Outed

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

Just one little word, seven letters. And I’m in a sweat.

This will change my life as I expected it to pan out.

Or did I?

Did I see myself as a dutiful housewife, staying at home with my 2.5 kids?

Did I see myself as the housewife waiting for my husband to come home, walking down the hill?

I pictured myself in my parent’s house and what I could remember of my mother nursing her last child.

I just couldn’t see my breasts being nourishment for my child.

I couldn’t see my menses stopping or being so painful.

There was nothing to look forward to after school, except finding a job, maybe a boyfriend.

But no, boys were off the menu now.

So how do I meet other women who might like me.

Why do I resist writing the word “lesbian”?

It seems so foreign as it has never been part of my language.

I have never heard the word spoken aloud, especially in my all-girls school.

I blame a classmate who showed me the word in her dictionary. She said that was me because I didn’t go back to a guy’s place after a dance we’d both attended.

My excuse was I had to study for a poetry exam which wasn’t altogether true as I only spent one hour on it, if that. I just wasn’t interested in him.

I hate it when people presume for me.

Like the time two Girl Guides told me I had a nickname – “root”. I knew what that meant and I was horrified.

How did that start? “Frigid” would’ve been truer as I’m still a virgin and haven’t done “it” yet.

Uh oh, I remember. I’d literally slept with a guy. I’d written him an invisible invite to have sex with me but when we got to someone’s place we lay on the bed and he did nothing to me. We both fell asleep while his two mates and my girlfriend from next door speculated on what we were up to. Bugger. Word gets around fast. One good thing, they won’t guess I’m a lesbian.

 

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