The One Where I Am Brutally Honest About My Sexuality

Subtitled: Yes, I Am (thanks, Melissa Etheridge)

I woke up this morning and thought, “Damn, I’m gay.” I thought this, in part, because there was a naked woman in bed with me and because we have a Barenaked Ladies poster on the wall that matches nothing else in the room, and because the homemade quilts (Hoe Made What?) were covered in fur from our rescued dogs. But the fact remains:

I am gay.

I am gay from the very first moment my little eyes crack open in the morning to the very last moment before I fall blissfully asleep, lying on my wife’s shoulder, while she watches television and tries to pretend that’s not a horribly uncomfortable position, having another human being using your chest as a pillow.

On a side note, PLEASE LET THE OLYMPICS BE OVER. I’m tired of hearing Bob Costas in my dreams. Also, I am tired of pretending I know what the fuck a perfect pole vault is supposed to look like or how fast “the fastest man alive” really is. Is he lightening? Could he make it from my office to the kitchen and back in ten seconds? I honestly have no clue. I have no parameters for this. And neither do you, BOB COSTAS. 



I’m a lesbian. I like women. I can look at men and tell you which ones are the better looking specimens, but that is as far as it goes. And please don’t think it’s because I’ve never seen a man naked, or been with a man in the Biblical sense. I have done both. Don’t make me relive it. I went to prom, and I was a bridesmaid. Hell, I had a wedding.

But that’s neither here nor there.


Do you believe me now? Look at me. Look how young and idealistic and covertly gay I was. Sorry you can see my cousin’s bra over her dress.

I could tell you that my being gay has had no real effect on my life, no more than my being left-handed, or my being addicted to Game of Thrones, or my having curly hair. But that wouldn’t be the truth, would it? I mean, my being left-handed cancels out all pairs of classroom scissors, manual-transmission vehicles, AND, like, every desk in college, and don’t get my started on binders. My being addicted to Game of Thrones cancels out any real interest in the Kardashians, professional sports, or Drake. Not when I have the future of Westeros to think about. My having curly hair…

Well that just means I get to listen to assholes ask if that’s what it’s “supposed” to look like everyday.

You get the picture, don’t you?

My being gay is, apparently, an integral part of everything that I do, at least as far as the rest of the world is concerned. It affects how the rest of the world sees me, whether other children are allowed to play with mine, whether parents feel comfortable leaving their children in my classroom. It affects how closely people listen to me, how likely they are to pass me off as a militant, if my recipes are worth their salt on social media (there she goes, making that gay French toast again…). My being gay is a flag that I wear, even unintentionally, and while I wish everyday that my contagious dyke affliction only affected what I do “in the bedroom,” as my grandmother would say, you and I both know that’s not the case.

My being gay affects whether you read this blog. Your perception about what it is like to be a gay person affects whether or not you read this blog.

I hope that means you’ll stick with me 🙂




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