This morning, I was booted from a Facebook group for sad women with dry vaginas who love Johanna Gaines. I was, apparently, “too gay.” Which is hilarious since I’m a) not gay and b) just about the only person I met in there who wasn’t typing one-handedly while thinking about our favorite decorator. These are women who, collectively, have hit rock bottom in the self-esteem department as they can’t figure out why their hairdressers keep refusing their advances. I sinfully pointed out that playing who’s a lesbian bingo is only really fun if you’re. You know. Only able to get to first base with your husband asking him to dress up as Johanna Gaines–or Wonder Woman.
Before we go any further: queerphobia is stupid and evil. Although, why I’m bothering to point this out, I don’t know. Most of you are wondering why I didn’t type something less obvious like that for example my dog smells bad after rolling in the cavity of a rotting deer carcass and the rest of you are already in the comments section, writing lovingly about Hell. Which is unfortunate since I’m a genuine Bible thumping, backwoods, corn pone Appalachian and I’m doing better than you. Plus, you’re missing these pearls of wisdom.
Generation is no excuse. Neither is poverty, stupidity, or ignorance. After killing a bunch of Nazis my grandpa came home and went to work as a machinist. A year or so later one of his war buddies, Al, revealed that she was Alice. I guess some people didn’t like that and they asked him, Ed? What are you going to do? He thought for awhile and said, “I guess I’ll play golf with Alice.” I grew up knowing Alice, and the nice (all male) couple next door. Now, my grandpa had a 9th grade education and my grandma never learned to read. She liked listening to me read, but only the Bible. So don’t go lecturing me about class; I’m lower class than you.
My mother, who didn’t raise me because the state didn’t think that was a good idea, was wildly homophobic and, I’m sad to say, self-hating. Which proves, to me, that hate is a choice. We’re none of us constrained by our upbringing, no matter how good (or bad) it is. On the rare occasions I did see her, she lectured me on how a woman loving another woman wasn’t at all gay and the fact that she, to this day, was still in love with her eighth grade English teacher meant nothing. Sometimes, for spice, she tried to beat the gay out of me as I really seemed to like basketball.
As a woman, married to a man, I can tell you one thing: my husband and I aren’t having nearly as much quarantine sex as I think we’re supposed to. Everyone’s lecturing each other on all the baby showers they won’t attend when this is over and meanwhile I’m wondering how early in the evening I can actually go to bed. When does this stop being a disco nap and start being a night long commitment? Homeschooling is probably the least challenging thing I do on a given day and our son’s journaling homework, alone, takes hours.
So maybe you’re a woman who fantasizes about Chip Gaines falling off a cliff and Johanna, in her grieving state, realizing that her true calling is recolonizing the island of Lesbos. Or maybe you’re a man, and can’t understand why watching The 300 gives you funny feelings. Or maybe, again, you’re none of these things and dream of creating hentai. Well, you know what? This time is your time, too. Quarantine is for more than one kind of personal investment. Go forth, if only into your living room, and have that first orgasm.