Can Queer Girls Have Boyfriends?

This post was submitted by Chris, who was a blogging virgin until Zack seduced her into posting for TNG. She lives in Columbia Heights and hopes to be a big bad investigative reporter one day.

The tiny room was packed with at least a dozen women sprawled over the bed and on any available chairs. The TV screen flickering on the dresser turned sepia-toned as "The L Word's" Bette and Tina finally got busy. One of my friends commented: “Has anyone noticed how they only have sex like straight people?”

I jumped right in. “Yeah! My boyfriend and I were just talking about that the other night!”

There was a pause. Heartbeat heartbeat.

Or was there?

Then someone else chipped in, and the conversation (and hetero-normative "L Word" sex scene) moved on. But I didn’t. Those two seconds of silence after I said “my boyfriend” went straight through the pit of my stomach. I took a deep breath, slapped a lid on it and a smile on my face, and finished the episode out. Then I left, pleading exhaustion from a busy weekend.

When I got home I called a friend in Missouri and recounted those awful moments. I hadn’t realized how upset I was until I almost started crying on the phone. I’m not the waterworks type, so Stephanie was probably pretty shocked. She said she couldn’t believe a bunch of queer women would pause over anything I said about sexual orientation; weren’t they supposed to be more tolerant and accepting because of everything they’d presumably been through? We agreed it was messed up and I started to relax.

My boyfriend, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure. I called him next, and he said something to the effect of “maybe it was just jarring to hear you say ‘my boyfriend’ in that context, and they just needed a moment to adjust.” He pointed out that it could also have been just a natural pause in the conversation and nothing to do with what I’d said.

Now that I’d calmed down, I wondered if he could be right. It’s possible that, after 10 years living as a closeted queer in Texas and 4 years coming out in a very hetero college in rural Pennsylvania, I’m hypersensitive to that moment where people who had assumed you were just like them suddenly reclassify you as other. The distance that immediately springs up in their faces, body language, or even just in their eyes. How their voices catch, change, stop to take a breath before going on. And the sometimes painful consequences.

When I moved to DC, it was the first time I’d ever lived in the middle of a vibrant, politically active, safe GLBT community. It was the first time I ever felt comfortable walking down the street holding hands with a girl, let alone making out with her on a street corner. Prior to moving to DC, I’d known a grand total of 3 women who were out as lesbians, and I didn’t know them well. I’ve since befriended more out and proud lesbians and queer women than I could have imagined existed in a single city.

I felt a sense of belonging when surrounded by queer women that I’d never felt before. There were just certain things I didn’t have to explain, like why it was obnoxious that all the apartment ads in the paper pictured happy “couples” with one male and one female. Or how hot that girl we just passed on the sidewalk was. With them, I wasn’t making a point when I said I wished straight people would stop assuming I was also straight just because I look femme; they got it. I could just be myself.

And then I fell head over heels for this guy. This wonderful, amazing, compassionate, sensitive, intelligent, hilarious, feminist straight guy. This guy who is now my boyfriend.

Suddenly I found myself coming out all over again. Sure, I’d told my friends I was bi. But I was a bi woman who only dated women, as far as any of them knew. As I’ve found out, being a bi woman who dates a man is different, especially to other queer people. Suddenly those jokes about non-detachable penises seemed to need disclaimers around me. Suddenly I was explaining myself, and doubting myself, around a group of women I had felt completely at ease with.

For the most part it’s been smooth, although there have been some inappropriate and downright weird comments from women I’m not close with. Like: “I’m just afraid we’re losing another cute one… are you exclusive?” Those I pretty much shrugged off. But there are those moments I have trouble putting my finger on that make me wish I could just crawl back into the pink and plaid closet. That I could just be a normal lesbian, drink some beer, munch some carpet and shut up. Except that I love this guy and I refuse to pretend to be what I’m not: straight or gay.

When my boyfriend hinted that I might have been imagining things, I wanted to say: “You weren’t there and you’re straight, how the heck could you know? Don’t patronize me!” But being a straight male doesn’t make him blind, just like being bi and female doesn’t make me crazy. He was trying to make me feel better, even if it came across to me as dismissive. I could have been overreacting or jumping at shadows because I’m afraid my queer friends will reject me now that I’m “not gay.” I could have just misinterpreted it. Or, I could have been completely right.

I went back to L Word night two weekends later for more wisecracks on Betty’s intro and Shane’s hair, and everything seemed fine. I didn’t say the b-word that night because I decided I would rather be chicken than feel like an outsider with my friends. But I still wonder what exactly happened that first night, and to be honest, I’m still a teensy bit uneasy about going to gatherings specific to queer women.

How do you handle it when your friends suddenly pull back because you say “my boyfriend/my girlfriend”… or do they pull back at all?