Chapter Five #3
“Well, we’re thinking about getting a dog,” Ada says. “But we’re worried about all the responsibility. You know we like to travel and not be so anchored to our condo. Plus, we can’t agree on what kind of dog to get.”
“I want a big dog,” Hodan says. “But this lady here wants a little dachshund.”
“I’m open-minded about big dogs. I just like the long-haired dachshunds that have those little beards,” Ada says. “They look like little old men.”
“Joy and I can always dog-sit if you go away,” I offer.
“Ah, that’s nice of you.” Ada takes a bite of a kimchi pancake. “When does Joy come back?”
“She hasn’t booked a return ticket,” I say.
“Sophie’s recovering from her C-section, and the baby has a respiratory infection.
I think it’s helping a lot for Sophie to have Joy there.
It’s hard to adjust with no sleep, the baby crying, breastfeeding, the psychological torment of becoming a mother, and all that. ”
“What’s Sophie’s husband doing?” Ada asks.
I give her a look. We’ve all discussed Kearney at length. None of us are fans.
“Off sleeping with Susan, or whoever he’s cheating on Sophie with now?” Hodan jeers.
“Can you imagine?” I say.
“Their relationship really doesn’t help negate my theory that all straight women are just masochists,” Ada says.
Hodan nudges her. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” Ada looks over her shoulder. “Are there straight people here I don’t know about?”
We’ve chatted about Ada’s theory before.
A lot of her thinking stems from our experiences dating men, which were colored by our lesbianism.
Before realizing we were gay, we all used to believe that every woman considered having sex with men a form of self-harm.
The theory aligned with the messages we received from pop culture, our friends, and general society.
Women were prey. Men were hunters. When we had sex with them, it was bound to be damaging.
That was no reason to make us question whether we were straight. All women were like slain deer.
Hodan, Ada, and I are now eating and watching our movie quietly. Megan, the gay cheerleader who is the film’s protagonist, has just arrived at conversion camp. In this scene, it’s dawning on her that she’s a homosexual.
It was hard for me to realize I was gay.
A lot of my lesbian friends found it similarly tricky.
Most lesbians don’t realize they’re gay until they’re older because of compulsory heterosexuality.
Heterosexuality is pushed on everyone. It’s assumed that all women are wired to like men, but we aren’t. That preference is socially scripted.
It’s hard to recognize you’re a lesbian because of that social script, and because most women have some unpleasant experiences with men.
As a teenager, I didn’t notice a big difference between how I experienced sex with men and how straight girls did.
I wasn’t notably more put off than any of them were.
Most of our experiences ranged from okay to revolting.
Most of the guys my friends and I dated had limited sexual experience and were influenced by porn, which catered to a narrow, male-centered perspective.
There was often an ignorant or undignified undercurrent to the sex we had as teenagers.
Every time I had sex with Ben it felt like I was feeding my pet lizard.
It was a chore I had to do. It was part of the terms and conditions of having a gecko, or a boyfriend.
I understood it was important. You must feed your lizard.
It was generally unpleasant, of course—lizards eat bugs—however, it was my duty.
It was fine. It was something I had to do for the health of my pet.
I never revealed I felt this way to Ben, of course. In fact, I’m sure he had no idea. I gave him no reason to suspect I was unhappy. When we had sex, I acted the way I understood men wanted women to act. I acted the way, I have reason to believe, many straight women do.
I had secret sex rules for myself. They included faking it before five minutes passed, only allowing myself to cry in the bathroom for a single minute afterward, and never refusing him when he initiated it.
I never initiated it because I thought guys considered that too aggressive, and besides, I didn’t genuinely want to; however, every single time he initiated it, I’d do it.
I even complied when I was sick. I remember once I was delirious. I had strep throat.
Something moves in my chest. The image of my sick nineteen-year-old face flashes in my mind’s eye.
I see myself feverish, run-down, and coughing into my pillow.
Why would Ben want to have sex with me when I was sick?
Who looks at their girlfriend, weak, fever-ridden, nauseated, and wants to fuck her?
Ada and Hodan laugh at something in the movie. I wasn’t paying attention, but I pretend I was and laugh too.
After they leave, I go outside to the workshop to give Kyle wet food and company. He’s nuzzling his head on my chin. I’d brought one of Lou and Toulouse’s beds out here for him. He had a pillow to sleep on already, but this bed smells like them. I’m introducing their scents to each other.
“I’m sorry you didn’t have much company today, buddy,” I tell him.
His vet appointment is in a couple days. I can’t introduce him to our cats until he’s been checked out.
Joy texted me several photos of January. She’s swaddled and sleeping in most of them, but in one her eyes are open. She’s alert. She has dark, cloudy eyes. We can’t tell what color they’ll be yet.
In one photo, January’s hands are showing.
I zoom in to inspect which fingers are missing.
It’s hard to tell which fingers are which when some are absent.
I see she has a thumb, and I think she has a pointer and a pinky.
I believe she’s missing her middle and ring fingers.
That’s good, I think. She can’t flip people off with her left hand, but she can just use her right hand for that. That’s not the end of the world.
I look at my left hand. I have a gold wedding band on my finger.
I guess not having a ring finger might cause her grief when she’s older.
Which finger will she use for her wedding ring?
Though, of course, maybe she won’t get married at all.
Maybe it’s a nonissue. Not everyone wants to get married or wears a ring.
And even if she does, does it really matter which finger she uses? Maybe she won’t care.
I used to care a lot about getting married.
I watched shows like Say Yes to the Dress and envisioned myself in a popular Pnina Tornai gown.
I had a Pinterest board titled BIG DAY. I wanted to look how I believed all brides aspired to look.
Worryingly thin. Almost sickly. I’d bleach my teeth so bright they’d glow in black light.
I’d get just enough muscle definition in my arms to look trim, but not too much that I looked masculine or strong.
I’d purchase an elaborate push-up bra. I’d spend countless hours carefully selecting decorative trash for the evening and, ultimately, for the landfills.
My dad would walk me down the aisle, despite the fact that we barely speak, to stage that we’re a traditional, typical family.
Ben would wear a suit. I’d warn him that he had to tear up as I walked toward him or people might not think he really loved me.
I might even tuck a safety pin into his pocket to poke himself with, to ensure his eyes welled up.
We’d pay thousands of dollars to feed distant relatives dry, unseasoned chicken, and we’d take photos with big fake smiles in our kitschy wedding regalia, like clowns.
I’d post the photos on social media annually to assert how inspirationally normal I was.
It was like I was an actor preparing for a play. I didn’t recognize that at the time, but it was for show. I had this compulsion to prove that I was capable of living the life I was told every girl dreamed of.
I had no idea I was gay, and the way I viewed weddings and marriage didn’t tip me off.
I think there are a lot of straight women who want to get married for the same reasons I did.
We’re all trained in overt and subconscious ways to associate our worth with how much men value us.
Getting married to a man feels like something girls have to do to prove we matter.
In order to assert that we are desirable, respectable ladies, we’re told we have to do things like marry men.
I think some straight women operate in their relationships with men the same way cloistered lesbians do.
That’s part of what makes it difficult for lesbians to recognize they’re lesbians.
Women aren’t driven to have relationships with men solely by their sexual attraction, or by their goal of finding love.
Women are drawn to men for other reasons relating to power, privilege, and safety.
Love and attraction are tenuous terms; it’s hard to recognize whether you’re really attracted to someone, or whether you really love them, when there are other factors influencing your desire to be with them.
I like weddings. I think it’s sweet to witness a couple commit to loving each other forever.
It’s nice when they’re surrounded by people who support and care about them.
Weddings suit people who enjoy throwing big parties.
They’re fun when they genuinely make the couple feel happy, and when the event feels truly aligned to the couples’ authentic wishes.
I don’t think all weddings reflect some horrible performative compulsion to prove something, but I do think that some do.
Some weddings feel staged. You can sense it when you’re at them.
There’s this inauthentic, synthetic feeling.
The vows sound trite and hollow. The groom has barely been involved in any of the planning, and the bride seems frazzled and excessively concerned about how she looks.
It’s awful to witness that kind of wedding.
It feels like watching a sad, tired play, except its real people’s lives.
Joy and I got married at city hall in September. I wore a patterned jumpsuit that reminded me of wallpaper, and Joy wore a dark red dress.
Neither of us like big events or being the center of attention.
We’re quiet, introverted people. We didn’t want to speak in front of a crowd or deal with the cost and logistics of planning or throwing an event.
We just wanted to make sure we’d be admitted into each other’s hospital rooms if one of us got in a car accident.
I wanted to make sure that if I die, my insurance will go to her.
We signed our marriage license, then we went out for pizza and ice cream. We wrote each other vows on pieces of paper and read them while we ate. Joy’s said:
Dear Darcy,
I vow to:
Be your best friend
Love and care for you, sweet Lou, and
Toulouse (and anyone else who joins our
family) unconditionally
Take care of you when you’re sick
Take you anywhere you want to go
Cheer you on
Keep it tight
& Be your girl.
Til death,
Joy
Mine said:
Dear Joy,
Here are things I like about you:
When we’re driving in the car and you’re singing
How much you love our cats
How you snore and talk in your sleep
Your face when you’re making someone laugh.
I find the things you don’t like about yourself endearing
(i.e., snoring).
I think you could do anything you set your mind to.
You won’t like this one, and you probably didn’t
like that snoring one either, but I find you precious,
interesting, and special.
I promise to support you. I will always want the best for
you: for you to be happy, to be the best you can be, and
to have a good life. If you are ever sick or having a hard
time, I will take care of you. I love you and promise
I always will.
Darcy