Straight man dating a lesbian

08-Apr-2018 07:54 by 6 Comments

Straight man dating a lesbian

“Wow, when a lesbian falls off the wagon, she really falls off the wagon,” my friend Deirdre says.She was raised in Beirut, has lived and taught all over the world with her Japanese-American husband.

We talked about languages we speak — Arabic, Portuguese, pidgin, lousy French — and Shakespeare plays we love, of which he could quote an impressive amount.This is not semantics, or splitting hairs; it is fundamental to who we are — my fiancé and I. If either of us had to pretend otherwise, I wouldn’t be marrying this man.It is precisely because our love makes room for us to be who we are, rather than cutting us to fit convention, that I want to spend my life with him.And I recognized in that delight, to my great surprise, desire.Later, I will realize that he looks a great deal like my first girlfriend (who looked a great deal like the writer Peter Matthiessen — slender, weathered face, salt and pepper hair) and my last cat (the same green eyes and self-satisfied smile).She wasn’t the only one: An ex-girlfriend and a sophisticated poet cousin said the same thing, as if my lesbian license had been revoked.

So let me be clear, since I can’t be the only one: I am a lesbian marrying a man. I am 5-foot-9, brunette, lesbian, that won’t alter because of our vows; nor will my love of women, though I won’t be dating them.So toward the end of last year, I made a more concerted effort to try to unravel this mystery of lesbians. His style is all about inspiring girls and drawing them into one’s world.I was in a bar in Chicago when I told a close friend of 20 years that, despite being a lesbian, I was marrying a man.One of the things I cherished about coming out as a lesbian years ago was the wonderful sense I had that I was leaving behind received forms of love, those that seemed to have disappointed my parents and friends.We were free to invent our own, something authentic, not roles we shrugged on like a borrowed coat. * * * When I first sat down beside the man I would marry, I thought, “Too many sport coats, too little hair.” It was ungallant of me, a glib assessment, born of a writerly habit of sizing up characters.But there was something about this guy that I liked, despite my initial reflexive dismissal.