C'mon Outta There

What's up, sluts?

I'm in Springfield, Missouri this morning, sitting at my little seminar table. 

This week, I'm travelling with a presenter who does seminars with gym teachers.  
GYM TEACHERS.

Don't be jealous.

I've been waiting for this week for fucking months!
57 lesbians gym teachers checked in for this morning's seminar. 

The sound of 57 pairs of windbreaker pants was deafening.

Just looked in the meeting room.
Right now they're re-learning how to do proper toe-touches. 
Ahhhhh I love my job sometimes.

ANYWAY!


Today, I want to talk about coming out.  I can't believe we've never had The Talk! 

Telling your Coming Out Story is such a faggy, bonding thing to do.
So let's bond. 

I got a bunch of letters at effingdykes@gmail.com about last week's post, and it gave me a super-gay idea. 
Y'all is mouthy bitches - why don't you tell me your Coming Out Story?


I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours.

Then I'll post some good ones in a running series on this mess.
You could be a published homo!  Yeah! 
Published on the, um, internet.


Ok, everybody comfortable?
Go get some chips.  Ooh, and some Faygo.  I love that shit!

Here's My Official Coming Out/How-I-Knew-I-Was-Gay Story:


Once upon a time....

I was a white, middle-class, suburban Mormon teenager, living in Green Bay, Wisconsin.
Being gay had never even flitted across my mind.
I don't know if I consciously gave one thought to gay people, ever.
But then again, I also didn't know what a blowjob was until I was fifteen freaking years old.

I was going to go to BYU, marry a missionary in the temple, and have babies.
That was the plan.
Except...except I didn't want to.

I hated crafts.  I didn't wanna have babies.  I hated "service opportunities" and I felt really guilty, all the time.  I hated that the men had most of the power in my church, and what little power the women had came from marrying men and producing children.

Lame!
I wanted my own power.

One of my best friends was the first openly bi girl in our high school.  I was continually shocked and appalled by her.

Lucky for her soul, my Mormon ass decided to "love the sinner, hate the sin."
True friends can overlook misdeeds and see a sinner's good heart.

At 16, I got fired from McDonalds (after 3 shifts!) and became a shirt-folder at The Gap, where I met gay boys. 
Two gay boys. 
I started to go out with them.
It felt...oddly comfortable, hanging with the queers.  Like I belonged.

The gay boys informed me I was a lesbian.

Gay boys say the funniest shit!

When I was seventeen, I met a girl who fascinated me - we'll call her "Fiona." 

Wow.  Fiona was tall and thin.  Fiona had dirty-blonde hair that fell past her ass.  Fiona was wealthier, cooler, better-travelled, and more mature than me.  She lived in a huge house on the bay.  She was into Stanley Kubrick movies.  She smoked cloves and taught me about Ouija boards.  She didn't go to my school, and her parents were never, ever home.  Fiona got me high by kissing me and breathing pot smoke into my mouth. 
Jesus.
I was obsessed with her. 

We started hanging out.  A lot. 
I would, without realizing what I was doing, primp for hours before going over to Fiona's.  For some reason (hmmmm), it mattered a lot to me whether Fiona thought I was pretty.

It never occurred to me that I had a crush on her.


We were having sleepovers.  A lot. 
And Fiona would sleep in just her underwear.  Like it was no big thing.  Friends do that, right?

And I would sleep with her.  And lie awake, spooning her mostly-naked body. 

And.
Be.
Dying.

Dying!  OmigodIwantedtotouchher! I wanted to run my hands over her whole body!  I wanted to inhale her! 
My fingers could not be trusted.
I was sleeping on my hands. 
Sweating blood, here, people.

Yep.
Still never equated that with "I am attracted to women."

Fiona and I were in love.  But we weren't gay.  We talked about that.  Lesbians were ugly and looked like men.  We were just two girls who really, really liked each other. 

GAYNESS!!! 

After Fiona came a series of girlfriend-like relationships where I wasn't sure if I wanted to be my crushes or fuck my crushes.
Very confusing. 

Fast-forward to college.  I had been having "it-doesn't-count-because-it's-with-girls" sex for awhile, without really equating what I was doing with "having sex."

I had also been dating a string of frighteningly thin, effeminate men. 
Sensitive musician-types, all of them.

Kelly, The Straightest Girl in the World, pulled me aside after meeting yet another one of my wispy little boyfriends.

Kelly:  Krissie, ew.  I don't like him.  Why do you date these toothpick guys?

Me:  I don't know.  I like 'em starving.

Kelly:  I think it's because you feel threatened by men.  So you date skinny girlyboys.  Each one looks more like a chick.  I mean, seriously, Kris.  He looks like a chick.

Me:  Everybody has their type, Miss I-Only-Date-Abercrombie-Models.

Kelly:  Maybe you date boys that look like girls because you're attracted to women and can't admit it.

*Fun Fact!* Kelly went on to get her master's in psychology.

One rainy Tuesday night, everything came together.

My Boyfriend: You get such a great look on your face when we're having sex.  What's going through your mind?

Me: (dreamily) I'm picturing what it must feel like to be you. 

My Boyfriend: (startled)  What?

Me:  You know, what it feels like for you.  I'd love to feel what you do.  Like, really fuck someone.

My Boyfriend:  Whoa.  That's...kind of weird.

Looking up at my boyfriend's terrified face, it suddenly all clicked.

OMIGOD KELLY WAS RIGHT!!! 
I WAS A HOMO!!! 
I only wanted to fuck girls!

Well, no shit.

I told all my friends when I was 20.  Everybody already knew. 

I told my parents when I was 21.  Dad already knew. 
Mom didn't speak to me for months. Five years later, it's slowly getting better, but the relationship is still strained.  She cries on the phone every time we talk.

It will never be the same between us, and I've finally accepted that.

This is a game of inches.

And that's my story. 
The End.

Wasn't that long-winded and self-involved? 
The best part about coming out is getting a free pass to think about yourself for years.

Tell me yours, homos!  Write to me at effingdykes@gmail.com, and I'll post some of your letters!