Straight Shame

Coming out is harder the second time around

It's been a while now, but I still get uncomfortable holding hands with my boyfriend in public. I mean, people might think I'm straight.

I came out with a vengeance in college. I'd had a bunch of fun, frisky relationships with boys, but when it dawned on me I could do more than just sneak peeks at other girls, I proceeded to do so with gusto. I joined that early-'90s carnival called Queer Nation. Boys in boas, dykes mounted on motorcycles, kiss-ins, political rallies with a punk rock aesthetic... my inner drag queen was ecstatic. So was my outer rebel. I found coming out exceedingly fun. This political movement had way better clothes than the environmental groups I'd been affiliated with, and as an able-bodied, white girl I had no disability or racial oppression to rally against. I was a politically minded girl with a high libido in need of a Cause, and "We're here, we're queer, get used to it!" was a far more titillating rallying cry than "Reduce, reuse, recycle."

After 60 or 70 torrid Sapphic romps, with a night with a boy thrown in here and there for balance, I was a lesbian by default--if not self-definition--for 10 years. I was crazy in love with a woman, and it being a relationship of the long-term, monogamous variety, it felt disrespectful of her and pointless in general to inform others of my bi nature.

Queer community grew around us, trellising our coupledom like morning glories and jasmine. As friends hooked up, broke up, created families and disassembled them, we remained that steadfast couple--everyone knows at least one--who people refer to in anticipation of long-term love for themselves. "I'll lose all hope if you two ever split up," one gay male friend said more than once. "We won't," we said, and meant it. We felt lucky. How fortunate to have this major piece of one's life figured out. I never doubted I'd be with her forever, until we broke up.

I wanted a kid; she didn't. We worked out the other differences over a decade of cohabitation--our differing housekeeping styles, where our tastes in music or movies or meals diverged, how we handled finances and friendships, the rare political disagreements. She ate carrots and threw the ends on the floor. I took my shoes off in doorways and left them there. She let the water run continually when she washed dishes. I left hair spiders in the shower. We both loved animals, scary movies, Lucinda Williams, thunderstorms, dumpster diving, Coney Island, guacamole, summer time, serial killer trivia, thrift store shopping, watermelon, Michael Moore, Amy Sedaris, folk art, tattoos, seagull voices, each other's Moms. We went to weddings, buried family members, volunteered at an animal shelter, shared godchildren, fought and fucked and laughed and laughed and laughed.

I wanted a kid; she didn't. That's the difference we expected to go away, and could never figure out, and last spring I finally realized it would never change. Our separation was awful, an amputation without anesthesia. Amputees experience a phenomenon of pain in a part of the body that no longer exists, their phantom limb. I miss her like that; my heart doesn't understand where she went and my skin sometimes aches, if that's possible.

She's now happily shacked up with another woman, who I know I'd like if she wasn't the Devil. (But I'm not jealous. I
ended it, so I'm not entitled, right?) And I am still sometimes surprised to find myself in a relationship with a sweet, sweet man. Because what I remembered after the baby-to-be broke us up is that I like boys, too, and considering that one of these days I'll need to borrow an ingredient that only they can provide, whether in person or as a bank withdrawal, it'd be logical to give them a try. I never expected one to fit so quickly, though, which left me in grief and in love and in a whirl of confusion over what I now was. Am.

Gay, straight, bi--they're all itchy-sweater definitions. "Queer" still fits me best, though my boyfriend isn't... but then, sexual orientation is what it is regardless of whom one shares their bed with. On a purely bodily level, it was an easy adjustment. The pieces and parts differ, but there's a pinata of ways to derive sexual pleasure and I consider myself fortunate to be wired for a wide variety of 'em.

The social differences, however, have taken more getting used to. It is easier to be straight in a society overwhelmingly designed that way. It just is. Most people presume heterosexuality and did so when I was with my ex, even in this era of ever-increasing gay visibility, especially once we moved to the suburbs. Since I'm a femme I had the dubious privilege of this presumption, a general ease in the world that most butch women aren't privy to. There would be that litmus test moment when new friends/acquaintances/coworkers realized my mate wasn't a man. It never felt like a non-issue. When I didn't correct them I felt deceptive; when I did, I sometimes felt like I was taking this personal matter of whom I loved and parading it around like a show pony.

The whole matter was challenging--but not nearly as tough as figuring out how to come out now that I'm ostensibly straight. I wasn't prepared for how much easier it is to be in public with a man--or how hard I would find that. It's a bit boring to blend in, and also, guiltily, a relief, which pisses me off and leaves me feeling ashamed for the privilege denied those who can't shape-shift their social oppression as readily. And when I'm with my boyfriend and see my queer brethren, I want them to know I'm one of them.

A gay male pal recently said, with exasperation, "You're still Jessica. No one cares who you're sleeping with." Thankfully, that's mostly true. I've had a harder time with my new identity than most of my friends have. My family ceased being surprised by my antics a long time ago. They loved my ex and welcome my new love as readily. There are a few friends who've dropped out of sight, but I think that's due more to the inevitable side-taking that accompanies any breakup.

As a "Hasbian" is how I refer to myself lately. Because it's funny, and so people know where I've been. And because, let's face it, what self-respecting queer wants people to think they're straight?

(Originally appeared in the Fairfield County Weekly)