The first girl I slept with had soft curves, full lips, and limpid green eyes. We met at a pub, and she extended her forearm across the sticky surface of the beer-splattered table to show me her tattoo. Tracing the dark shapes with my index finger, I drank glass after glass of Malibu and Coke, until the coconut-and-sugar taste drowned out the acrid tang of my own fear.

We walked back to her flat in the pouring rain and peeled off each other’s clothes, curling our clammy thighs around one another under the duvet. A pinkish glow rose like a blush from the fairy lights she had strung around her bedroom, and minutes rolled into hours as we kissed, touched, and talked. When she lay flush against me and rested her cheek against my collarbone, I felt – for the first time in my life – complete and utter peace.

I came back for more, of course, only this time I was sober. I overcame my fear by lunging at her without pausing to think, and luckily she was pleased – rather than terrified – by my apparent eagerness.

She was the first person to give me an orgasm. Her fingers danced and gripped and stroked, and I rose for her like a tide. She tipped me abruptly into a sensation that sent shock waves down my spine, and then she peered up at me in the half-light and said, with a mouthful of accented attitude, ‘I bet a man’s never touched you like that, eh?’

Indeed.

I had an insatiable thirst for the taste of her mouth, and I drank her greedily and without apology. I had no idea what I was doing, but my hands moved over her independently of thought or design, as if they already knew her. When her body vibrated under my touch, I felt something close to invincible.

That was the second and last time I ever saw her. She revealed shortly afterwards, over the phone, that her feelings were going beyond the unspoken boundaries of our circumstances. I nodded and murmured in all the right places, and then I ran like fuck.

Before I met D., there were several more like her, but none that I enjoyed quite so viscerally. By then the fear had taken me in a stranglehold. Physical intimacy has always been bound up with my emotions, and I was terrified that surrender in the bedroom meant surrender in everything else. I told myself I had made my peace with my sexuality: I dated some guys, but mostly girls, and I never shied away from showing affection to the latter in public. When I snaked my arm around a girl’s hip at the bus stop, and a bunch of pre-pubescent boys on bikes yelled ‘DYKE!’, I did not move away. I did not apologise. In fact, I gave them the finger. But every time someone got too close, I took to the hills as though my feet were on fire.

I ran from what was to be my last relationship with a woman straight into the arms of D. He was a kind and generous lover – and, to my utter surprise, I was deeply attracted to him. He was endlessly patient and he taught me how to relax again, how to give myself over to sensation. I told myself that I could not be gay, that the pleasure I felt with him during sex was far more important than the emptiness I felt after it. I told myself that it was time to break away from everything that had gone before. I told myself that it was time to move on, to create something new, to forget everything old.

And for a little while, with his help, I truly did.

the ocean

when I asked
what it was
like
to know a
woman
my dear one
replied
with infinite
wisdom,
“it is like
the ocean”
…..

and I
was
rolling and,
spinning and,
holding
the air
in my
lungs
so I would
not drown

eyes shut
but
mind open
under
and
over
and over
again

waves crashed
hard
and soft
on me.
and I
rode them
to
shore
floated
blissfully free
while tethered to
her.

clarity in
disorientation
the touch of
water
on my
skin
the feel of
heat
on her
breath
the sound of
desire
in
us
and all
around.

diving
and surfacing
above
and below
sounds and light
filtered
through want
and need
from far away
and from
right here

right.
here.

and right
now.

and then
she
touched me
there

there

right there

in that place
beneath the surface
and I gasped
and was
filled
with
rushing water
the power
of the current
taking me
places
I had
not yet been
but wanted
to stay.

I felt the
insatiable
pull of the
tides
gravity and rotation
legs
intertwined
hands
clasped
bodies
with no
spaces
in between.

I was
dizzy
because I
could not find
air
I tasted
salt
on her
skin
and I thought,
my soul
already
knows this
place

because
I am from
the
ocean.

I am
at home
in this
water
in this
sea
in the vast
emptiness
and fullness.
and softness
of these limbs
of this skin
of this moment

floating
weightless
but
falling
just
the
same.

And like the ocean
it was wise
and it was powerful
and it was beyond
my control
and it was strong
and it was gentle
and it was everything
and nothing.

It was
like
the
ocean.

Later in the evening, when almost everyone had left, we rearranged furniture once again and settled in to talk and laugh and talk some more. Among a million varied topics (ranging from serious to random to hilarious) we inevitably began discussing attraction and dating and sex.

At one point the discussion rolled around to ‘the look’, the one you give when your interest is piqued, when the sight or scent or sound or touch of a woman awakens something inside you. When your eyes meet and pulse quickens because you want to get closer, to know more, see more, have more of her. We talked how to recognize the look, how to receive it, how to return it.

It’s that fleeting glance from across the room, across the dance floor, across the table – the meeting of eyes for a fraction longer than necessary, and then looking away. The moment of looking away just as important as the eye contact itself – because of how it’s done. It’s the lowering of eyes, the slight curving of lips, the body language that is questioning “do you? will you? yes, please?” and at the same time emphatically stating “i do. i will. yes. please.”

The look can be cocky as hell, or rooted in deep insecurity. It can be a stolen glance that lasts a fraction of a second, or it can linger, prolonged for endless moments as you trace the contours of her face, body, soul. It can be uncertain, flirtatious, confident, hopeful, aggressive, demure, bold. It can be a question, an answer, a frank perusal, an introduction, an invitation, a desperate plea.

In a confirmed mutual attraction, the briefest of glances repeated over time creates a current of energy. Those moments of eye contact can make your breath catch in your throat and send tingles from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. They heighten the anticipation of that inevitable moment of connection, and the look itself becomes an integral part of the exquisite dance of foreplay. Inside that look a million messages are transferred in a frozen moment in time – but all the messages can be reduced to the exact same thing.

Want.

…want to talk to her, date her, kiss her, possess her, touch her, dance with her, fuck her, drown in her, caress her, make love to her, discover her deepest thoughts and secret dreams…want to know more, to learn what makes her heart beat quicker, to know how she tastes and what she sounds like when she comes…want to hear what she is afraid of, what her favorite TV show is, what she is doing on Saturday night…want her to look back…want her to want in return…

It might be that seriously hot chick you just saw for the first time. It might be the girl you’ve known for years who you just now started to see in a different light. It might be someone you’ve been crushing on for months but to whom you have not yet found courage to communicate your feelings. It might be the woman who has loved you for so long you can’t imagine a time when you were not together.

Whoever she is, you just cannot stop yourself from looking at her. It’s the way the light reflects in her eyes, the way she unconsciously runs her hands through her hair, the way she throws her head back when she laughs. You look at her far more often than could be considered accidental, glance her way frequently than could be justified by normal polite interaction. Sometimes you feel like you couldn’t possibly look away.

Maybe you want her to notice your gaze; maybe you hope desperately that she remains oblivious. Whichever it is, you look because you just cannot help yourself. You drink her in with your eyes, you absorb as much of her as you can, you imprint her into your brain so you can recall her captivating nuances in detail later when you are alone.

Eventually, she will catch you looking, and in her return gaze – if you are confident enough to hold it for a moment – you’ll have all the answers you need.

The look. That’s where it all begins.

[…yes. the girl was there. yes. i looked. plenty. yes. she looked back. no. it’s not going anywhere but friendship right now. fucking logistics. forgive me a moment of self-indulent wallowing. feeling deflated tonight…]

[…think Pink. Oh god yes, let’s think about Pink for a moment, shall we? Ummm. If ever a gal should be gay. That pic makes me..well..you know…]

Yes – they are the ones that grab my attention first, but then I keep looking. I am overwhelmed at the beauty of the women I see. The butches with their man-style shirts and ties – the right girl in the right tie, sigh. The sporty girls in their tennis shoes and pony tails – so fresh faced and strong. The femmes in their dresses and lipstick – the embodiment of the traditional feminine ideal. The younger girls, barely out of college. The older women, so comfortable in their own skin.

Each of them unique, each of them beautiful in a million different ways. I find myself wanting to try one of each, like a kid at an ice cream counter who can’t possibly choose between rocky road or strawberry or butter pecan and so begs for a triple scoop.

I don’t need to limit myself to a type, or a look or a label or a role. Right now I feel this incredible freedom to experiment and sample and learn about myself, and about other women. I’m fascinated by their voices and their scent and the way they move. I’m enthralled by how they are all so unique and yet all so wholly female. I am captivated by the endless expressions of femininity and masculinity and how they flow together so seamlessly in the same space and even within the same body.

I want to romance and to be romanced. I want to be kissed passionately and urgently against the side of a car in a dark parking lot by a girl who tastes of cigarettes and beer. I want to touch softly for hours on a bed covered in blankets and pillows with a woman who smells like orange blossoms and tastes of red wine and dark chocolate. I want to sit in a café while daylight wanes, across from a cute girl with curly hair and glasses and learn about what makes her tick. I want to ride on a motorcycle out into the desert pressed up against the back of a worn leather jacket breathing in the scent of men’s cologne, the engine so loud that conversation is impossible.

I want to be seduced by an experienced top who knows exactly how to strip me of my inhibitions. I want to take the role of the aggressor and experience a woman who knows exactly how actively bottom. I want to sit and sip herbal tea while I watch a girl I’m crazy into up on stage singing a song she wrote. I want to go rock climbing with a woman who will show me just where to place my feet and hands to stay safe, and push my body till my muscles burn and I’m covered in sweat. I want to be in control, and I want to be totally and completely out of control.

Right now I am so dizzy with potential I don’t even feel too attached to developing any one particular reality. I’m flirting. I’m getting phone numbers. I’m sending and receiving texts and emails that bring a smile to my face and make me wonder ‘what if?’ and ‘oooh, I hope’. I’m cuddling on the couch with cute girls watching movies, acutely aware of the feel of our legs pressed together, or her fingers intertwined with mine, or that slight hint of her scent that makes me want to move in closer. I’m hoping she’ll call, and I’m trying to decide when I’ll pick up the phone. I’m waiting to see if I’ll be kissed, and I’m leaning in to do the kissing myself.

Cherchez les femmes = seek the women.

Indeed.

[This is what I listened to while I wrote this, so of course I think you should listen to it while you read it. One of the sexiest songs ever.]

there is something
about a woman

something about the way
my hand slides
along the smooth curve between
her ribs and her hips
and settles along her waist
and curves around to the small of
her back
to pull her closer

something about the way
our lips meet
and pull away
and electricity pulses
and our eyes connect
to share a million secrets
and hands become entangled in hair
and bodies fit against one another
like pieces of a puzzle

something about the softness
and the firmness
and the perfect alignment
of parts
and about that magic spot
right
on the inside of
her hip bone

there is something about the
familiarity
of intimately knowing what
and where and how
and why
it all works
and that, in our shared feminine experience
there is undeniable connection

something about the
the way we meet as equals
and the safety of
exploration
and the vulnerability of
opening
and the freedom of
surrendering
and the bliss of
coming back to earth in
her arms

something about the feel of her arms and legs
intertwined with mine.
and the sound of her
voice in my ear
husky with desire
like the wind, or the waves
or a lullaby
before falling asleep.

there is something about
the way my body reacts
whole, instantaneous
passion awakened
need overtaking
and spiraling
and roaring
in my ears, in my heart
and in my very soul
till I am dizzy with my yearning for
her

and, oh yes
there is something about
the way friction becomes
something far more exquisite
than I ever fathomed when I was
sitting in physics class.

and there is certainly something
about the heat and the sweat
and the sound of her ecstasy
as she climbs and crashes
and the way she moves
inside of me
and of reaching down to feel
the slickness and wetness
of our desires
mingling together
and the almost unbearable
sweetness of the rhythm of moving
as one
and the scent of her on me
surprising me when I least
expect it.

something about the way there
is no ending or beginning
just the endless experience of
being
something about the stopping and starting
and whispering and laughing
and traveling to the edge,
and back
and back again.

yes.
There is something about a woman.

This week started off on a good note when my new friend M (I told her this week she’s my L-word bitch) walked in the room and, as threatened, I jumped up on the couch and yelled out…

“You messed with the wrong bitch, bitch”

‘Cause like I told you, I’m crazy cool like that. And I’m sure that everyone else at the bar agrees completely….me, totally cool. Obviously, yes.

After that kind of kick-off, only good things can happen, right?

Okay, I’m not going to recap in chronological order, because I’m a little spacey and fragmented today (just today mind you, I am normally a highly concentrated individual with a sharply focused mind).

Most important development: Bette and Tina.
Oh.My.God. Bette and Tina. Tina and Bette. Bette getting topped by a newly aggressive Tina. Oh.My.Hot.

I’ve never been a huge Tibette fan, but you’ve got to admit those two have chemistry. After five seasons, I think we’re all just rooting for them to make it. Their sex scenes have always been undeniably fabulous (the scene where they were baby-making, and the crazy wild sex after Tina found out about Candace for instance…need I say more?)

But this week….Um Yeah. Just watch, is all I ask. Even you straight girls out there. Just watch.

[…as an aside, watching the L word when you’re ovulating but don’t have anyone to have sex with is dangerous. At one point during one of the above scenes my cell phone vibrated in my pocket, and I seriously thought I was going to have to leave the bar and find a way to relieve some tension. Ask J…I’m a quivering ball of sexual energy right now. Seriously…]

Okay, on to Jenny.
Confession Number One: I might lose some credibility by admitting this, but I think that the more outrageous Jenny gets, the more she grows on me – in a hate-to-love-her/love-to-hate-her kind of way. She’s utterly ridiculous and utterly delicious all at once. She annoys me and amuses the hell out of me at the same time – and I rather like that in a girl. (but seriously, those nails have to go. What lesbian has nails like that?).

There were many brilliant Jenny moments this episode, but the opening scene takes the cake. Jenny is directing the actresses playing Bev and Nina in Lez Girls in the scene from season one where Nina tells Bev (or Tina tells Bette) that she is ovulating. The two actresses playing Bev and Nina are clearly straight girls, and totally awkward and uncomfortable. Jenny, with that perfect look of calculated arrogance and studied ennui, is attempting to explain how the sex scene should go…*

Jenny: “This is what I want you to do — you are going to look at her — and you’re going to TAKE HER — and you’re going to THROW HER UP AGAINST THE SINK — BAM! And you’re going to look at her with passion and then you’re gonna and you’re going to take her, and you’re going to kiss her — with tongue. And then I want you to reach down and then I want you to finger fuck her and give her the best fucking orgasm EVER…”
Bev: “Oh — you mean — with my hand?”
Jenny: “Yeah … unless you have some other apperatti that i don’t know about?” …

I’m crazy impressed that they managed to work the word apperatti in there – because seriously, every sex scene needs some apperatti, right? It gets even better when Jenny tells them she’s going to hire a lesbian sex coach so they can learn to get it right. A lesbian sex coach. I love it, I love it, I love it.

Jenny: “You guys really don’t know how to fuck women, do you? You guys are going to learn how to fuck…”

She Bar Bitches
Confession Number Two: I am rather ashamed to admit this, but I kinda think that Dumbo is hot. Sure she’s a bitch, and her put-on ghetto-fied speech and mannerisms are aggravating as hell. But just to look at. Um yeah. Hot.

Lover Cindy though, I could do without. The loyal sidekick with her perfectly coiffed blonde waves and utterly vapid stare…ugh. Annoying. Automatic Straddle got it totally right when she called her Disco Barbie. Shane, however, gets props for trying to make amends, very adult of her. Shane’s hair though, needs some assistance.

Oh – who am I kidding. I’m as hot for Shane as anyone. Who cares if she has stupid hair, really. I can get past it.

Best quote of the scene:
Dembo: “What can’t you do Shane…other than make my girlfriend come?”

Seriously? Lover Cindy was unsatisfied by her encounter with (um…cheesy seduction of) Shane? Highly doubtful.

The scene was made for me, however, by the Peach Pit reference. For a girl who went to high school in the early 90’s, 90210 references can only make a good show even better. Come on, didn’t you ever hope Brenda and Kelly would get it on in the Peach Pit bathroom?

Oh, and how many times can Dumbo say “It’s On”. Really?

Alice and Tasha.
Deep sigh, sniff, sniff.

As my new girl M. said (with a slight hint of panic) during the scene:
“Where are you going Tasha? Where is she going? Is she going?”

I refuse to believe that this is it for Alice and Tasha, because anyone can see that they are perfect for one another. And Tasha has to stay on the show, because otherwise who would I swoon over? Because her cheekbones and her eyes and her smooth creamy skin and her smile and her beautiful flat stomach and those strong arms and…

Oh wait a minute –where was I?

Oh yeah.

Don’t go Tasha. Please don’t go. Didn’t you see Alice crying in bed? She is broken-hearted without you, and I know that beneath your tough exterior you are broken-hearted without her. You two are meant to be together, and besides, I have a serious need to watch you have sex again. So come back Tasha. I’m begging now. Don’t let me down.

Clothing:
All I have to say is Jenny and Tina – get some new clothes. Now, please. Those boots, Jenny? That bow, Tina? All those puffy shirts and strange dresses. Really? Yikes. Life is too short to dress that badly.

Alice gets a little more leeway to wear somewhat odd outfits, ‘cause she’s Alice, and she’s so dang cute I could never judge her for anything. But Jenny and Tina, you’re not anywhere near that adorable, and I have to hold you to higher standards.

Look at Bette, the girl has got it going on. She rocks her power lesbian wardrobe, and the lady can work a white tank top like nobody’s business. Shane has a look that works for her too (that black see-through shirt. Whew. It got to me. See ovulation comment above), but you two are struggling. Once Adele (see below) starts dressing better than you, you know you’re in trouble. Just try a little harder, is that too much to ask?

Adele:
I love to say I told you so, so I’ll say I told you so. That girl is trouble. Now that’s she’s gotten her Jennified ‘What Not To Wear’ makeover and has gone all Single White Female on us the storyline is beginning to take shape. I’m starting to get an idea where this is going, and I don’t like it one little bit. At least Max seems just as wise her tricks as I am – and I’m feeling fairly confident that he’s going to take care of business. You go Max, watch out for my girl Jenny – she’s a little clueless on her own, no?

Final Miscellaneous Comments:
I loved Phyllis’ comment that she didn’t want her daughter to think she was a ‘debauched promiscuous lesbian’. I get where she’s coming from, I mean I don’t want my daughter to think that either. But honestly, is there anything wrong with being a debauched promiscuous lesbian? I want to know; because there is a slight chance I might consider becoming one, at least if this ovulation business goes on much longer.

My other favorite line was the bit about the faux-protesters (lead by Dumbo herself) saying that they didn’t want their neighborhood “portrayed as a hotbed of lesbian sex and salaciousness”. Dumbo’s personal vendetta aside, all I can think is, damn – I wish my neighborhood was a hotbed of lesbian sex and salaciousness. Right?

And next week – lesbian Turkish oil wrestling…

Hells yea.

It’s On!

*Credit for the scene goes to Automatic Straddle. The best (and funniest) L word recaps on the web.

A few months ago I came across a fantastic blog written by a woman named Kathryn and immediately felt right at home. The blog, Recovering Straight Girl, was the first that I had found to directly address my current reality, that of coming out after marriage and motherhood. Not only does she address it, but she does so with humor and grace and realism. I was hooked right away.

While exploring her blog that first day, my friend J. (another RSG, about a year ahead of me in the whole process) and I came across Kathryn’s Recovering Straight Girls 12 Steps to Becoming a Lesbian and we just about killed ourselves laughing as we read the steps aloud. I just had to ask permission to post the list here.

Just to make this a little more personal, I’ll include my personal commentary below each step (consider it a warm up for an upcoming post – where I intend to talk about sex)!

The Recovering Straight Girls Twelve Steps to Becoming a Lesbian (reposted with permission from the author)

1. We admit that we are powerless over being lesbians; that our lives have become unmanageable trying and pretending to be straight.

Um. Yeah that. I made a damn good (32 year) attempt of it though.

2. We have come to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity; it is the power of pussy.

Um. Yeah that too. Powerful stuff, that.

Enough said.

3. We have made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to being with women, and have made that shift by actually engaging in hot sexual relations with a woman more than once.

Well, not more than one woman, but definitely more than once. And definitely, definitely, definitely hot.

Did I mention it was hot?

4. We have made a list of all the men that we slept with; accepted that straight sex is mediocre sex, and forgave ourselves for wasting so many precious years sleeping with men. We have come to realize, accept and willingly expect that orgasms do happen (over and over again,) and that they are a normal part of sexual relations. We have also realized accepted, and now expect that sex last longer than ten minutes. Note: Some personal training is required in this area to build up an endurance level.

For this one I am hoping that a mental list will do. Funny, I wouldn’t have categorized most of my (straight) sexual experiences as mediocre sex…I always thought I rather enjoyed it. However, having experienced the reality of being with a woman – well…lets just say everything is relative.

“orgasms do happen (over and over again)”
Funny that. I always assumed I just didn’t have it in me to be a multi-orgasmic woman. Now I know better. Not only are there more of them, but seriously people – they are ***this*** big and ***that*** long. No joke.

“now expect that sex last longer than ten minutes”
Seriously, this has been the most surprising and lovely aspect of my sexual experience thus far. It is so fluid, and not goal-oriented. Truly, all of lesbian sex fits under the heterosexual definition of foreplay, so it just rolls and spirals and spins to the edge and back again for as long as you want it to. For all you straight gals out there, at the risk of being presumptuous and rude… I gotta say, you don’t know what you’re missing.

5. We have admitted to a higher power, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs pretending to be straight. In other words: we came out, and realized that we would rather have dental work done than have sex with another guy.

Well, I have to say that there is no such thing as using the term “came out” in the past tense – because it is such an ongoing process (more on that in another post as well). The coming out process is really life long, I think.

As far as the dental work bit, well – as strange as it seems even to me, I kinda have to agree. Yikes. I really must be gay, ‘cause I hate the dentist.

6. We have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves and with much certainty and without hesitation, cut our nails, and very possibly our hair. Note: During this step, some recovering straight women may want to also get a tattoo or piercing, this is entirely a matter of choice. A tattoo or piercing is not a requirement as of this writing.

Cut nails – check
I keep waiting for S. to notice and ask why my nails are always so short after years of having them longish, but either he is oblivious or he has decided not to ask. Note: if you’re wondering why the short nails – just think on it for a bit. Rather obvious, no?

Cut hair – check
However, I rather think my hair cut had more to do with wanting to be as cool as Victoria Beckham than it did wanting to embrace Lesbianism. However, there is a page ripped out of a catalogue stuck to my fridge of a woman with short-short hair. Every now and then I look at it and wonder if I would have the guts, and if it would look good…

Tattoo – almost check
I’ve been meaning to have this done for months and months though, way back when I was still deep in denial, so not sure if this counts. However, it is this journey that helped me finally decide what tattoo to get. This will be my second tattoo– so it’s not entirely a RSG thing.

Piercing – nope
My ears are not even pierced anymore. I can’t imagine I’m going to go out and get pierced…although stranger things have happened (like me finally coming out of the closet, for instance). Side note: I am WAY into piercings in other girls though. Both of the women I have kissed have had lip piercings and I have to say, it adds a certain something to the experience! Hmmm…happy memories.

7. We are entirely ready to have the higher goddess remove all these defects of being straight: To prove it, we have gone to at least one lesbian bar, lesbian dance and/or lesbian event (preferable a lesbian folk singer); we have purchased CDs from Melissa Etheridge, KD Lang, and/or The Indigo Girls; and we have acquired at least one item with a rainbow on it.

Lesbian Bar: check, check, check, check.
I think I’ve been to more bars since September than I have in the past decade. It’s like college all over again, except with more girls and no sweaty football players! We’ve actually got a decent number of places to choose from here, although most of them are fairly ghetto. Last night we went to a Lesbian country bar, where I line danced and two-stepped the night away with gay girls from 21 to (I swear) 65!

Lesbian Event: check
Rainbow Festival, and several lesbian folk singers actually. I’ll attend my first Pride in April and hopefully road trip to San Diego Pride in July. I flirted with the idea of going to Dinah Shore with a friend this year, but don’t think I’m up for that yet! Coming up: Tegan and Sara in April, and I heard a rumor of Melissa Ferrick coming to town as well…

Music – check.
Funny story. I was talking to J’s girlfriend T one day about music. We talked about our musical likes and dislikes – including when we discovered certain favorites. Upon hearing that I had been listening to Melissa Etheridge, Indigo Girls, Ani Difranco and Tori Amos since college, T looked at me in disbelief and said in a most incredulous voice, “And you didn’t know you were gay?”!

Rainbows – check
Canadian AND American pride magnets, and my girls insist on keeping a pride flag cling-on in their bedroom window!

8. We are removing our straight shortcomings: We no longer refer to our straight friends who are women as our girlfriends, and reserve that term only for women that we are sleeping with. We have accepted that hiking is a part of life, (although secretly it can be disguised as shopping,) we have purchased a sports bra, (although we know that it’s only to be worn while playing sports.)

I have noticed that I have been more aware of using the term ‘girlfriend’ – although I would never have called the woman I was seeing/sleeping with my girlfriend (called her my not-girlfriend actually) so it didn’t seem to matter as much. I am sure that once I have an actual girlfriend I will be much more careful about how I use the term.

Not so sure about the hiking bit, as I enjoyed that even when I was playing straight. Shopping I am always up for! Sports bras…yes – only during sports. I am NOT a fan of the uniboob.

9. We have traded our magazine subscriptions to Cosmopolitan, Vogue, Elle, and Marie Clare; for new subscriptions to Curve, Girlfriends, and The Advocate.

Well, the only pre-gay magazine subscription I had was to “Lucky” (and that was only because someone bought it for me) although I admit to buying more than my share of “In Style” and “Marie Claire” in the past. I did buy a copy of “Curve” a few months back – but I think I can make up for my lack of subscriptions with my memberships to websites like “Our Chart” and how many LGBTQ related businesses/organizations/people I have on myspace friends list!

10. We have continued to take personal inventory and when we are wrong promptly admit. We are open to guidance from our lesbian sisters on things related to: the proper placement of hand stamps at lesbian nightclubs, womens basketball (especially the womens NCAA tournament,) camping, baseball cap etiquette, dogs, cats, and beer.

Hand stamp placement? Huh? If we’re talking sports I will need plenty of guidance. I’d only willingly attend a basketball game if it was with a bunch of fun friends, or if I was purposely going to scout for women! Baseball cap…I don’t think so. Beer…not for me.

11. We have sought through prayer, meditation or deep reflection ways to first access, then fine tune our newly realized Gaydar in order to improve our conscious contact with lesbians. We then have:
a. Successfully recognized a lesbian and tried to make some kind of contact with her outside of a typical lesbian arena.
b. Been nodded at by another lesbian who recognized us, outside of a typical lesbian arena. Note: This is a very important, but very difficult task that may take a lot of practice before achieving. Do not be discouraged, do not give up!

Damn, but my gaydar sucks. Unless a chick an obvious butch or dyke (or is making out with another woman) I have to admit that I always have that “Is she or isn’t she?” question in my mind. That is the nice thing about a lesbian bar or gay event – at least the assumption of gayness is a relatively safe one!

a. Yes, yes, yes – I did this….however, was not successful at making eye contact. I’m giving myself credit for trying.

b. Eek – not so much. I swear, if I hear one more time “You look like a straight girl”, I just might buzz my hair and start wearing ties and big black boots. I think the only way I would get recognized outside of a ‘typical lesbian arena’ is if (not to be indelicate) I had my tongue stuck down another woman’s throat, or if I took to wrapping myself up in a pride flag every time I left the house. Heck, my car (with its “Legalize Love” bumper sticker and pride decal) is more obviously gay than I am! That’s the kicker of being femme, I think, to most people femme = straight.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to other straight women, near and far, in the city, in the country, and in the suburbs (especially the suburbs,) and to practice these principles in all our lesbian affairs.

Conversion/Recruitment Attempts – Check.
Ask my straight friends – I keep trying to tell them how silly they are being with this insistence on heterosexuality. Heck, if I had known what I was missing it sure wouldn’t have taken me this long! Plus, eventually I want to earn a toaster oven.

So there you have it. All you other RSG’s out there, lets hear it from you too! Leave your commentary in my comments section, or ask Kathryn if you can post this on your own blog.