Now, I normally don’t like to make fun of people who write accounts of their sexuality. But this is just obnoxious.
So, Ann Bauer leaves her husband, and shortly thereafter decides to fall in love with her married friend “Gisele.” I know, right? SO EDGY! Here’s her reasoning:
One chilly night she put her arm around me and said, “I’m straight. At least I thought I was. I’ve never been in love with a woman before.”
There was a haunting ache in my thighs. “I haven’t, either,” I said. And suddenly everything made sense.
I’d always believed that liberated people were essentially bisexual. Plus, my closest friend in grad school was a lesbian.
Yes, that’s right: if you listen to NPR and have a friend who is a lesbian (from grad school!) YOU ARE GOING TO CONTRACT THE GAY. Embrace it!
So, these two non-straight ladies decide to explore their totally radical and edgy and liberated lady love… by actually making out, for once. Whilst watching Henry and June. Yes, Henry and June: that radical, liberated, totally lesbian movie in which two girls fight over a dude and screw him graphically and then kiss each other like three times whilst keeping their clothes on. Oh, this is going to go well. Can’t you just feel it?
Suddenly, Gisele’s hand was on my leg. It traveled up, farther, high along the inside of my thigh, and I felt … nothing.
What?! But, Ann, you had a lesbian friend in grad school! GRAD SCHOOL!
Disappointed, heart pounding with shame, I concentrated. I was an open-minded woman! I was in love! I could be turned on if I just committed myself to the task.
Oh my God GO FIND A PENIS ALREADY AND HAVE DONE WITH IT. But, no, the Ann Bauer: she is edgy.
I’d come within a millimeter of kissing Gisele, but rather than daydreaming about that breathy closeness, I felt like someone who’d swerved at the last minute and narrowly avoided hitting a tree. Still, by most standards ours was a healthy relationship.
It goes on like this. By the time that Ann concludes that “I simply preferred men — their shape and smell and muscular forearms,” and that “Gisele and I might never have been technically compatible,” a truly inexcusable amount of space (two lengthy pages) has been wasted.
The title of the piece, by the way? “My Failed Lesbian Romance.” Here’s a hint, Ann: it’s only a romance (or lesbian) if you actually kiss the other girl. In my day, we had another name for this sort of thing. We called it “Freshman Year.”
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