Someone asked me the other day if Paul was my gay boyfriend. I said no, because the label makes me think of a swishy, bitchy fag who would criticize my clothes and make catty comments about my dyke friends. Paul so far has shown little interest in my fashion choices and is far less catty than I am.

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This year I loved Folk Fest more than ever, because the welcoming of people with disabilities really sank in. It blew my mind and warmed my heart as much as the queer vibe. More…

Last week I expanded my horizons to Second Life, though my avatar is still floating like a dork at the entryway. All I’ve managed to do is make her thighs and stomach heftier than the starter model. More…

When I was in high school, I would rather have died than announce to the class that I was a lesbian. Not that it would even have occurred to me to label myself in the first place, to imagine that my intense lust for girls could be a public identity, and not just my secret problem. More…

I’m not sure why, but lately I have been obsessing over finding a snappy label for the particular subculture of dykes that I joined when I came out. If I’d been born in another era, I could have been a monocle-wearing mannish lesbian in 1920s Paris, or a high femme with a hard-living butch lover in 1950s America. Or even a radical lesbian separatist clearing land for a commune in the 1970s. But instead, I came out in 1993 in Vancouver. Nothing against the time or the place or the people–it’s just that I find it hard to describe my particular scene in a few potent words.

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