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I clutched the stem of my oh-so-tame wineglass and watched a couple kissing in the corner—I felt totally out of place. On my right hand, my engagement ring, a white moonstone set in silver, seemed to throb, and so I slid my hand into my pocket. Given my hetero history, how is it that I am now—married and with two children—in love with a woman?Someone tapped me on the back, and when I turned around I saw an attractive woman with a short cap of hair and willowy limbs. Let me tell you what I mean when I use the phrase "in love." I want to live with this woman. I want to build a house of beams and wide windows, surrounded by fenced fields in which our horses will graze away their days.The butch women fascinated me—the ones with Navy tattoos mapping their beefy arms, their leather vests soaked in neat's-foot oil, as soft as they were hard.The bar had a dance floor, and lights swirled—pink and violet rays bending and flashing over dyads of women moving in the middle. I backed all the way to the door and then opened it, fleeing into the street, into the cold and clean winter air.I've always understood myself to be irrevocably hetero, in love with muscles and sweat, with stubble and silence, with the flat-packed chest and the visible bicep.I love nipples on men, the sudden surprise of them, those two points of vulnerability hidden in a furze of wiry curls.I have not had sex with my husband in some time; our children keep us bound.
Maybe what you should do is find yourself a woman who rides a motorcycle.For almost all of my existence, I've spent some portion of my time daydreaming about sex, and women have never been part of it.A gay female friend once took me to a lesbian bar, where I saw dykes with spiked hair and chains, and also wispy women who looked like you could push them over with one finger.(PS – Most of us are not pole-dancing, tattoo artists BTW.) You tell a guy about a girl you know who rides a motorcycle, and their imagination kicks in to sixth gear. (See motorcycle-riding, pole-dancing, tattoo artist GF, above.) Finally, turning it up to eleven: We dig satire.
It makes no sense; I am straight—straight as a stick, as steel, as flint.Would you believe we found an actual woman who rides motorcycles to write this one? I got a chuckle from last week’s "Ten Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Date a Motorcyclist." But something in the satire made me feel... First of all, the author uses the word “motorcyclist” to exclusively define the heterosexual male rider, so right there, you know he’s either ancient or been hiding under a rock. Secondly, the poor guy must be so beat down by the unrealistic expectations of non-riding females, he’s actually trying to talk them out of dating him (and you, too, if you’re a heterosexual male who rides a motorcycle). Then, he’s outing his rare disorder of the nasal mucosa, which apparently, a lot of heterosexual males who ride motorcycles suffer from.I don’t really know what he’s talking about, being a girl and all; we don’t get “boogers.” Anyway, the article got me thinking.Been there, done that, and we’re not about to boo-hoo when (not if) it happens again. As in, “sorry ma’am, that repair bill is going to cost you a lot”. households, it’s the woman who wears the fiscal pants, so it’s really in your own best interest that the woman in your house digs motorcycles, too.