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    Straight women are seen as conquests and the girls that chase after them boast about it over Coors Light at The Cubbyhole. Everyone has. No one wants to attract that kind of attention, so what does it mean for the queer community when we project that same mentality onto straight women?

    And to be clear, women are NOT blessed with a full-fledged knowledge of how to have sex with other women. A lot of these scenarios are born out of a vulnerability.

    If you were a straight male, that kind of behavior usually comes with a fedora. I celebrate sexual fluidity. Sexuality is complicated and no one should be chased or manipulated based on theirs.

    Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. About Us Latest Contact Us. By: Morgan Cohn. Wendy Stokes. Related Posts.

    August 17, The room exploded. Judy had to come up with all the money up front — she convinced women from around the country to put down deposits a full year ahead of time, with no real guarantee that the ship would ever sail — but it sold out nearly immediately.

    Judy and Rachel chartered a second boat, and Olivia Travel was born. Nor did we want to dismiss the radical potential of dyke spaces.

    I actively choose to identify as a lesbian and a dyke, as well as a queer. Meanwhile, lesbian activist groups like the Lesbian Avengers have been pro-trans for decades.

    But there were, in fact, a number of stereotype-fulfilling boomer TERFs on board the cruise — and plenty of lesbians whose policing of gender norms took more banal forms.

    The woman who bought me a drink after I sang Kelly Clarkson at karaoke — a petite therapist from California with a prim gray bob — ended up being one of them.

    Throughout the trip, Matie and Jamie would have a number of tearful conversations about trans inclusion with some older passengers who refused to accept trans women as their fellow sisters.

    But they also got many women to reconsider their more middle-of-the-road views on trans inclusion. A couple days later — after getting my serious lesbian conversations out of the way — I was about 14 rum punches deep and drunk-dancing on a catamaran.

    Whenever we docked at port, we were offered a bunch of different excursions vetted by Celebrity and Olivia, and Dana had generously offered to book one for me.

    Kitts to the island of Nevis instead. Ugh, fine , if I must. At first, sitting alone on the catamaran heading out for my snorkeling excursion, I felt shy again, and wished I had Dana or Jamie and Matie at my side.

    One of the guys running the boat, a youngish dude with dreads, took pity on me and brought me a glass of water. He asked me if I was staff on the cruise, noting my friendlessness, and I told him I was a reporter.

    But he did occasionally seem to forget about the realities of the situation. For the last stretch of our afternoon, we were dropped on a secluded beach at Nevis, where a few of us ferried beers and our new favorite drink, the very college-esque Panty Ripper coconut rum and pineapple juice , from shore to the rest of the women waiting in the water.

    One woman stuffed a bunch of beers into her bathing suit and we cheered whenever anybody pulled one out. A couple women had GoPro cameras, with which we took a lot of increasingly drunken group shots while we swam.

    One of them was attached to a floating handle that looked very much like a big yellow dildo, which, once somebody pointed it out, kept sending us into hysterics.

    Bonding is built into an Olivia trip, which, I realized soon enough, is basically like grown-up lesbian camp.

    On this floating gay island and its satellite getaways, time works differently than it does back home. You can skip the normal-life process of slowly getting to know somebody on the shallowest of levels and get right to the good stuff.

    Back on the catamaran for our return to port, we got into some deep and very lesbian-y talk about relationships.

    In the spirit of lesbian camp bonding, I told my new crew about my situation — nonmonogamous, not sure how to feel about it — which seemed to pique the interest of beer bathing suit girl, because she would soon afterward follow me into the impossibly tiny bathroom, bursting in on me mid-pee.

    By this point, I was — somewhat unintentionally — quite drunk. But there was another part of me that was very much not into it, especially when the makeout gave way to other things and people started banging on the bathroom door.

    I was also, literally, developing a pretty bad sunburn. I made my way up the tiny laddered chute to the deck, bouncing against the walls like a pinball, and immediately moved as far away from the bathroom as possible.

    Later, when telling friends what had happened, I did laugh about it — one told me it sounded like something pulled straight out of The L Word , which, true — but I was also a little mad at that girl, and even more so at myself for being so sloppy.

    The consent element there was indeterminate; I had willingly gone along with the hookup, at least for a little while, though I remain uncertain about how much I really could have consented while drunk-peeing in a bathroom the size of a broom closet.

    Bad sex happens. Even with lesbians! I was going to move on, get over it, and go back to enjoying myself. Before I left, I talked to a few of my reporter friends about it, just in case a hookup opportunity should present itself and I decided to partake for, um, research purposes.

    We decided that my Olivia story fell in some sort of weird journalistic in-between, just like my own job does.

    And the thing a lot of women on the cruise were looking to experience was, yes, getting laid. Instead, I found singles and couples of various ages and gender presentations looking for something extra, something different, something more.

    My lesbian friends and I have often complained about how much easier it is for our gay guy friends to hook up with abandon — they have way more bars, and they all have back rooms!

    On Grindr, you can just ask someone to skip right to the sex. That is, in fact, the norm. One of my friends was in a hot tub, in the middle of the day, when she noticed that the women across from her were having sex in the same hot tub she got out immediately.

    My friends Jamie and Matie, for their part, were determined to make things happen. At our evening activities, Jamie was frequently flagging , via colored handkerchiefs placed in her back pocket.

    She and Matie also hung up a white board outside their door and encouraged their neighbors to invite them to their play parties. They had a very sweet exchange with a curious anonymous neighbor who wrote them a note, inquiring what a play party is.

    It was only on our last day at sea that I discovered a Public Posts board, tucked away by reception in an area that most guests definitely would not be walking by every day.

    Afterward, I had lunch with Dana and some of the other Olivia staffers and asked them about it — why not make the Public Posts more prominent, MichFest style?

    Especially since the younger people at the first Gen O event had explicitly asked for more sex content. Olivia had run sexuality and intimacy workshops before, and at the lunch, the staffers floated the definite possibility that they will again.

    Tisha, the cruise director and VP, met her wife on an Olivia cruise. When my partner jokingly warned me, before I left for the cruise, not to fall in love with a hot older butch — seriously, we joked about this — I thought, Fat chance.

    Not only because I had no intention of falling in love with anyone else, but because I thought hooking up with hot older butches would remain the stuff of my fantasies.

    I even reported out an entire article about intergenerational lesbian relationships a few years ago. I have a lot to share.

    The lesbian bars and events I frequent in New York — the gay capital of the world! The older women I did meet tended to be coupled up.

    It was Monday night, at the Deck 11 elevators. The only thing Lynette said to me, in the brief window after introductions and before we went our separate ways, was that my accent made me sound like an American newscaster.

    I was high on my newfound karaoke fame, and she was, by far, the most beautiful woman in the room: tall, dark, and striking, dressed all in white.

    But I walked right up to her, catching her alone, and asked if she wanted to take me home. When we left, wobbling down the sea-bucking hallways, she offered me her elbow, a gentleman from the first.

    All our nights together have swirled together in the strange, heady flux of my memory. I was lying on my bed, on top of the covers, shivering slightly.

    Lynette stood over me, her head cocked to one side, a slight smile on her face. We stayed that way for a while, just breathing, as if waiting for whatever would happen next.

    Lynette is 53 years old , though she looks at least 10 years younger. She was born and raised in London to Jamaican parents. This cruise was the gift Lynette gave herself in the aftermath.

    She was starting over. My Capricorn groundedness makes us a good match, allegedly. She plays the drums, loves cars — like, posts-on-car-forums-level loves cars — and follows tech news.

    She cares about clothes and buys a lot of hers vintage. She just got a tattoo commemorating Liverpool, her beloved football team. Once, after I came in her hands, I burst into tears yeah, I know, big dyke energy , and she held me tightly in her strong, sure arms.

    Other things she calls me, in her unfairly irresistible British accent: cheeky bint, missus, girl, my dear, my love, my darling. Per the rules of our loose nonmonogamous agreement, I FaceTimed with my partner about what was happening on the cruise, first telling them about the catamaran girl and then, in so many words, about Lynette.

    I was the one who seemed to stress this rule the most. I was less confident. Lynette and I had only just met, but in the emotionally intense bizarro world of the cruise, where relationships of all types seemed to develop at warp speed and I was feeling enough emotion for 10 lesbians combined, I liked Lynette very, very much.

    A lot of it was, obviously, physical, chemical. But there were other things, too, that were harder to explain to other people or to myself.

    One of the first things I loved about her was observing her get dressed after she showered: her careful routine of lotions and gels and aerosols, her selection of a different wristwatch for different outfits.

    I loved grabbing her waist by the belt loops, loved playing with the silver cross she wore around her neck. It sounds shallow to imply that, in the beginning, I fell for her simply because of her style, her stuff.

    Together they made up the way she wanted to be seen in the public eye, the way she wanted to move through the world. She was not a boy but a full-grown butch who, at 53, was confident in who she was and what she wanted.

    By that, I mean b-o-i kinds of boys who may or may not identify as such : nonbinary dykes, twinky tops, Titanic -era Leo DiCaprios.

    They are determined — via commitment to a bachelor-esque lifestyle regardless of partner status, and a refusal to even once go to therapy — that they should never, ever have to grow up.

    I think there was also a part of me that liked tempering my fastidious long-term planning, my conventionalism, my seriousness with their wild spirits, their rejection of every social expectation.

    Queer bois, with their embrace of pleasure above most all else, in their refusal to adhere to the rules of heteropatriarchal capitalism — why grow up if it means becoming a cog in the machine?

    At least I barely wear any makeup! My frivolity was never out of hand. And I prided myself for that, for the ways in which I deliberately limited myself.

    What right do I have to indulge in my own gender trouble? After my partner came out as nonbinary a couple years ago, I felt even more confused and guilty about my conflicting desires to both lean into my own womanhood and flee from it.

    I never felt like I had any choice about identifying as a femme — or as a woman, for that matter. She wore a different suit to dinner every night.

    We were lesbian and nonbinary dykes; we were supposed to be beyond gender. I had plenty of my own domestic faults, to be sure: I can be disorganized and forgetful; I suck at trash duty; I despise doing dishes or cleaning out the fridge.

    It could be fun. It could be hot. It overwhelmed me, just then, the sudden force of my wanting. I wanted my own big, strong butch.

    I was used to being the person in a relationship who, comparatively, had more of her shit together.

    No one wants to attract that kind of attention, so what does it mean for the queer community when we project that same mentality onto straight women?

    And to be clear, women are NOT blessed with a full-fledged knowledge of how to have sex with other women. A lot of these scenarios are born out of a vulnerability.

    If you were a straight male, that kind of behavior usually comes with a fedora. I celebrate sexual fluidity. Sexuality is complicated and no one should be chased or manipulated based on theirs.

    Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. About Us Latest Contact Us.

    By: Morgan Cohn. She was born and raised in London to Jamaican parents. This cruise was the gift Lynette gave herself in the aftermath.

    She was starting over. My Capricorn groundedness makes us a good match, allegedly. She plays the drums, loves cars — like, posts-on-car-forums-level loves cars — and follows tech news.

    She cares about clothes and buys a lot of hers vintage. She just got a tattoo commemorating Liverpool, her beloved football team.

    Once, after I came in her hands, I burst into tears yeah, I know, big dyke energy , and she held me tightly in her strong, sure arms.

    Other things she calls me, in her unfairly irresistible British accent: cheeky bint, missus, girl, my dear, my love, my darling.

    Per the rules of our loose nonmonogamous agreement, I FaceTimed with my partner about what was happening on the cruise, first telling them about the catamaran girl and then, in so many words, about Lynette.

    I was the one who seemed to stress this rule the most. I was less confident. Lynette and I had only just met, but in the emotionally intense bizarro world of the cruise, where relationships of all types seemed to develop at warp speed and I was feeling enough emotion for 10 lesbians combined, I liked Lynette very, very much.

    A lot of it was, obviously, physical, chemical. But there were other things, too, that were harder to explain to other people or to myself. One of the first things I loved about her was observing her get dressed after she showered: her careful routine of lotions and gels and aerosols, her selection of a different wristwatch for different outfits.

    I loved grabbing her waist by the belt loops, loved playing with the silver cross she wore around her neck. It sounds shallow to imply that, in the beginning, I fell for her simply because of her style, her stuff.

    Together they made up the way she wanted to be seen in the public eye, the way she wanted to move through the world.

    She was not a boy but a full-grown butch who, at 53, was confident in who she was and what she wanted. By that, I mean b-o-i kinds of boys who may or may not identify as such : nonbinary dykes, twinky tops, Titanic -era Leo DiCaprios.

    They are determined — via commitment to a bachelor-esque lifestyle regardless of partner status, and a refusal to even once go to therapy — that they should never, ever have to grow up.

    I think there was also a part of me that liked tempering my fastidious long-term planning, my conventionalism, my seriousness with their wild spirits, their rejection of every social expectation.

    Queer bois, with their embrace of pleasure above most all else, in their refusal to adhere to the rules of heteropatriarchal capitalism — why grow up if it means becoming a cog in the machine?

    At least I barely wear any makeup! My frivolity was never out of hand. And I prided myself for that, for the ways in which I deliberately limited myself.

    What right do I have to indulge in my own gender trouble? After my partner came out as nonbinary a couple years ago, I felt even more confused and guilty about my conflicting desires to both lean into my own womanhood and flee from it.

    I never felt like I had any choice about identifying as a femme — or as a woman, for that matter.

    She wore a different suit to dinner every night. We were lesbian and nonbinary dykes; we were supposed to be beyond gender.

    I had plenty of my own domestic faults, to be sure: I can be disorganized and forgetful; I suck at trash duty; I despise doing dishes or cleaning out the fridge.

    It could be fun. It could be hot. It overwhelmed me, just then, the sudden force of my wanting. I wanted my own big, strong butch.

    I was used to being the person in a relationship who, comparatively, had more of her shit together. I took care of things for the both of us. What would it be like if, for a change, I let somebody else take care of me?

    On Thursday, as our week at sea was coming to a close, everyone was encouraged to dress up in our fanciest gear for dinner, and later, dancing.

    It was about an hour before she was scheduled to pick me up. By this point, three days into our cruise tryst, we were effectively ship girlfriends.

    I opened it to find her casually leaning against the doorframe, looking overwhelmingly hot in her tux. I was startled to see her here so early; had I messed up our meetup time?

    I felt crazy. I felt like a teenager. I felt guilty and confused, like I had no idea what I was doing. But I also knew that I might not ever do anything quite like this in my life ever again.

    So I might as well let myself live through this bizarro universe and see where it would take me. The night felt emotionally like a prom, too: something joyous, but bittersweet.

    Everything was ending. I was even wearing eyeshadow. We did a lap around the upper deck before sunset, arms linked, and when we arrived back on the main deck, a big group of lesbians literally cheered , my catamaran hookup among them.

    We smiled and waved, like and year-old prom queens, respectively. My heart swelled with such affection for each and every one of them. We were back in my room before midnight.

    Lynette had been chatting with a few women the day before, more than one of whom confronted her in the cafeteria the next morning.

    Less funny, though, was the fact that our respective romantic competitors were not the only ones who noticed us. The day after Formal Night was our last day at port.

    Olivia actively partners with LGBT organizations at ports of call to foster camaraderie and community between Olivia women and lesbian locals.

    I planned to meet Dana in the ship lobby that morning so that we could wander around for a while before the event.

    The entertainment options are nice to be honest, most of them are just But those things never seemed like the heart of Olivia to me. Olivia was hearing an American explain U-Haul jokes to a confused, elderly Australian woman.

    Olivia was trading gossip that a woman in her seventies threw her back out having sex and ventured out to find some weed in Tortola.

    Olivia was the extraordinary comfort of feeling so seen, and so loved, by a group of strangers who, by the time we docked in gray, rainy New Jersey, felt more like my family.

    She lives in a different country. But there was still the fact that, after three days of knowing me, she told me she loved me, just as the sun was coming up over the ocean outside my window.

    I was scared of so many things, and worried about, as usual, lesbian stereotypes — moving too fast, feeling too much.

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