Rita Mae Brown

All this overt heterosexuality amused me. If they only knew. Our boyfriends thought they were God’s gift because we were sleeping with them but they were so tragically transparent that we forgave them their arrogance.

“No, we just love each other, that’s all. Lesbians look like men and are ugly. We’re not like that.”

“We don’t look like men, but when women make love it’s commonly labeled lesbianism so you’d better learn not to cringe when you hear the word.”

Quiet anger was in Connie’s voice as she faced Carolyn. “Well, I’m about fifteen pounds overweight, hefty is what I believe it’s called, plus I don’t remember that I’ve ever cooed and giggled in true female fashion, so why don’t you come right out and call me a dyke too if that’s how your mind is misfunctioning?”

“Do you think you’re a queer?”

“Oh great, you too. So now I wear this label ‘Queer’ emblazoned across my chest. Or I could always carve a scarlet ‘L’ on my forehead. Why does everyone have to put you in a box and nail the lid on it? I don’t know what I am—polymorphous and perverse. Shit. I don’t even know if I’m white. I’m me. That’s all I am and all I want to be. Do I have to be something?”

All this time I thought I was this progressive thinker, this budding intellectual among the sandspurs, now I find out I’m as shot through with prejudice as the next asshole. I cover them up with layers of polysyllables

If I had had a blow torch, I’d have turned it on her smiling face until it was as red as her hair. I didn’t have one in my purse, so I did the next best thing. “Dean Marne, why are you pushing me so hard to be a mother and all that rot when you aren’t even married?”

I slung myself into the low Corvette and prayed he wasn’t recently released from a mental institution. Maybe he should be praying: I was the one just out of protective custody.

Oh, I wouldn’t say I was gay. I’d just say I was enchanted

“Were you a cheerleader?”

“Nah. I just dated one.”

“Oh wow, I used to date a football player.”

“Well, we’re just All-American queers.”

You sitting here in this, working yourself to the bone and for what—to be a film director. Listen to me, baby: big dreams, big dreams. You can graduate at the top of your class. You probably will, but you’re not going to get any work. You’re another piece of ass who can sit in a secretary’s chair with your Phi Beta Kappa key wrapped around your neck. You’re doing all this for nothing.