It is at the core of me and my generally sardonic outlook that the first moment of my creation happened by way of a stranger masturbating into a cup, and the second involved my mother and a glorified turkey baster.
I was only totally caught off-guard once by teasing and that was the first time it happened, the day I started school. I joined the first grade mid-year as a transplant from Manhattan. Back then, I was maintaining my Manhattan-dwelling habit of introducing myself as, "I'm Emma. I have two moms."
From Liz Carmouche to Laverne Cox to Cynthia Nixton to Wanda Sykes, there are countless visible queer women who are painting the world with their bravery, boldness and tenacity. These are some of the ones who have been the most inspiring for me.
Creator Tucky Williams set out to construct a fictional world of suburban lesbians where the characters seem like friends from down the block. These gals aren't glamazons, but they are flawed in ways that make them interesting.
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.