Being obviously lesbian is hard. Tonight I went to a USC young alumni event and the night started off at the check in table, where the VERY gay man checking people in gave me That Look. The "I'm judging you" look. And so I smiled at him: defense mechanism #1. He gave me a more extreme version of That Look. It went downhill from there.
Have we discussed: The Bathroom? For me, it's like: The Locker Room - that place you go because you have a vagina but where you try to keep your eyes to the floor so no one will give you That Other Look which means, "You are a disgusting pervert. How dare you casually look at me." USC is not exactly gay pride so I'm not sure what I was expecting but as soon as I came out of the stall conversation STOPPED. STOPPED. Like your period when you're pregnant. Like a stick shift when you shift without putting the clutch in. It was embarrassing. I was peeing in the stall and all the girls were chatting about meaningless, trivial, drunk girl things and then I came out of the stall and started washing my hands and conversation STOPPED.
I returned to find Robert, who was casually chatting away to several straight girls and a few closeted gay men, and I entered the circle and smiled at each person and an aura of discomfort settled over the group. They knew Robert was gay. But when the lesbian got there everyone but Robert felt uncomfortable.
Why is that? Why is a dyke less popular in a straight/straight acting crowd than a gay man? Straight girls love gay men, gay men love gay men, some straight men are ok with gay men, and some lesbians love gay men. How many people love or are even just ok with lesbians?
Lesbians are (usually) ok with lesbians...gay men are sometimes but usually not ok with lesbians...
That's it. That's all I've got. A gay man is sure to find a horde of straight women eager to be his friends. He may encounter straight men eager to learn the secrets of manscaping and decorating their apartments. He may even meet lesbians who are happy to see him. But a lesbian will never walk into a crowd of straight men eager to make her acquaintance. A lesbian as dykey as myself will often make straight women uncomfortable, gay men confused, and straight men angry - because they will assume she's a man hater.
I used to be "straight" and I (think) hot and no one ever treated me like this. I was much more insecure and bitchy when I was straight but no one ever treated me like they treat me now that it's obvious that I'm a lesbian.
I'm trying to be a different person now that I'm gay; I'm trying to be more genuine and comfortable with myself. I'm trying to accept other people as they are and be less insecure. I smile genuinely and I listen when people talk and I try to approach each person I meet as an individual with value regardless of what they look like or what my first impression of them is. But sometimes I feel like none of that makes any difference to some people. I am so tired of being treated like a man hater/desperate pervert/dyke.
My closet felt wrong but in some ways it was so much easier to live in.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Things I Do on Company Time, Part I
- Poop while reading the news on my phone - approx 45 min per day, + or - an hour
- Look up and print out google maps directions - approx 3 hours per month
- Compose and send emails to Johnathan - approx 5 hours per week
- Masturbate - approx 30 minutes every 2 weeks
Hear ye, hear ye
To all my four followers, and perhaps that person who randomly stumbles upon this blog, I would like to announce that I am deleting my blog's link to my facebook page. What this means is that no one, save you four + or -, will be able to spread the gospel of the GLORY of spankyme@blogspot.com.
I have chosen to remove my blog from facebook because I hate restrictions and I would really like to write about things that could possibly get me fired.
Therefore, it is your responsibility to spread the gospel of my blog to all corners of your acquaintance or to no one, whichever you prefer.
Thank you.
--The Now Mysteriously Anonymous Author of Spanky Me
I have chosen to remove my blog from facebook because I hate restrictions and I would really like to write about things that could possibly get me fired.
Therefore, it is your responsibility to spread the gospel of my blog to all corners of your acquaintance or to no one, whichever you prefer.
Thank you.
--The Now Mysteriously Anonymous Author of Spanky Me
Saturday, June 4, 2011
We're here, we're queer, but not at the doctor's office
The last woman to stare with rapt attention into the cavernous depths of my vagina was, unfortunately, my gynecologist. I'd never been to see this gynecologist before, and I was anxious to make a good impression.
There is something about visiting the gynecologist that is intrinsically awkward, but I hazard a guess that being a (rather perverted) lesbian increases the awkwardness of a pap smear exponentially.
Like my first (and so far only) experience getting waxed DOWN THERE (where the cute girl doing the waxing politely requested that I remove my pants, turn my face to the wall and get down on my hands and knees so she could apply hot wax to my asshole) my most recent trip to the gynecologist had rather confusing personal undertones.
My gynecologist--a young, attractive black woman--strutted merrily into the examination room in 4 inch stilettos and a mini skirt and shook my hand with genuine enthusiasm.
"Oh no," said my brain.
Five minutes later I found that I was actually enjoying myself. Wanda (I honestly cannot remember her real name, thus assuring her anonymity) was both personable and professional. As she massaged my breasts, peered inquisitively at my nether regions and stuck several fingers inside me Wanda and I chatted pleasantly about where we were from, how many children she had, and what school we'd gotten our degrees from.
And then it got awkward.
The problem with being a lesbian at the gynecologist, or in any doctor's examination room, is that you will inevitably be asked the seemingly innocuous question: "So what type of birth control are you using?"
My honest response is that I'm not using any type of birth control, at which point I watch my doctor struggle to resist smacking me around the face with pamphlets on STDs and unplanned pregnancies. Wanda seemed equal to the task of resisting this urge, and simply asked me why.
"This is it," said my brain. "Tell her it's because you're a lesbian and all these birth control questions will go away."
But for some reason I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell Wanda I was a lesbian. Perhaps if she'd been less attractive, or wearing clogs and scrubs like a normal doctor, I could have told her. But my mouth wouldn't say the words.
I told her it was because I'd just gotten out of a relationship and I wasn't interested in having sex with anyone. She laughed.
"Well I guess that's understandable but you never know when Mr. Right is going to come along. How about I write you a prescription for the pill just in case he shows up?"
"Ok," I said.
I still have three months worth of birth control pills sitting in my bathroom, which I went and paid for because I felt like I deserved it. I've thought about taking them, because my miserly Beck blood boils within me when I think about the money I've wasted, but honestly, what would be the point? Unless I trip and fall directly onto an ejaculating penis I have an exactly 0% chance of becoming pregnant. So the birth control sits there--a reminder that gay, proud and fabulous as I am--there are still some places I just can't come out.
Wanda was not the first doctor I've decided not to come out to. When it comes time to decide, as it always seems to, if I should tell my doctor that I'm gay, I always struggle to carefully weigh my options. In that instance I have to make a split-second judgment based on very little information: is this person homophobic, or not? If I tell my doctor that I'm gay, will they treat me as they always have? Will they listen carefully to my concerns, meet my eyes when they shake my hand, and answer my questions with real thoughtfulness and honesty?
In the world outside the doctor's office I could care less what other people think of me. But inside the doctor's office I want the best service possible. And so I'm scared to come out when it's time. I know about the Hippocratic Oath, but people are people.
I think it's important for gay people to come out, whoever they are and wherever they live, because gay people become real people--and not some faceless, perverted enemy--each time someone a homophobe loves admits that they're gay. A lesbian has no use for birth control pills, and I have no right to preach the gospel of living life openly when I can't even tell my doctor I'm gay.
Wanda dahling, sit down. Your feet must be tired in those heels and besides, I have something to tell you.
There is something about visiting the gynecologist that is intrinsically awkward, but I hazard a guess that being a (rather perverted) lesbian increases the awkwardness of a pap smear exponentially.
Like my first (and so far only) experience getting waxed DOWN THERE (where the cute girl doing the waxing politely requested that I remove my pants, turn my face to the wall and get down on my hands and knees so she could apply hot wax to my asshole) my most recent trip to the gynecologist had rather confusing personal undertones.
My gynecologist--a young, attractive black woman--strutted merrily into the examination room in 4 inch stilettos and a mini skirt and shook my hand with genuine enthusiasm.
"Oh no," said my brain.
Five minutes later I found that I was actually enjoying myself. Wanda (I honestly cannot remember her real name, thus assuring her anonymity) was both personable and professional. As she massaged my breasts, peered inquisitively at my nether regions and stuck several fingers inside me Wanda and I chatted pleasantly about where we were from, how many children she had, and what school we'd gotten our degrees from.
And then it got awkward.
The problem with being a lesbian at the gynecologist, or in any doctor's examination room, is that you will inevitably be asked the seemingly innocuous question: "So what type of birth control are you using?"
My honest response is that I'm not using any type of birth control, at which point I watch my doctor struggle to resist smacking me around the face with pamphlets on STDs and unplanned pregnancies. Wanda seemed equal to the task of resisting this urge, and simply asked me why.
"This is it," said my brain. "Tell her it's because you're a lesbian and all these birth control questions will go away."
But for some reason I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell Wanda I was a lesbian. Perhaps if she'd been less attractive, or wearing clogs and scrubs like a normal doctor, I could have told her. But my mouth wouldn't say the words.
I told her it was because I'd just gotten out of a relationship and I wasn't interested in having sex with anyone. She laughed.
"Well I guess that's understandable but you never know when Mr. Right is going to come along. How about I write you a prescription for the pill just in case he shows up?"
"Ok," I said.
I still have three months worth of birth control pills sitting in my bathroom, which I went and paid for because I felt like I deserved it. I've thought about taking them, because my miserly Beck blood boils within me when I think about the money I've wasted, but honestly, what would be the point? Unless I trip and fall directly onto an ejaculating penis I have an exactly 0% chance of becoming pregnant. So the birth control sits there--a reminder that gay, proud and fabulous as I am--there are still some places I just can't come out.
Wanda was not the first doctor I've decided not to come out to. When it comes time to decide, as it always seems to, if I should tell my doctor that I'm gay, I always struggle to carefully weigh my options. In that instance I have to make a split-second judgment based on very little information: is this person homophobic, or not? If I tell my doctor that I'm gay, will they treat me as they always have? Will they listen carefully to my concerns, meet my eyes when they shake my hand, and answer my questions with real thoughtfulness and honesty?
In the world outside the doctor's office I could care less what other people think of me. But inside the doctor's office I want the best service possible. And so I'm scared to come out when it's time. I know about the Hippocratic Oath, but people are people.
I think it's important for gay people to come out, whoever they are and wherever they live, because gay people become real people--and not some faceless, perverted enemy--each time someone a homophobe loves admits that they're gay. A lesbian has no use for birth control pills, and I have no right to preach the gospel of living life openly when I can't even tell my doctor I'm gay.
Wanda dahling, sit down. Your feet must be tired in those heels and besides, I have something to tell you.
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