The Truth Hurts: but it hurts so good

"You're lying."

I sat, nearly crippled from the blow. I had shared something so personal, so secret, so real, so...me. Why was I left feeling as though I had spilled out my true self- for the first time in an unsafe environment, at least- only to be devalued, disregarded, and labeled a liar? And from the very people who claim to love unconditionally.

I had just come barreling out of the closet like I'd been a caged animal, met at the door with disapproval (which I'd anticipated) and disbelief (which I hadn't.) I was dumbfounded. I wrestled with how anyone would even think lying was an option. I made a semi-sub-conscious (if there is such a thing) decision that day. I was queer- and dammit, no one else would ever question it again.

I spent time looking at why I was so unbelievable as a lesbian. Frankly, I'm no 100 footer. Surveying all the dykes I knew at the the time- from my butch BFF to Ellen Degeneres- they pull off gay so much better than me. Maybe, I told myself, no one will ever take me seriously as a lesbian. So far, the reception into the club had been less than I'd hoped. And even the straighties think I'm a joke. This damsel in distress business was getting me nowhere. I began a transition at that moment- I didn't want to be a joke. I was real- I was queer. I wanted to be a part of the community. Some part of me believed something was wrong with me- questioning how I can be this feminine, sensual, womanly...lesbian? A contradiction if there ever was one!

Within weeks, I had replaced my wardrobe with sports bras and cargo shorts, and parted with my girly auburn locks and acrylic nails. Camo cargos, a black wife beater, and a flat top is how I arrived in Maine. And don't fuck with me, either--because now, I am a total badass dyke. You looked at me and you knew. People just assumed I was gay. What a relief! Finally, I'm "official." Never again would I have to struggle with my identity.

I couldn't have been more wrong...

While I looked that part, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. I walked by the windows of stores and admired the sparkly dresses and the sexy shoes and the glittery make up. I reminded myself- those things aren't for dykes. And for god's sake, Lori- you ARE a dyke. I met a couple of... I'm not even sure what I would've labeled them at the time, but they were girls. With girlfriends. Real girls- like the one I used to be. Granted, there were only two of them in our group of maybe 20 lesbians. Odd balls? Maybe. The elusive, novelty "lipstick lesbians" I'd heard of, but never known? Definitely. (The fact that all the butches were drooling and practically worshipped them was just a bonus.)

I was jealous. Were they real? Did I have hope to be Lori the lesbian AND Lori the woman? Damn right, I did. I bought heels, skirts, real bras, worked with my stylist on a plan to grow back the hair I had so cold-heartedly dismissed, and got a mani-pedi. Immediately. I literally went to work in a button down and necktie one week and returned the next in heels and a skirt. I was itching to get out of the handsome gear and back into my boobalicious frocks-- I ran and never looked back.

This has always felt like a hard story to tell- I often struggle with how that looked to others, what it meant for me as a person. Am I really that wishy-washy? Is there any demographic who will take me seriously? Eventually, my friends forgot about it as though it were simply a bad haircut. And it was. *grin* Most of the people in my life now never knew me then, and this may even come as a huge surprise to some. Because...well... I'm such a femme.

I am femme. I am a proud femme. I am a member of the lesbian community who is both the holy grail and the myth. The femme. I love every part of it. I love the way it sounds, the way it reads, the way it looks, everything it implies. The letters themselves give me joy as I see them in front of me. Femme. Femme. FEMME.

This is a label I wear with pride. I embrace it. *I am femme...*