BY SARAH TEREZ ROSENBLUM
AfterEllen
“She’s butch,” my newly single friend said, as if that explained everything.
“Right,” I nodded, because I thought it did.
“But.she.didn’t.make.the.first.move.” She spoke as if to a three-year-old, albeit one moonlighting as a psychotherapist.
“Right,” I said. “Because she’s butch.”
My friend sat back in her chair. “But, I thought that meant she would make the first move.”
I still claim my laugh was of the gentle, accepting variety.
“You sound like Ursula the Sea-witch,” she said. “What’s so funny?”
My friend isn’t some recently-out nineteen-year-old. She’s had her share of long term relationships; she’s been to the Michigan Women’s Festival, for Christ sake. If she doesn’t know this Basic Lesbian Truth, then what’s to become of all the 20-year-olds stumbling from bar to Okcupid profile, donning Hanes when they prefer Agent Provocateur; shocked when that chick who fronts like Don Draper morphs into Katie Holmes in bed?
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