Ronna told John she was in love with him and he asked her if I would consider sleeping with him, too. (I told her to tell him I might.)
As if to reassure me, Ronna said, “I’m not jealous, you know, of the young men who partake of your body while I’m typing away at my thesis.” I just smiled.
I have this terrible fear of hurting Ronna. It scares me, her feelings for me. I do love her, but this afternoon, I was in Washington Square Park, reliving 1969, and looking at boys.
I want to dive head first into the Gay Box, lock myself into it, make a little nest of it, cuddle up in the restrictive warmth of Category.
What if it is just a phase? What if I change my mind? What if my mother’s right?
I said I was bisexual and that is all. Why there are so many negative connotations with calling yourself a bisexual eludes me.
I shouldn’t have taken you home because I bought you tequila shots from bills I’d stashed in my bra and because we had to hitch a ride double-buckled in my friend’s haggard Volvo. I was looking for a night on the town, not romance.
“Don’t be afraid of who you are. It’s the people who bully or ridicule you who are the freaks.”
“Vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, and then maybe the occasional penis if I’m drunk enough.”
If the connection was right, gender and physical presentation became much less relevant.