PoMoSexual Pioneer

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But I gradually came to terms with my mom's (and my own) sexuality, aided in part by my decision to go to college in New York City, a decidedly more "progressive" environment than Quincy. By my senior year, I was a born-again lesbian feminist and adopted "girl power girl love = revolution" as my mantra. The idea of existing within a tight-knit lesbian community made sense to me; it was a source of support, a framework within which to organize my identity. The first time I fooled around with a girl, we joked to each other that we could now go out and get our membership cards.

But after I graduated into the "real world" and got a publishing job that took up most of my time and energy, I realized that it wasn't possible to be visually perceived as a lesbian unless I adopted a butch look that didn't in any way reflect who I really am. To "fit in" with a lesbian community, I'd also have to organize my social life around meeting and dating lesbians. Off campus, it simply wasn't that easy to let my life revolve around sexuality in that way. I don't have the time, energy, or money to go to bars—gay or straight—all the time; nor do I envision myself finding a meaningful relationship in one.

It's true that going out to bars is not the only queer lifestyle available to me in New York, though it sometimes seems that way. I've considered becoming more involved in politics, but beyond the occasional pride march, political rallies aren't really my scene. Maybe it's because of all the demonstrations my mom dragged me to as a kid. I'm just not the activist type, so involving myself in politics feels like a forced way to meet people and integrate a queer identity into my life.

Even though lately I find myself more attracted to boys, it seems hypocritical to slip back into straightness as the path of least social resistance—especially after all my idealistic college dreams of girl love. At the same time, I resent the fact that I can't just keep my options open. Sexuality has so much significance above and beyond sexual preference that it seems "queerness" is a state you either exist in all the time, or not at all.

My mom has always spoken cynically of bisexuals as fair-weather friends, people who ditched their politics when they were in a straight relationship. I certainly saw plenty of boy-crazy bisexual women in college (a friend referred to one as "dyke lite"), and I vowed to myself that I would never sell out like that. But I still don't know how it would be possible for me to be a part of the queer community while I was in a relationship with a man—or even while I'm not in a relationship with a woman, as I am now.

I feel that there's some kind of burden of proof on me, as someone who claims membership in a queer community, to be a "lesbian," or at least rack up enough "lesbian points" to feel politically safe being with a man without being perceived as a traitor. Inasmuch as my sexuality has evolved over time along with my political beliefs, I can understand the lesbian community's tendency to hold people politically responsible for their sexual desires and activities. Yet at any given moment, I experience attraction physically and emotionally, but never as a political feeling.

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