I was at a party the other night, and I was slightly amused by the sudden realization that I could count at least seven women in my immediate vicinity who were hasbians. And when I ran down a list of friends and acquaintances in my head, I figured out that I could add at least five more women to that list--including me, of course. Earnest young lesbians were we all, once upon a time, until, like the singer in the Two Nice Girls song "I Spent My Last Ten Dollars on Birth Control and Beer," the love of a strong hairy man turned us from the queer and narrow.
What's up with that, you ask? How does someone spend years in no-boys-allowed territory only to slide back into the external-plumbing department? I can't speak for everyone, of course. But when I look back, I see that my sexuality has always been rather fluid. It was only youth, social pressure, and a dearth of more appropriate labels that ever made it seem fixed.
When I first began calling myself a lesbian, I was a 19-year-old political activist at--yes, that's right--an all-women's college. I had had a couple of boyfriends, and I wasn't a virgin, but I hadn't been hugely impressed with heterosexual sex so far. I was, however, very passionate about all of my political beliefs, which I expressed in the most black and white of terms. So when I realized I was sexually attracted to women--boom, that's it, I must be a lesbian.
And not just any lesbian, either. No, I had to be the best and most lesbiany lesbian I could possibly be. I cut my hair short, invested heavily in lug-soled boots and Cleis Press novels, and quoted Adrienne Rich incessantly. I camped on the land at women's music festivals, although I drew the line at eating the mysterious vegan mush that passed as festival food. I was, in fact, a tiresomely self-righteous little lesbian-feminist prig--but in some dyke circles, that actually got me some approval. It got me laid, too, which was mainly what I wanted.
But after a while, I realized I'd uncritically embraced a whole set of cultural mores based solely on who I was fucking. I also realized that I'd been repressing and denying the fact that I was starting to feel sexual attractions to men, too. I knew it wouldn't sit well with the girls down at the Wild Rose, where dykes spoke of women who were "experimenting" with a venom otherwise reserved for Dr. Josef Mengele. I understood lesbians not wanting to deal with that you-just-haven't-met-the-right-man-yet attitude. But I also knew that even if every lesbian in the world was a Kinsey six until the day she died, that wouldn't stop the Jesus freaks and faux-therapists at "ex-gay" organizations like Exodus International.
So, having decided I wasn't single-handedly responsible for upholding the sexual integrity of the Lesbian Nation, I decided to act on my sexual attraction to men, and discovered that this whole penis/vagina thing was working for me a lot better than it had in the past. I did lose some friends and acquaintances when word got around, but none I couldn't just as well do without anyway. The lesbians I had the most respect for knew damn good and well that what I was doing with my sexuality didn't have anything to do with their sexuality, and so they just shrugged and said, "Boys, huh? Okay, honey, whatever makes you happy. But tell him if he's not good to you, I'll have to come kick his ass."
I've learned not to choke on the word bisexual, although I think it's a wimpy, milquetoast sort of word, with none of the punch of dyke or queer. If sexual orientations were American Idol contestants, bisexual would be Anthony Fedorov. But I still wear lug-soled boots, I still have my copy of Rubyfruit Jungle, and I still know how to go down on a woman while massaging her G-spot. I'm guessing the other former lesbians do, too. Hmmnn, perhaps I'll start a hasbian social club. It could be a good way to meet some cute women. Maybe I'd even get laid.
