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Lesbian Stories
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Lesbian Female / 30
Frankly I'm Lesbian Light
I studied Journalism at a very liberal arts college. I went a shy Catholic girl and graduated an outspoken feminist lesbian. After returning home, I did not have a job, my uncle suggested I interview my aunt Marg. See, he told me, she's gay too. Did you know that? No, I did not.
Aunt Marg did not open up. None of your business was the given answer. When I tried to empathize and told her I was gay, she answered bluntly, how do you know? I asked her in my best Journalistic open question, don't you think that women can tell if they are gay? Maybe because they do not like men, and much prefer to sleep with women? Aunt Marg got exasperated, if you have never 'slept' with a man, then you do not know. She went on, boys play with boys, and girls play with girls, that is behavior. Conceive a baby then come and tell me if you are 'gay'.
By interviewing my uncle I learned that a long time ago when my aunt Marg was in her twenties she had a girlfriend she was very fond of. She had to tiptoe around the issue, and although her girlfriend was allowed 'in' and she shared dinner at the table, no intimate behavior was allowed. Not the case, between men and women, where 'Dear' and 'I love you' was common. A wife's arms around her husband's neck was no problem. A man's little pat on a behind was seen but not seen.
Aunt Marg's girlfriend moved on and Aunt Marg gave an ultimatum. If she wasn't accepted as she was she wouldn't speak to them. She didn't, and everyone else went along living. Moral of the story, don't make the same mistake. Keep your hands to yourself, unless you are in the bedroom.
I made the mistake of hugging a girl too closely. It was a tiny minute too long. Too intimate. I knew instantly that I had crossed the line. I apologized later, but I had stepped on toes.
Six months later, I was working as a freelance journalist reporting on the gay and lesbian community. I wasn't getting any money, and my family continued to support me. My uncle told me to go back to Aunt Marg. How did she support herself? With money from the family, she was never cut off, she got a subsidy, and she lived rent free in a house owned by her brother. She was free to be a difficult artist. And? Wasn't I doing that? Living off the family pretending to be a journalist. It was meant to force me to get a job that paid money.
I got a job working for an insurance agency, learning the 'trade'. I dated here and there, but nothing stuck to the wall. At 28 and 'self supporting', if you don't count not paying rent in a family provided townhouse, I went to a dinner invited by Aunt Marg. A woman painter was in town and she wanted her to meet me. Her paintings bordered on obscene and she had a following in Oregon. It was all lesbian art, for lesbians with problems. Who hangs a painting of a vagina on their living room wall? Well gay men have paintings of penises on the wall, don't they? Aunt Marg emphasized to me, she is a lesbian. She wanted me to meet a 'real' lesbian.
I had to sit through a dinner of never ending complaining. You would think that the world got together to pick on lesbians. I had just never experienced anything like that. No one gave a shit whether I was a lesbian. I understood why Aunt Marg did not want to be labeled as a lesbian. Neither did I frankly after that dinner. And no I didn't buy a painting of a vagina.
I let a man into my life, let him have sex with me. I needed to know, once and for all. Was I really a lesbian or was I playing? We had a short six months of dating, which included a lot of sex with him. He didn't break me of my habit, but I understood something I never thought about. A man wants you under his thumb, come hell or high water. And yes, Aunt Marg was right, we are all under the thumb of my uncle.
I am a lesbian. I know that. Lesbian light. I am not 'that type' of lesbian. If he calls me I listen, if he needs me to go with him I go with him, if he 'needs' me in that fashion I let him. Friends with benefits, no strings attached, until he calls me. Socially I flock with other women.
Aunt Marg did not open up. None of your business was the given answer. When I tried to empathize and told her I was gay, she answered bluntly, how do you know? I asked her in my best Journalistic open question, don't you think that women can tell if they are gay? Maybe because they do not like men, and much prefer to sleep with women? Aunt Marg got exasperated, if you have never 'slept' with a man, then you do not know. She went on, boys play with boys, and girls play with girls, that is behavior. Conceive a baby then come and tell me if you are 'gay'.
By interviewing my uncle I learned that a long time ago when my aunt Marg was in her twenties she had a girlfriend she was very fond of. She had to tiptoe around the issue, and although her girlfriend was allowed 'in' and she shared dinner at the table, no intimate behavior was allowed. Not the case, between men and women, where 'Dear' and 'I love you' was common. A wife's arms around her husband's neck was no problem. A man's little pat on a behind was seen but not seen.
Aunt Marg's girlfriend moved on and Aunt Marg gave an ultimatum. If she wasn't accepted as she was she wouldn't speak to them. She didn't, and everyone else went along living. Moral of the story, don't make the same mistake. Keep your hands to yourself, unless you are in the bedroom.
I made the mistake of hugging a girl too closely. It was a tiny minute too long. Too intimate. I knew instantly that I had crossed the line. I apologized later, but I had stepped on toes.
Six months later, I was working as a freelance journalist reporting on the gay and lesbian community. I wasn't getting any money, and my family continued to support me. My uncle told me to go back to Aunt Marg. How did she support herself? With money from the family, she was never cut off, she got a subsidy, and she lived rent free in a house owned by her brother. She was free to be a difficult artist. And? Wasn't I doing that? Living off the family pretending to be a journalist. It was meant to force me to get a job that paid money.
I got a job working for an insurance agency, learning the 'trade'. I dated here and there, but nothing stuck to the wall. At 28 and 'self supporting', if you don't count not paying rent in a family provided townhouse, I went to a dinner invited by Aunt Marg. A woman painter was in town and she wanted her to meet me. Her paintings bordered on obscene and she had a following in Oregon. It was all lesbian art, for lesbians with problems. Who hangs a painting of a vagina on their living room wall? Well gay men have paintings of penises on the wall, don't they? Aunt Marg emphasized to me, she is a lesbian. She wanted me to meet a 'real' lesbian.
I had to sit through a dinner of never ending complaining. You would think that the world got together to pick on lesbians. I had just never experienced anything like that. No one gave a shit whether I was a lesbian. I understood why Aunt Marg did not want to be labeled as a lesbian. Neither did I frankly after that dinner. And no I didn't buy a painting of a vagina.
I let a man into my life, let him have sex with me. I needed to know, once and for all. Was I really a lesbian or was I playing? We had a short six months of dating, which included a lot of sex with him. He didn't break me of my habit, but I understood something I never thought about. A man wants you under his thumb, come hell or high water. And yes, Aunt Marg was right, we are all under the thumb of my uncle.
I am a lesbian. I know that. Lesbian light. I am not 'that type' of lesbian. If he calls me I listen, if he needs me to go with him I go with him, if he 'needs' me in that fashion I let him. Friends with benefits, no strings attached, until he calls me. Socially I flock with other women.
