock and blank with exhaustion, tears crusted over like blood.

I was sure I was growing nerves –

 

Please don’t leave.

I’ve been sobbing here for a month and seven days, holding my breath and forgetting to exhale.

I didn’t know that if I pretended to be all right for long enough the tides would shift and shipwreck me and strip my existence of its gold leaf. I didn’t know, but I should have known. It’s not like this is the first time this has happened – someone unwittingly walks up to a loaded gun, pulls a trigger and shoots the thread holding up the pile of depression that crushes me. It’s months before I’m able to un-bury myself. It feels much like being encased in concrete.

I will attempt, if you’ll sit with me, to unravel what happened.

A social event. A chain-reaction. Humiliation. A pulling of the rug out from under my feet, a rug that I had worked at for months to weave together. Too much trust, always too much trust.

(Sane person voice-over) And also taking everything too seriously. Too personally. Giving a shit in the first place.

My coworkers are not the incredibly amazing supportive people I idealized them to be: they are normal people. My significance in their lives is minimal. And that’s normal.

So….Robin, my coworker. There was a point in time where she was training me to do my job, my job which involves numbers, and numbers scare me, because I have a brain that combines colors and sounds and words, not a brain that combines numbers. I need to be taught numbers. Numbers do not come naturally to me. When I received new job responsibilities involving numbers 2 months ago, my boss believed I should be able to pull this knowledge out of my ass and not need training.

Robin was never officially asked to be my trainer – she just saw me struggling and decided to help. I relied on her. Perhaps too much. One day, she got frustrated with my inability to learn (which is perhaps correlated to her lack of actual teaching and more of doing the job for me), said something humiliating in the workspace in front of my other coworkers, and then did not talk to me for a week.

Melanie, who is quite level-headed about this kind of shit, decided not to be “involved” with my “drama” and stopped talking to both of us for a few days.

Writing this is painful. Reading this is probably painful. It’s petty and high school and stupid. But it happened, and it felt as though the entire world had turned against me, because I couldn’t do my job and literally had nowhere to turn. Please do not ask if there was another coworker I could have turned to, or if I could have brought it up with my boss, or taken the matter to HR. I couldn’t. I exhausted all avenues of recourse and pulled 10-hour days for 2 weeks attempting to teach myself a job I didn’t know, and mostly failing, mostly staring at piles of invoices in despair, mostly trying not to cry at my desk. The shriveled, charred, black thing that was my heart was unrecoverable. I spent most of every day and every night wanting to drink poison or take the elevator up to the 52^nd floor of our building and throw myself into the Chicago River below. Or both.

I am fully aware of how dramatic that sounds, of how stupid and insignificant this story appears on paper.

But I can’t apologize any more for myself than I already have. I live every day apologizing for existing.

So, Robin broke me. I patched things up with her to the absolute best of my ability, I bent over backwards to make her not hate me. Melanie talks to me again, but we don’t all hang out together, and both of them keep their distance. Things will never go back to the way they were.

Around the same time, my ex (whom I considered a best friend) and a few other friends stopped talking to me. I pretty much scared them off with my drama. Nobody, after all, actually WANTS to babysit a terminally depressed person. Nobody wants the permanent task of convincing someone over and over that suicide isn’t the answer – one crisis is one thing, but daily crises become a headache. I don’t say this with judgment: I wouldn’t like me if I met me.

I’m slowly coming out of this block of concrete, but I’m weaker than before. I’m numb. I’m insecure, shaken, unconfident. My social skills have taken a major hit: a couple weekends ago I was invited to go out with a friend I don’t know that well and a group of her friends I didn’t know at all, and I literally didn’t talk to anyone at the table except for her for the entire 3 hours, because I was so uncomfortable with all the strangers that I quietly had a panic attack right there, undetected by anyone. I might as well have been invisible.

I don’t go out and try to meet people anymore, for friends or for dating. I have a date on Saturday, but it’s the first date since Liana (who didn’t work out; after the disaster of a 2^nd date she told me she didn’t want a relationship so we shouldn’t continue dating, which is lesbian code for “I’m just not that into you”; then tried to set me up with a friend, who turned out to be more psycho than her, and thus the whole thing went to shit) and I’m only like 25% psyched about it. I don’t really care about dating – friends would be great.

A weekend without plans means approximately 60 hours of saving my own life, 60 hours of trying not to kill myself, 60 hours of staring listlessly into a TV screen or trying desperately to sleep, only to awaken crying with panic.

I’m not OK. I’m not OK but I’m sick of therapy. 3 therapists told me I was “fine,” refused to prescribe medication, brushed off my suicidal feelings as seeking attention, said that my feelings were perfectly normal given the situation, or became angry with me for not “trying” hard enough to get better.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, that’s why I haven’t been on here much, and I’m sorry for the lack of art.

THERE’S MORE TO LIFE THAN LOVE AND BEING TOGETHER

Sunday morning after our first date, I woke up giddy from excitement, my head still spinning from the memory of Liana’s lips on mine. I found myself unable to erase a giant stupid grin from my face. I found myself singing Bollywood songs again, because she had put color back into my life. (This all proved to be awkward when I had lunch with my family that day. They didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.)

I want to tell you guys about what happened with Liana. About how things ended with her.

But to do that, I need to talk about the second date. And to talk about the second date, I need to talk about Monday morning and coming out to my coworkers. And to do that, I need to talk about the LGBT happy hour. And to do that, I need to talk about the holiday party. So here’s how it’s going to work: this is going to read like Inception, where we backtrack through multiple levels of story, only instead of dreams, they’re flashbacks. (I’m pretty sure that’s lame. But whatever.) I’ve neglected to report on SO MUCH that has happened. Apologies in advance. Here is a floorplan of the levels:

1 – How things ended with Liana
2 – Crash and burn (the second date)
3 – Monday morning coming out
4 – LGBT Happy Hour
5 – Holiday Party
6 – Work crush

 

LEVEL 3: SHUTTING THE CLOSET DOOR BEHIND MYSELF ON A MONDAY MORNING, PART I

 

Monday morning at work, a coworker asked me, “How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?”

Huh. Did I. (Snicker.)

See, my coworkers are pretty amazing people. And, I’m learning, my workplace is pretty damn LGBT-friendly. I’ve neglected to write about my coming out process at work, so here goes a quick summary of where I was in relation to the closet as of Monday morning.

Two of my coworkers – Robin and Melanie – have been slowly building friendship with me since I started the job. In the half-year I’ve been here, we’ve gone to lunch together, scheduled once-a-month happy hours, kept up a group chat on our phones. We’re not so close that we drunk-text each other, but we’re close enough to share things about our lives. In the last month, the friendship has progressed to a place where we are gossiping like schoolgirls about our romantic histories and current exploits. But it wasn’t until Monday that I stepped firmly out of the closet for all to see.

 

LEVEL 5: THE RED CARPET HOLIDAY PARTY, PART I

 

Rewind: December, holiday party. I had no idea what to wear. I wanted to look good. I wanted to look amazing in a distinctly gay way, but not so gay that the gayness took over. I tried on every outfit in my closet to see if maybe, just maybe I could feel comfortable in a dress. (Nope. I looked and felt like Shane did on that episode of The L Word where Carmen’s mother makes her wear a flouncy white dress. Comical, dysphoric, weird as fuck.) What I really wanted was a casual-but-classy red carpet look that Tegan and Sara would be proud of. Not too much to ask for, right?

I eventually gave up and wore a flannel shirt to work that morning. Whatever.

Around lunchtime, I had an idea: run over to H&M and make a last-ditch effort to find an outfit. If I find one, awesome, if I don’t, at least I can say that I tried. What happened is that the gods of shopping smiled down on me and hand-selected a gray blazer, a dressy button-up black shirt that appeared to be shoplifted from Sara Quin’s closet, and some skinny black dress pants. And a belt. I was essentially wearing a suit. (I really wanted Neil Patrick Harris to pop out of nowhere and yell at me, “Look at you, you beautiful bastard. You suited up!”)

It was a risky outfit. It was quite masculine, though my hair and makeup balanced it out for a more androgynous feel. It screamed gay. But it also looked good, good in a way that made me feel like I was glowing inside, good in a way that milks the Gays have fabulous style, don’t they? stereotype, good in a “I finally feel true to myself” way.

Unfortunately, word had gotten out that Jenny Went Shopping During Lunch for an Outfit for Tonight, so when I got back to the office, the girls swarmed to my desk and demanded to see what was in the bag. I don’t think I have ever blushed so hard in my life. “It’s not what you think,” I warned them. I don’t know what they were expecting. Some kind of dress? They weren’t sure how to oooh and aaah over something that wasn’t “pretty.”

I pulled out the blazer, and the shirt, and the belt, and watched them struggle to comprehend. Part of me wanted to crawl under my desk. I was 0% out at this point. Clearly, I’d been wearing a bunch of gay clothes, but nobody assumes anything these days. I got dressed a little later before we headed out. My palms were sweating when I walked out of the bathroom. I considered running back in and putting my old clothes back on.

But I didn’t. I walked out and acted like nothing had happened, even though people were staring. (I didn’t look THAT weird. Did I?) There was an awkward speechlessness for a good 15 minutes, but finally, one person said, “Is that the outfit you got? It looks good!” and conversation resumed.

This reminds me. There is another back story.

 

LEVEL 6: THE GODDESS IN MY OFFICE

 

At this point in time, I was pretty damn starry-eyed for this new girl in the office. She’s not in my department. I don’t have any interaction with her. I’m not sure how to describe her, except that she’s gorgeous, Latina, and dresses like a power dyke (read: dresses like a straight girl. She’s probably straight. Fuck me up.). Soft curly hair that probably smells like coconut, radiant dewy eyes that make the universe skip a beat when she looks at you. I swear to god, I only noticed her because one day she smiled directly at me from across the conference floor, and my sad gay brain went, “OHMYGOD SHE LIKES YOU.”

After that, I found excuses to walk past her desk (“I need to refill my water glass” was a good one) and smiled prettily at her every time. I yelled at myself internally (“Hold it together, Jenny! That’s not being a baller!”) but to no avail. One day, I found myself alone in the bathroom with her, and she said she liked my leather jacket, and smiled at me meaningfully. I almost ran into the door on my way out.

I was hoping she’d be at the holiday party, and that we’d strike up a conversation, and I’d find out if she was single, if she liked girls, if she wanted to maybe hang out sometime and you know, like, marry me. LOL.

Well, she wasn’t at the holiday party, I found out a couple weeks later that she has a 5-year-old daughter (not that that means anything, but it would probably make things complicated even if she is single and likes women), and at some point I’m pretty sure she figured out that a) I’m gay, and b) I have a crush on her. She stopped looking up when I walked by. To this day I have a hard time looking at her. She’s too fucking beautiful and I’m afraid I’ll say something stupid if I try to talk to her.

Back to the party.

 

LEVEL 5: THE RED CARPET HOLIDAY PARTY, PART II

 

The party ended up being amazing, despite my crush not being there. There was an open bar. This means free gin. This means wait until your boss goes home and then drink gin and cranberry all night. (This means your boss will be in the office tomorrow at 8 am on the dot, whether you’re hung over or not. Fuck that.)

One by one, everyone from our team left, until it was just Robin and me sitting at a table with some random guy from Accounting. He was trying to convince us to go to a karaoke bar. I was trying to sober up. Robin was moaning about the lack of cute men in her life, and begging the guy from Accounting to introduce her to some brokers.

This went on for a good half hour, after which Robin said, “Hey, let’s go to the after party! You going?” The guy from Accounting said he was going home, and during the next 15 minutes, we struck up a conversation with another guy, Alex.

I figured I might as well hit the after party. “Yeah, I’m in,” I told her.

Robin was ecstatic about sharing an Uber with Alex. Early 30s, facilities management, from the UK, reasonably attractive, has an accent (loud as fuck on the phone, but only I seem to notice that). Girls love him. “Melanie is going to be sooooo jealous!!” Robin giggled in my ear.

Five minutes later, I found myself jammed into the middle seat between Robin and Alex. He was uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable. Robin was hissing things in my ear about how lucky I was to be sitting next to him. “Want to switch?” I hissed back.

The Uber arrived. We got out of the car and Robin said to me, “Jenny, we need to find you a boyfriend.”

I laughed nervously. The moment of truth had arrived. It was time. I was drunk. It wasn’t going to get any easier than this.

“No thanks,” I said.

Robin paused at the door to the bar. “Well, why not?!” she said.

I took a deep breath. “Because…I don’t like boys.”

I ran inside the bar, shaking. Robin came in after me. “Well…that’s OK!” she said. “Let’s find you a girlfriend then!”

Relief erupted inside me. It was over. Robin was the biggest office gossip, so by Monday morning, everyone would know. I wouldn’t have to come out to anyone else. (As luck would have it, Robin did NOT end up telling everyone, but it was OK.)

 

LEVEL 4: THE LGBT HAPPY HOUR

 

Robin and I squeezed our way past about 200 people to find out group at the opposite corner of the bar. Some guy I’d never seen before smiled at me drunkenly, and I geared myself up for indignance, but then he opened his mouth and said, “I love your outfit. You look fabulous. I’m going to invite you to the company-sponsored LGBT happy hour next week.”

What?! I’d just come out to my first coworker not 2 minutes before this. How did he pick me out of a crowd? I couldn’t believe it!

He invited both Robin and me and put our names on the email invite. The next day, I discovered that my company is trying to launch an LGBT networking group. It’s still in the beginning stages. I don’t know if it will ever take off. But I was absolutely psyched to know that things like this exist.

In the end, Melanie and Robin (and 2 guys on our team who are gay) came to the happy hour with me. I still had not come out to Melanie. I’m pretty sure at this point questions were flying about my sexuality, but nobody asked, and I couldn’t find an appropriate moment to volunteer the information, so I awkwardly kept my mouth shut. It was still a good event.

The next day, one of the supervisors on our team, Laurie, emailed me to ask how the happy hour went. “I really wanted to go,” she said. “I have a cousin who’s transgender and the topic is really close to my heart.”

I emailed her back, saying it was a wonderful event, how lucky her cousin was to have an ally like her in the family, and that I wasn’t sure if she knew this, but I’m gay. (Side note: Laurie and Robin talk about EVERYTHING, so I was 99% sure she already knew, and that would have been totally fine with me, but according to Laurie, Robin hadn’t told her.)

Laurie’s response was amazing: “I didn’t know, but I’m glad you feel like you can talk to me about it. If there’s ever anything I can do to help you, just let me know.” I almost cried.

We chatted a little about coming out to my parents, about how if one of her kids ever came out to her she’d be their biggest champion, how I can always tell her anything. I’ll put it this way: I never expected to find a mentor/ally in a supervisor, but the feeling that she’s got my back has given me courage to be a lot more open and honest at work, and I wish every queer person could experience this kind of support.

 

LEVEL 3: SHUTTING THE CLOSET DOOR BEHIND MYSELF ON A MONDAY MORNING, PART II

 

Back to Monday morning (after my first date with Liana). Robin poked her head over my desk. “Hey,” she said. “Do anything fun this weekend?”

I blushed a little. “Well,” I said. “I went on 2 dates, with different people.”

Her jaw dropped. “Really!” she exclaimed. “How did they go?”

“Well, the first one was OK,” I said. “But the second one…OMG. She’s amazing.”

Robin’s face lit up. “Wow!! Do you have pictures? Are you guys texting? Will there be a second date?”

Melanie walked over. “What are you guys talking about?” she demanded.

“Jenny went on 2 dates this weekend!” said Robin excitedly.

“What?! Tell me everything!” Melanie said. “Does this person live close to you?”

I took a deep breath. “Well…..she lives in the suburbs, actually.” There was no going back. I was firmly out of the closet. The door slammed shut behind me.

A thousand thoughts flickered over Melanie’s face as she absorbed the infomration in the space of a few seconds:

Why didn’t she tell me? I knew it!!
OMG. That explains SO much!
But…she had a boyfriend…
So Jenny likes girls. No big deal, roll with it.
I want to ask more. But I won’t.

“That’s so cool!” Melanie said. “Where did you take her?” She didn’t even miss a beat. Kids, this is the coming out of the future: the non-coming out. The “Oh yeah, I’m dating someone. She’s awesome.” Where people simply discuss their dating lives and nobody bats an eye at the gender identity of the dates.

Then she said, “Want to go get coffee? I need to hear all the details!” So we did. I think at some point we’ll end up talking about my evolution of preferences, about my coming out process, etc. But for right now, it’s nice to have coworkers who knew me first as a person, and then as a lesbian. Not “that one gay coworker” but “that coworker who’s our friend, and oh yeah, she happens to like girls.” It’s refreshing and awesome. All of a sudden my friendship with my coworkers is deeper, and more real, more honest. (Melanie is even coming up with plans to set me up with lesbian acquaintances, if I’m interested.) And it’s all thanks to Liana that I had this opportunity.

Stay tuned for the story of our terrible second date, and the positivity that can be drawn from the experience.

WHAT RUSHES INTO MY HEART AND MY SKULL

A prequel to “I Kissed a Girl (and I Liked It)”

So, it happened. This weekend I went on a beautiful date with a beautiful woman.  One wine bar, two restaurants, a trip back to my apartment for an impromptu wine tasting, and 4 perfect kisses…my head is still spinning.

I’ve been on a few dates since putting up a profile on New Year’s Eve. They’ve been OK. Genuinely nice women – women I want to be friends with, but I didn’t feel much chemistry for, and judging my the interaction, they didn’t either. That sort of thing is always awkward, and I suck at follow-up. So yeah.

Let’s call her Liana. I can’t really describe how gorgeous or amazing or smart or funny she is without dissolving into a puddle of sap, and since I want to keep my readers, I’ll refrain: but she is all of those things and more. To be honest, I feel like she is completely out of my league. It’s a miracle she responded to my message in the first place, let alone thinks I’m any kind of special.

We texted for two weeks before meeting. She appreciates wine and beer in the same way people who go to art museums appreciate art. Incidentally, she also appreciates art and has a thing for artists. I confess that I considered leaving a little paint on my hands before the date. (I didn’t.)

I started a painting Saturday morning because of her. It wasn’t presumptuous: even if we didn’t end up going back to my apartment, I would take a picture of it and show her what she inspired. Is that presumptuous? Perhaps it is. When I ended up showing it to her in person, she looked at it adoringly, and it was all worth the effort.

I wore a black button-up shirt, skinny jeans and short beige boots. And unfortunately, since it was twenty degrees outside, an enormous black puffy coat that screamed snowman wearing a garbage bag rather than baller. The cold turned out to be more badass than my leather jacket.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Entering the wine bar, shielding the bouquet of “No Pressure But I Think You’re Beautiful” mini roses that I’d cradled like a baby for 8 blocks. I was early. I felt a little ridiculous entering an empty bar at 7 pm by myself, accompanied by roses, but the bartender glanced at me with a knowing “Aha, I see you’re waiting for a hot date” wink, and poured me a glass of wine.

When Liana walked in, my heart stopped. I won’t get sappy here, I promise – but please imagine the most gorgeous Asian girl ever, with eyes like diamonds and hair like a velvet curtain, and that’s pretty much her.

It seems to be a tradition to start and end a lesbian date with a hug, regardless of if there’s any kissing or other physical activity involved. (Look at me, I’m an expert after exactly 4 dates.) So we hugged, and when I gave her the flowers, she was speechless, and blushing, and adorable – she thanked me for them at least 5 times and I was very pleased with 3-Hours-Ago-Jenny for deciding what the hell, let’s buy the flowers.

“Is this the first time you’ve pulled the flowers-on-the-first-date move on a girl?” she asked.

I blushed. “Um, yes.”

No worries. She was thoroughly impressed – and perhaps a bit charmed that she was the first girl I’d done this for.

I’d been worried she would think my bar of choice was lame, because I knew before going that we would be the only 2 people in there at such an early hour – but she said she loved it and that it was the perfect no-pressure zone to get to know each other before heading to a more noisy venue. My thoughts were,

Nailed it on the flowers.
Nailed it on the bar.
Way to go, Jenny.

On my other dates, I’ve been nervous like nobody’s business. So nervous I could barely talk, or find anything to talk about. With Liana, even though she was the girl I’ve liked the most, I felt comfortable enough to let my personality through. We talked naturally. We never ran out of topics. In my humble opinion, we’re a good match.

(Side note: if you’re nervous on a date, try pretending she’s a hot coworker that you’re trying to impress at happy hour. You don’t know if she’s gay, so you’re just trying to be cool. This usually works for me.)

After a glass of wine – not quite a glass, for me, since I didn’t want to get drunk on the first date with this goddess – we hit up a little Mexican restaurant on the corner of my street. Dinner was wonderful. I’m pretty sure the waiter was trying to figure out what our deal was. LMAO.

After this, we decided we had just enough room for a small dessert – so went next door to a little bakery, where we shared a cupcake. (Romantic, right?) I was so entranced by Liana that I forgot to check the closing time on the bakery, and after 10 minutes a tired-looking employee started sweeping around our table with a broom and glaring at us.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, “They’re closing.”

We scrambled to finish the cupcake and get out. We found ourselves sitting in Liana’s car and wondering what to do next.

“Well,” I began awkwardly, aware that I only had one chance to not fuck this up, “I have a bottle of Rioja back at my apartment, which is right around the corner…”

I could tell she was nervous, because her voice trembled a little when she said, “Sure, yeah. That sounds good.”

I’m really glad she grabbed the remote to my TV and made herself at home. To have not had the guise of Netflix and chill would have made the whole thing 100x more weird…so there we were, watching Friends, sipping wine (she loved it, by the way) and making small talk while pointedly sitting at opposite ends of the couch.

And then she did it: asked if she could kiss me.

There were fireworks. It was like no kiss I’ve ever had with a guy. Oh damn, I thought, I’m super gay.

Her texts are measured now. Careful. Hyper-aware. I think it means I’ve captivated her somehow (though I’m still not convinced that this is possible), and that she wants to do things right, take things slow, not fuck things up. I’m trying not to come on too strong. Trying to let her text me first (at the same time as she is trying to let me text first, which does not work, LOL).

I haven’t felt this way about someone in a long time. I’m flinging my heart open to the heavens with wide abandon, hoping for love and not rejection. Cheers to that.

I KISSED A GIRL (AND I LIKED IT)

It was almost midnight – midnight, like her hair, like her eyes.

She turned to me and said, “I should probably get going.” My heart fell.

Then she blushed and added, “But before I go, I was wondering…could I get a little kiss?”

“Of course,” I giggled, and turned the volume down on the episode of Friends we were “watching.”

And suddenly the whole universe was quiet, and the quietness of the universe rushed my ears with a sound like the ocean, while I found myself face-to-face, lip-to-lip with ridiculous beauty. A weakness shivered from the back of my head to the depths of my knees, and reverberated back up my spine.

Hers was the leaning forward, hers the cascade of midnight-black hair falling in her face: but mine the hand that brushed it aside, mine the unskilled kiss that made her pull back and gasp a little, hiding her moon-face behind perfect lily-white hands.

Mine the self-conscious laugh that wondered if I had done too much.

But I had not done too much, because she asked me for another: and another: and another.

“You make me feel like I’m in high school again,” she laughed. (I think that’s a good thing. She was smiling when she said it.)

When I checked the time later, the entire thing happened in less than 5 minutes, but those five minutes felt like 5 hours. I have kissed girls before, but those kisses were different: “Let’s see what it will feel like to kiss a boy someday” and “We’re both drunk, let’s have a threesome” do not count in quite the same way as this. I suppose this could be called my first real kiss with a girl.

It was quite redemptive, bringing me full-circle from my first kiss with a guy, and the sensation of feeling an octopus attached to my face, and the swollen lips I saw in the mirror the following morning.

Something caught her off guard. She suddenly picked up her things and said, “I need to go. You’re making me shy.”

I walked her out of my apartment and down a half-block to her car, and before she got in, she kissed me one more time with velvet lips before scrambling to get in and put a car door between us.

I stood there giggling like an idiot for about 30 seconds. When I turned to walk back to my apartment, I almost ran into a tree.

Not 3 minutes later, she texted me, twice:

“You make me ten times more shy than I already am.”

“You’re beautiful.”

 

More details to come.

GO AHEAD, TRY TO FIGURE OUT WHAT MY FUTURE LOOKS LIKE

So, it’s January 1, and I’m sitting on my couch gulping coffee (that’s misleading. I’ve only had one cup and probably won’t have another, because it’ll fuck up my stomach if I do.) and trying not to think too hard about last night, about the 3 gin drinks and 2 vodka drinks and red Solo cup of wine I had. My head is pounding. I think I’m still a bit drunk. Yes, I’m a lightweight: judge me.

At some point during the week I spent at my family’s house for Christmas, my aunt asked at the dinner table, “So Jenny, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve?”

Forks clattered and eyes landed on me. The room fell silent. “I, um….I’m going to a party,” I stammered.

“Oh, nice!” she said enthusiastically. “Like a house party?”

I laughed. “More of an event. With tickets.”

“Ooooh wow,” she said (40% of which was nostalgic for her own party days,  30% was “I should ditch my own plans and join her!” and 30% was parent-like concern for my safety).

They wanted details. I didn’t give them. They figured out pretty fast that it was some sort of LGBT thing and decided they’d be better off not knowing the details.

My mom insisted still that I text her when I got home.

So yes. There I was last night, nursing a drink in the corner, shaking like a leaf, simultaneously trying to be noticed and trying not to be noticed. Wondering where all these hot girl couples had met, and why the fuck none of them showed up at the lesbian events.

It was a masquerade party. I’d brought a mask which looked surprisingly good with my Sara Quin getup, but I set it down on a table, and within minutes it was stolen by a cute blonde.

If anyone sees some bitch wearing this mask around Chicago, it’s mine.

Sara Quin would have fought the bitch tooth and nail for it and then asked her out.

I’m not that cool. I did nothing.

Honest confession: while blow drying my hair yesterday morning, I thought there was a possibility I might take someone home with me. I thought, at the very least, I’ll get a girl’s number.

LMAO.

In what universe?

The party was quite lame. At one point a new friend of mine turned to me and said, “Want to get out of here? We can go to this house party I’ve been invited to…”

Disillusioned by the lack of possibilities and the lame-ass straight girl music (DJ: “Cheerleader” is not a good track for a crowd of feminist girls who like girls, also please play “Closer” by Tegan and Sara), I said sure, take me anywhere.

So we left. And then I found myself sitting in the corner at some stranger’s house sipping wine out of a Solo cup and texting my friends, but not too much because I didn’t want my phone to die. Oh yeah, and I made an online dating profile.

Midnight came and passed. It was a sleepy crowd. There were quite a few lesbians, but mostly paired off and/or considerably older than me.

I’m a little disillusioned with myself. The most I can say for my dating life is that I’ve been pursued by a few weirdoes.

It goes like this: Show up at an event. Mostly weirdoes there (I am not normally a judgmental person, but I am not exaggerating: you have to see it). They eye me like a plate of brownies. Someone (or 2, or 3) comes up to me at the end and gives me her phone number. She mistakes my politeness for romantic interest and her voice goes all starry-eyed Ellen Page as she invites me to coffee right now/lunch tomorrow/dinner later in the week. I politely decline on account of busy-ness, but tell her I’ll be at the next event, why don’t we hang out there. And then the texting starts, and won’t stop, and I’m terrible at letting people down, so I continue the charade.

I think I’m going to stop going to these events.

I’m scraped too thin these days.

I don’t want a relationship. I want to date.

I want to bake cookies with a cute girl and run my fingers through her hair while she licks the spoon. I want to buy that giant rainbow umbrella at Target and walk down the street with her on a rainy morning after a night of, you know, sex.

I’m not looking for anything serious – but the right girl could get me to settle down. It’s finding the girls that’s proving to be difficult.

 

I WANNA SHAVE MY HEAD, LIE IN BED ALL DAY LONG

Last weekend was rough, guys. This business of making queer friends is not easy, and even my baller behavior this weekend that resulted in a few platonic phone numbers and future hangouts with like-minded people is still in its awkward duckling stages, at best. I’m going to write this story in two parts.

Part One: Last Weekend (Failure)

 

I really, really wanted to have a great story for you all. 

 

I really wanted to sit down last Sunday night and write about how amazing the meetup event was, how I made some new friends, how I talked to a cute girl or two. I wanted to be so proud of myself for going.

 

But here, instead, is what happened.

 

Rose (remember her? my ex-roommate? quasi “best friend”? my first and only?) texted me Saturday night.I hadn’t heard from her in a month. “Hey! Want to hang out tonight?” 

Um, sure. It isn’t like I was going to do anything better…

 

Now, before you go there, no, this is not the story of another failed sexual encounter. In fact, we’ve almost gotten to a place where we can joke about the past. She brought her boyfriend (whom I have mixed feelings about) and they both ended up spending the night on my living room floor, because at 2:30 in the morning we were so sloshed on gin and other things that biking home to the other side of the city didn’t seem like a safe option for them.

 

Somewhere amid the exchange of gin, wine, vodka, (was there rum involved? I don’t remember) – whiskey! Yes. I remember whiskey. At some point the question was asked, So Jenny, you think you’re a lesbian now…what type of girls do you like? 

 

Well then. Easy question. I swiped the screen open on my phone, and a magnificent glamour shot of Tegan and Sara appeared. 

 

“This.”

 

Rose’s boyfriend gasped in low, reverent astonishment. “You listen to them too?” he said. “Oh my god, “Walking With a Ghost” is my favorite!”

 

The shock I experienced could not be described in words. This total bro was a Tegan and Sara fan. I officially couldn’t hate him anymore. 

 

Of course, there was also the talk of “when you go back to men” and “you should present yourself as bisexual, don’t limit yourself” and, worse, “do you like eating clams? because that’s what it’s like…” But whatever. We drank it off and then discussed the punk band that we’re apparently going to form, until we get good enough to tour with Tegan and Sara (OK, that part was my addition). 

 

In the morning, we were so hung over that Starbucks was the only option worth mentioning, and while we sipped our hot lattes against the cold bright wind, I lifted my eyes to the little pub across the street and contemplated aloud my nervousness for the event later that day. 

 

“What time is it at?” asked Rose. 

 

“2:00,” I said. “It’s only 11. I’ve got plenty of time.”

 

Back in my apartment, Rose rummaged through the contents of my coffee table and picked up a copy of Out 100 from last year, the one featuring Ellen Page on the cover, and remarked how revolting it is when celebrities come out and “act like they’ve had such hard lives because of being gay, or transgender, or whatever. I mean, there are people with real problems.” 

 

My breakfast threatened to come back up my throat.

 

Her boyfriend joined in. Together, this straight couple explained to me what it means to be gay, what it means to come out, why celebrities like Ellen Page are the scum of the earth for suggesting that their personal lives have been difficult because of their non-heteronormativity – “I mean, they have the approval of the entire world, why does their parents’ opinion matter?” 

 

I was too stunned and too hung over to argue. I stood in the corner and scrolled through several hundred Tegan and Sara photos and tried to think of ideas for memes while they badgered on.

 

(Since then I have read Rebecca Solnit’s delicious little book Men Explain Things to Me, and I would very much like to add a chapter on how Straight People Explain Things as well.)

 

At 12:45, they were done Explaining Things. “All right!” said Rose. “We should probably start heading home. Let me know how that event goes! Good luck!”

 

Like a good host, I walked them to the gate and thanked them for coming. When I went inside, I checked the event reminder on my phone to make sure I still had that hour and 15 minutes. Should I take another shower? Yes. Should I wash my hair? Maybe. I’ve got to look perfect for this. 

 

The numbers on the invite glared at me accusingly. Something in my brain had gone horribly wrong. It was at 12:00, not 2:00. I would be walking in 45 minutes late!

 

Someone cooler than me would have run over there, proclaimed a grand late entrance and walked out with 5 new friends. 

 

Not me. 

 

I crumbled. 

 

I sank into the couch and sat in my dark apartment beating myself up over wasting an entire weekend and god only knows when they would have another event like this one and I’ll never make friends and why would anyone want to hang out with me anyway and I suck at life. 

 

Social anxiety has become a very real thing for me. I don’t know exactly what I am so afraid of – no, that’s a lie. I can define precisely what I am afraid of. I’m afraid of walking in and not finding the group, of wandering stupidly around some restaurant or bar looking for one of about 16 groups of lesbians. I’m afraid of sitting down with the wrong group of people. Or, even if I find the right group, of that group already being so engrossed in conversation that they cannot be bothered to talk to me (much the way my coworkers sometimes are when I walk into the lunchroom, or the office in the morning, or whatever). Of not finding connection right away, of awkward moments, of needing to get the fuck out of there but not being able to because I have to figure out how to pay my portion of the bill, and of not having correct change. Of being checked out, of not being checked out. I’m so afraid of all these things sometimes living alone now that I sometimes have anxiety attacks and cry before attempting to go out. Sometimes even after, even if it went well, because the hype was too much and I’m still stressed out. #confessiontime #thatsnotbeingaballer

 

Anyway, last weekend I did not drink myself to sleep at 1:00 in the afternoon like I wanted to. I got up, went to the beach, read some feminist books, came home and ate Indian food. I managed to make a good day out of it. But it still sucked.

 

I suppose, to be perfectly honest, I am operating under the hope that life will happen to me like a season of The L Word – that I’m going to be adopted by this posse of ridiculously attractive lesbian friends who meets at a coffee shop before work every morning, parties together on weekends, and goes out to conquer the world of women together.

 

Um…yeah. Life doesn’t happen that way. 

 

But it hasn’t been all bad…this weekend was far better. Stay tuned. 😀