I’m pretty normal. Contrary to the popular belief of the general populous, I didn’t pop out of the womb a freak, nor did I become one.
It’s July in Boston and we’re experiencing a heat wave. I’m wearing a light tan crepe pencil skirt, a tight black camisole, and pearl stud earrings. The face of my watch is a delicate, thin rectangle and is held loosely on my wrist with a thin silver linked band. The sun is shining in the coffee shop, and my tortoise shell rimmed sunglasses match the clip in my hair, a brownish auburn shoulder-length bob. My white gold class ring is on my right hand.
I get mistaken for vanilla a lot. Stereotypes are a bitch, aren’t they?
Seven months ago, I looked about the same. Swap out the summer business casual getup for a black pantsuit. The night I found the scene, I had come from work, and had to attend a meeting with my boss that day. I looked a little bit more powerful than I usually did, though I guess that was appropriate.
Truth be told, I didn’t find the scene – the Washington DC BDSM scene – because of a long-held academic interest, or after finding The Story of O in someone’s dorm room (though at my bucolic New England women’s college, we read the Marquis De Sade for credit as well as extracurricular – ahem – entertainment).
I found the scene because I was tired of having very boring sex.
My sexual experiences until that point were pretty limited to about 4 people, one of whom was great in bed. We had kinky sex, but I was afraid to call it that; it was just good, and it was good all the time. When the relationship ended, I returned reluctantly to the world of vanilla lesbian sex. Yawn.
For the record, I’m sure that lots of vanilla lesbians have great sex, and that a lot of lesbians would have thoroughly enjoyed the sex I was having. I, however, was not content with awkward groping and repetitive games of “you do me, I’ll do you, let’s take turns!” with Dar Williams playing in the background. And I love Dar Williams.
Upon my conclusion that after a few weeks of giddy dating, the sex would never improve, finding the kinky dykes needed to become a top priority. After pinpointing exactly what I wanted, I turned to google.
I wanted to find a few big, swaggering bulldykes who wanted to do dirty things to me and wouldn’t mind that I enjoy eating meat and dropping the occasional f-bomb. Silver crew cuts, sinewy hands, smile lines, heart of gold, and a tendency to wear ties? Yes, please. BYO handcuffs.
I took control of my own previous dissatisfaction – specifically, I had the ability to change it with the help of the internet and a Tuesday evening on Capitol Hill, and that particular evening in December was the end of my “I’m the Bridget Jones of the dyke world” attitude.
After a few blips upon finding the scene, including dating a straight woman (oops) and trying to be a submissive (double oops), I found the leatherdykes, met my partner, started having the best sex of my life, got into law school, moved to Boston, chopped 6 inches of my hair off, became absolutely addicted to cold-brew coffee, and rediscovered the joys of red lipstick, which is a much more flattering accessory than a freak flag.
When I found the scene, my life had to make room for a little more fabulous.