When I was a little girl my father built a playhouse for me in our backyard. But it was no ordinary playhouse with four walls and a door. A carpenter by profession, my father built his daughter the Taj Mahal of playhouses, complete with balcony, tire swing, mega slide and my very own yellow brick road leading to its entrance, inspired of course by my favorite movie. ( I insisted on being called Dorothy until the age of six. My interest in The Wizard of Oz bordered on an unhealthy obsession) I loved my fortress, obscured the neighboring cherry and apricot trees. Tucked in the far corner of our mammoth backyard, what I cherished most about my hideout was its complete privacy. For hours my friend Hannah and I would play, blithe to the thought of adult invasion. For a while our play was limited to the customary games of a child's imagination but with time we evolved and so did those games. Soon our favorite game was sex. Now when I use the word sex I don't mean to suggest that we yet had a name for our curious explorations or that it resembled what comes to mind when I now think of sex. But Hannah and I spent many afternoons testing the novel though slightly bewildering reactions we could elicit from each other's bodies.
One afternoon I managed to finally ask the question that had hung heavy inside me for months.
"Hannah, do you think this means we're gay?" I asked.
She considered.
"Yes", she said, without passion
Gay. A word meant for a small metal box. A word like cancer. Or dead. I felt it stitch itself to me like my own Scarlet Letter, shameful and consuming.
Through high school and into college I fell in love with my fair share of both girls and boys. I remember my first visit to a strip club with a college boyfriend eager to see my lesbian tendencies in action. I fell hard for a dancer named Lucy, a heavily tattooed, platinum blonde Suicide Girl with red lips and milk skin. I even remember how she smelled, sweet and unearthly. Later that night while that boyfriend and I lay sweaty beside each other after sex, he told me he loved me for the first time. But all I could think of was Lucy, how her skin felt just barely brushing mine, soft as breath.
And now I work at San Francisco's Holy Grail of beautiful women, beautiful women who are either solely or mostly interested in other women. No seriously, if you're familiar with Adrienne Rich's idea of the Lesbian Continuum, I'm pretty The Lusty Lady occupies its very own spot on it. When I first started out at Lusty I was overwhelmed (understatement) by the sheer magnetism of my fellow co-workers. They're gorgeous, talented, driven and sometimes a little bit crazy (in the best of ways). And while I remain committed to my monogamous heterosexual relationship I can't help but fantasize about the women I just happen to dance naked with. Lately my subconscious has been bombarding my dreams with all of these highly erotic fantasies, featuring more than one of my co-workers. Honestly, I have no idea where to go with this. The seduction of women eludes me far more than the seduction of men and sometimes I just don't feel up to the challenge convincing someone that they want to get it on with me. Not to mention the fact that my boyfriend is more than a little hesitant to give me the green light to frolic in Luscious Lady Land.
But I can't turn this off. And more so, I don't want to. This part of my sexuality has been active since the very inception of my sexuality itself. I wouldn't know how to turn it off or suppress it if I tried. And so the internal struggle ensues...
