Last spring, I fell deeply, deliriously, overwhelmingly in love. We have a Simpsons quote handy for every occasion. Our shelves are filled with books of poetry. We love dogs and are ambivalent about cats okay, we hate cats. Our communication is open and direct, and as a result, we have never harbored resentment or had a serious conflict. We crack each other up. I found my person and am making no compromises or sacrifices in this relationship. I came out as a lesbian over a decade ago, and my dykehood has shaped much of my life: I worked at the LGBT Office in college.
My articles in this publication are usually queer-focused. Falling in love with a man is kinda my worst nightmare My guy took this a little personally when I told him that. No idea why! This relationship has forced me to rethink my identity and navigate coming out all over again.
What does my queer identity mean now that I am monogamously partnered with a cis man? Before meeting him, I identified not just as queer, but as a dyke. I felt powerful turning down men when they hit on me. I fantasized about sex with women as a pre-teen and crushed on my girl friends. In high school, I rented every single indie and foreign film from Blockbuster because many of them featured lesbian sex.
But then I met this boy. Nothing about me has really changed. Most of my friends are queer, I still move in queer spaces and go to queer events.
But the main reasons I frequented queer spaces in the past were to cruise for dates or to feel safe showing affection for my partner. And yet I still catch myself nervously glancing around when he takes my hand, before I remember that we blend in as a straight-passing couple. I suddenly have straight-passing privilege; it feels foreign and uncomfortable. I thought part of the beauty of queer relationships was that we could talk about everything. A few weeks into dating, I had an IUD inserted, which was one of the most painful experiences of my life.
