I'm not a girly girl who prefers weaving a basket to sinking one. I'd rather bounce a ball off my racquet than a baby on my knee. And I will always prefer black grease paint to mascara. But I just don't get the lesbian sports craze.
There's nothing more humbling than finding you're living out a big flaming cliché, although it (of course) feels like you are the first person to have this experience in all of history. Five years ago, my coming-out cliché hit me like a ton of rubyfruit. I fell in love with my lady therapist.
I'm in a lesbian lost generation. The old breed of lesbians who experienced hate crime before it was hate crime is, well, old. The new breed is so much more interesting and smart and good-looking. I want to be part of something, but I can't find lesbians like me.
Since Naomi Wolf released Vagina: A New Biography, we've seen an endless number of personal attacks masquerading as critique and a denigration of the author's work, mental health and intelligence -- critiques no man would dare to make, lest he be accused of misogyny.
I will confess to having had the occasional girl crush over the years. I can even recall their names: Terry in high school, Ginny in college, Lee and Penny as an adult. ...If any of them had kissed me then the way Sybil kisses me now, I probably would have been a goner.