But then I met this boy. Last spring, I fell deeply, deliriously, overwhelmingly in love. We have a Simpsons quote handy for every occasion. Our shelves are filled with books of poetry. We love dogs and are ambivalent about cats okay, we hate cats. Our communication is open and direct, and as a result, we have never harbored resentment or had a serious conflict. We crack each other up. I found my person and am making no compromises or sacrifices in this relationship. Except for his gender. I came out as a lesbian over a decade ago, and my dykehood has shaped much of my life: I worked at the LGBT Office in college. My articles in this publication are usually queer-focused. Falling in love with a man is kinda my worst nightmare My guy took this a little personally when I told him that. This relationship has forced me to rethink my identity and navigate coming out all over again. Related: What does my queer identity mean now that I am monogamously partnered with a cis man? Before meeting him, I identified not just as queer, but as a dyke. I felt powerful turning down men when they hit on me. I fantasized about sex with women as a pre-teen and crushed on my girl friends. In high school, I rented every single indie and foreign film from Blockbuster because many of them featured lesbian sex. But then I met this boy. Nothing about me has really changed. Most of my friends are queer, I still move in queer spaces and go to queer events. But the main reasons I frequented queer spaces in the past were to cruise for dates or to feel safe showing affection for my partner. And yet I still catch myself nervously glancing around when he takes my hand, before I remember that we blend in as a straight-passing couple. I suddenly have straight-passing privilege; it feels foreign and uncomfortable. I thought part of the beauty of queer relationships was that we could talk about everything. A few weeks into dating, I had an IUD inserted, which was one of the most painful experiences of my life. The six months I kept it in were a nightmare. My daily cramps were at times so bad I woke up crying. I had constant spotting, infections and anxiety. I worried my guy would be grossed out or otherwise turned off by my blood, my pain — hell, my body. Much to my surprise, he listens, sympathizes and supports me. He continues to surprise and delight me, and it makes my mind swim with questions about men, about relationships, about queerness, about love. Related: When we started dating, I was seeking a feelings-free fling. After two breakups in a year, I decided to protect my heart and commit to being emotionally unavailable. Casually and unemotionally dating a dude seemed perfect: I could get laid without fear of catching that big, scary, incurable STI: feelings. Ah, the best laid plans of dykes and men. I knew I was in trouble by the second date. It was new and kinda scary, and yet wonderful and so right. But what if they Google me and watch my dirty stand-up jokes about being a lesbian? Because we must navigate the hetero world and queer spaces, we have a specific lens that we see the world with and have a particular way that we love. Since many of us have had mujeres as partners, we admire and appreciate radical softness in our lovers and partners. Queerness to me is healing. Healing of toxic masculinity. Queerness can have the ability to help you see your body as a beautiful one. It is radical while also intimately personal. It can be ambiguous and unclear, without needing to be boxed or follow any rules. It is beautiful and difficult at the same time. I love my queerness and I love being with a man. Those for me can exist happily together. Before, now and always. Ash Fisher is a comedian, actor and writer. She is not a comedienne, an actress, or a writeress. Follow her at ashfisherhaha. She is not a comedienne, an actress or a writeress. She is also an occasional illustrator and does voiceovers whenever someone lets her. She is a self-proclaimed selfie expert. Ash holds a B. © Wear Your Voice, 2017. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wear Your Voice with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
