Queer Enough

I wrote this in 2018 for a ‘Zine we made on Queerness for one of our slumber parties. I wanted to share it with you in full since it only exists in the lingerie drawers and ephemera boxes of a few select badasses. (And if you’re wondering, yes: you’re queer enough.)

(Photo: Heart & Piper 2017 - Guys New York)

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Queer Enough - Reflections by Heart

It was my first real kiss. We would play house and she always wanted to be the Daddy. It was grade school but we took this game quite seriously, she would tell me that when she came home from work I had to kiss her like I missed her all day.

When she kissed me she used her tongue. I remember the shock of how she felt in my mouth, metallic and sweet at the same time. We would hide behind the furniture in the house centre, knowing already that this should stay secret.

I’ll never forget how that felt, crouching on my knees on the rough carpet, heart beating fast, her hands on my face. She moved away after that school year, but I’d bet anything that when she plays house she’s still the Daddy.

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When I say no he tells everyone I’m a lesbian. His wounded pride leads his brigade of whispers until everyone knows I’m ‘frigid’ because I didn’t want his hand up my shirt. “She must be gay.”

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The first time I had sex with a woman, just her and I, I marvelled at the pace. Sex with men always felt pressing, driven by an intensity that climbed quickly. Sometimes I liked that energy, it made me feel wanted, desired. The rush was fun, like tearing open a present. Other times I felt like we skipped over the good parts, like I could have pressed against him while he kissed my neck for hours. Sometimes I felt like I was trying to catch up, I was too young and inexperienced to say “Slow down.”

The first time I had sex with a woman, and it was just her and I, we kissed for hours. Literally hours. Slow, tender, swollen-lips, hands in our hair, teasing tongues, moans and soft sounds, our hips pressing together, in no hurry but never staying still. By the time I pressed my hand between her legs her panties were soaked right through. That little wet spot made fireworks in my head, my clit throbbed. This was divine. I didn’t pull her cotton underwear aside until she was already close to orgasm, just from my fingertips tracing over the fabric, and her eager grinding against my palm.

After she came we slowed down but never stopped touching each other until she’d had her second, third and fourth. There’s a difference between “I came” and “I’m satiated”. Fucking someone who understood that made sex an entirely new thing. We fucked until we were finished, exhausted and spent. I finally felt satisfied.

The next time a man touched me all I could feel was the energy propelled by his hard-on. The rush that rush-of-blood to his cock put him in. I felt like I wasn’t there.

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There is something about clear, concrete, black and white categories that humans seem so comfortable with. They’re so easy to swallow, which is difficult when much of your life exists in the grey-areas. I remember in college, closing with another girl at our shitty part time job, bantering about our shitty work day. “That blonde girl who came in is my ex-girlfriend, I haven’t seen her in a few years. Not how I wanted to end my shift,” I vented as we put away boxes. My colleague (young, progressive, generally quite bright) contorted her face, confused. “Aren’t you engaged?” she asked, “to a dude?!”

I studied her expression, I could see the wheels turning, her grasp slipping, trying to comprehend how this was possible. I watched her try and rearrange her entire understanding of me to fit this new information. Coming out always felt awkward.

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She writes poetry on my body. We cover each other in rose petals, bathe each other with big fluffy sponges, dress each other up like dolls. We bake for each other, buy plants for each other, write romantic notes. No man has ever loved me this way.

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I wanted to make space for her, show solidarity I guess. She was the only out-Lesbian in our department and we drank too much at the holiday party, we sat on the outskirts, most of our colleagues we’re twice our age and twice as drunk. I told her I was bisexual and poly. I showed her a picture of my girlfriend from Halloween. She scoffed and said performing for straight dudes didn’t count.

“Didn’t count for what?” I asked, but inside I was brewing a diatribe about femme-for-femme relationships being dismissed, and my sexuality being valid, and my sex being authentic (no matter who’s watching). She laughed it off and I bit my tongue, which was kinda purple from the shitty free wine.

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Even with all of the green lights, it still takes me until 1 in the morning to get up the nerve to just kiss her. Her eager tongue and eager hips put me at ease.

The next morning the room is bathed in sunlight. Down-feather tumbleweeds blow across the wooden floor and we are wrapped around each other, skin to skin, while she explains that her cats attacked a pillow, scattering downy snow drifts across the room.

The white fluff dances in the sunlight, airily drifting along the floor boards. It’s all part of the dreamy way time suspends when she touches me. She says the sounds I make are cute, I blush and try to keep my composure.

It’s breakfast and we sip tea and take bites out of a giant rocket candy. It’s absurd. There’s also key-lime pie, and blueberry muffins. And her cats running wild. It’s perfection. We take pictures and find our way back to each other’s bodies.

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“I don’t know if I’m queer enough for these parties,” she said, almost like a question. I stared at her, this gorgeous woman who I have kissed, whose pussy I have licked, whose hair I have brushed away from her eyes while we giggle and press our foreheads together. This powerful force, community leader, this woman who makes so much space in the world for women’s boundless sexuality. This sweetheart, the first person to ever flog me, the first person who used proper consent and BDSM negotiation, the only person I felt safe enough to have that experience with. This woman who was making out with a hot brunette she had just met 40 minutes ago on this very same couch.

Why do we doubt our own experiences, our own desires? All of this policing of women’s sexuality makes it so hard to claim anything. We get to self-identify, we get to choose a label that suits us best, there’s no card to get stamped or application process, there’s no vetting system or exam. You are what you are.

Some people don’t like labels, and that’s okay, but for others a label can make them feel seen, understood. It can be proof you exist, proof people like you have existed.

Queer is for folks who haven’t figured it out yet, for folks who don’t want to answer too many questions. Queer is for people who don’t fit into neat categories, people who love on their own terms. Queer is for people who are confident in their sexuality, people who are questioning their sexuality, and people who are conducting more research and looking for answers. There is no one single way to be queer, that’s kind of the beauty of it.

“You’re queer enough,” I said.

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