“Bless your heart but you are so not a lesbian,” says S.
The fact that we can have this honest conversation is huge.
The fact that S can have her sense of humor about a hurtful point of conflict is even huger.
Until this moment, S would often wonder why I couldn’t stay attracted to her if she’s still the same fabulous person on the inside and I was in a lesbian relationship for a decade. In her shoes, I’d wonder the same thing but the best truth I’ve got is: the attraction cooled to something tepid within me and tepid is a pretty lame concessionary temperature for a love relationship.
I nod and recollect, ” ***(my long-term ex before S) said the same thing when we were dating.”
S shakes her head and pats my own. “It’s really LGBT-supportive and I love you for it but you are not gay.”
I concede this point.
Before S, I maintain that I fall in love with the person, not the gender. Although that statement pretty much announces my bisexuality, by mentioning gender, I qualify being a lesbian and/or having been in a lesbian relationship. It’s as though I can’t commit to simply being gay, even though I was in a lesbian relationship for a decade. No wonder my long-term ex wouldn’t call me a ‘real’ lesbian; it took over half the length of that relationship before I’d say was a l-l-lesbian.
Then we broke up.
As S transitions, I am forced to dissect how true this ‘not the gender’ assertion is.
It’s not so true.
Without a doubt, my relationship history defines me as bisexual. However, every person I have dated since S and I have open-relationshipped and broken up has been male, which then makes me feel like a bit of a liar if I call myself bi in the present. But the second I identify as a straight girl, I have a feeling the universe will find a way to have the last laugh.
In my apparent quest to self-identify, I’ll go with queer.
I’m the Q in LGBTQ.
Because one sure thing is that my past, present and future sexual identity and experiences sure as hell (will) fall outside the hetero-defined mainstream.