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Lesbian sex in a closet

Lesbian sex in a closet

It was truly surreal. It was my senior year of college. I laid in bed, scrolling through Buzzfeed when the headline grabbed me. That was honestly the moment I became queer. Two hours later, I was in the living room I shared with my three suitemates confessing how goddamn queer I was. I have never really been able to say that I was in the closet without clarifying the sentence in one way or another. I am in the closet but only [insert place here].

I have come to see the metaphorical closet as a safe-house. When I am surrounded by people who might harm me, I bolt the locks and exist entirely within its confines. Sometimes I throw the doors opens and leave it far behind. I let myself drown in unabashed queerness until I barely remember what the walls of the closet look like.

You were either in the closet or you were out and proud and I still cried too much about my sexuality to my therapist to consider myself out and proud.

How I loathed being in the closet too. I once made my therapist teary eyed because my pain at being forced to hide my sexuality from my family was so palpable she could not help but feel it like it was hers too.

I had anxiety attacks every time I flew home from school. I learned to avoid being at home. I made so many excuses my parents eventually sat me down and asked why I was running from being home. They were not so much asking if I was running from home but concluding that I was and asking why. In reality, my mother would cry and my father would cry and they would all avoid looking at me and then they would pray and I would cry because it would be the end of my relationship with my family as I knew it.

So instead of coming out to them, I retreated further into my closet and kept my mouth shut, waiting until I got into my room to cry quietly and text my friend so she could affirm that there was nothing wrong with me for loving women.

On National Coming Out day in , I wrote an article for the magazine on campus. I think I smiled at the people taking pictures and kept walking, too aware of where the closet was to even think about it despite the fact I was in theory out at school. The closet I resided in was not just a doorframe. On the other end of their doorframe was freedom and open air and I understood the symbolism but that door did not represent my closet. The longer I remained in the closet, the greater my anxiety that I would never come out.

Being closeted stripped me of all power over myself, my desires and my future.. I felt the doors to my closet rattle like a scene from the purge with someone waiting outside with a hatchet to destroy me. The safety of my closet has been threatened before but those were usually incidents like thinking about how hot a woman on TV was when my dad was next to me.

This time, my mother was knocking on the door of the closet and I did not think she would like what she saw. I sat on her bed that night. I tried very hard to sound as nonchalant and hypothetical as possible, a question born out of curiosity. When my mother said that she would lose her will to live if I was anything but straight, I heard my own heart shatter.

The question was simple enough but it felt so violent, like the force of what she was asking me would bring down the walls around me and leave me exposed to be devoured by her homophobia. I shook my head in response. I stumbled when she asked if I was bisexual — because I am — and I am fairly certain she actually suspects that I am. I often wonder why she asked. What if I had said yes? What would she have done then?

Promptly lose her will to live? In that moment, my confinement was as much for my safety as it was for hers. It protects me from being the reason my mother would want to die and it protects my mother from what for her would be the soul crushing agony of having a queer child.

I poked my head out of the closet long enough to come out to my brother. I sat in the passenger seat while he drove me home from the airport at the end of the summer. The last time he had picked me up from the airport a few months prior, I remember asking him how he felt about gay people.

My brother, for context, does not feel strongly about many things, especially if they have nothing to do with him. This time, I asked him what he would do if I married a woman. His nonchalance and uncaring acceptance meant I had somebody at home who at least knew the real me, even if it was just one person. The door to the closet was open that day. When we finally spoke again, it was for me to ask him not to say anything to either of our parents. The closet is a brutal place sometimes.

My identity and sense of self have never been easy things to choke down and hide inside of me. Before I started to realize my queerness, I had an open relationship with my mother in which we talked about most things, boys included. My crush on Amanda was instant but just as quickly, it gave way to a panic attack. Being in the closet, for me, raises questions like this: If I come out to my family, will they stop loving me?

If I remain in the closet but can no longer have the relationship I desire with my parents because of the mental strain, is it even worth staying closeted?

The first time I asked out a girl, I giggled so much it felt like I was a cartoon and bubbles would come spilling out of my mouth in hiccups so the world would know something miraculous was happening. Happiness did not truly encompass all of what I was feeling. But my giggle died and my happiness was muted soon as I realized the woman I was asking out was an out and proud lesbian. I was a newly minted queer and everything I knew about queerness was rooted in coming out.

If TV was to be believed, I would feel free even as my parents stopped looking me in the eye. So when I looked at the object of my affection, my happiness turned to guilt. How could I possibly ask her to share my closet when she was enjoying the freedom outside of hers? In that moment, I thought she was giving me permission to date and love and lust after openly queer people. Now, I realize her words give me permission to write my own narrative and the closet is only a small part of that.

This idea is something that I carry around with me. I have come to believe that every queer person, whether they are out or not, carries their closet around with them.

It has our height markers and stains from the times we bled into it. We often have to ask ourselves how visibly queer we can be. If I wear traditionally masculine clothes in the workplace, how will their opinions of me change?

When the heteronormative violence knocks, our closets protect us. I have since moved back home to live with my parents while I apply to graduate school and this has taught me to make the best of my closet. My closet is safer for me than the world outside of its doors and it is enough for me right now. But if I am going to exist in this space, I might as well make it my own. I have strung starry lights up and added Steven Universe pillows to make it cozier.

I have put in windows that let me gauge how far I can stick my foot out without someone pulling me out entirely. Every wall is covered in pictures of Samira Wiley and a corner is specifically dedicated as a shrine to all my queer friends. There is another corner dedicated to all the people I have come out to that support me and make me feel loved.

Sometimes they come to visit and we drink tea in my closet and whisper about the people we are secretly in love with. When they leave, I know they will come back. And for now at least, that is enough for me.

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Lesbian sex in a closet

It was truly surreal. It was my senior year of college. I laid in bed, scrolling through Buzzfeed when the headline grabbed me. That was honestly the moment I became queer.

Two hours later, I was in the living room I shared with my three suitemates confessing how goddamn queer I was. I have never really been able to say that I was in the closet without clarifying the sentence in one way or another. I am in the closet but only [insert place here]. I have come to see the metaphorical closet as a safe-house.

When I am surrounded by people who might harm me, I bolt the locks and exist entirely within its confines. Sometimes I throw the doors opens and leave it far behind. I let myself drown in unabashed queerness until I barely remember what the walls of the closet look like. You were either in the closet or you were out and proud and I still cried too much about my sexuality to my therapist to consider myself out and proud.

How I loathed being in the closet too. I once made my therapist teary eyed because my pain at being forced to hide my sexuality from my family was so palpable she could not help but feel it like it was hers too. I had anxiety attacks every time I flew home from school. I learned to avoid being at home. I made so many excuses my parents eventually sat me down and asked why I was running from being home.

They were not so much asking if I was running from home but concluding that I was and asking why. In reality, my mother would cry and my father would cry and they would all avoid looking at me and then they would pray and I would cry because it would be the end of my relationship with my family as I knew it.

So instead of coming out to them, I retreated further into my closet and kept my mouth shut, waiting until I got into my room to cry quietly and text my friend so she could affirm that there was nothing wrong with me for loving women. On National Coming Out day in , I wrote an article for the magazine on campus.

I think I smiled at the people taking pictures and kept walking, too aware of where the closet was to even think about it despite the fact I was in theory out at school.

The closet I resided in was not just a doorframe. On the other end of their doorframe was freedom and open air and I understood the symbolism but that door did not represent my closet. The longer I remained in the closet, the greater my anxiety that I would never come out. Being closeted stripped me of all power over myself, my desires and my future..

I felt the doors to my closet rattle like a scene from the purge with someone waiting outside with a hatchet to destroy me. The safety of my closet has been threatened before but those were usually incidents like thinking about how hot a woman on TV was when my dad was next to me. This time, my mother was knocking on the door of the closet and I did not think she would like what she saw.

I sat on her bed that night. I tried very hard to sound as nonchalant and hypothetical as possible, a question born out of curiosity. When my mother said that she would lose her will to live if I was anything but straight, I heard my own heart shatter.

The question was simple enough but it felt so violent, like the force of what she was asking me would bring down the walls around me and leave me exposed to be devoured by her homophobia. I shook my head in response.

I stumbled when she asked if I was bisexual — because I am — and I am fairly certain she actually suspects that I am. I often wonder why she asked. What if I had said yes? What would she have done then? Promptly lose her will to live? In that moment, my confinement was as much for my safety as it was for hers. It protects me from being the reason my mother would want to die and it protects my mother from what for her would be the soul crushing agony of having a queer child. I poked my head out of the closet long enough to come out to my brother.

I sat in the passenger seat while he drove me home from the airport at the end of the summer. The last time he had picked me up from the airport a few months prior, I remember asking him how he felt about gay people. My brother, for context, does not feel strongly about many things, especially if they have nothing to do with him. This time, I asked him what he would do if I married a woman. His nonchalance and uncaring acceptance meant I had somebody at home who at least knew the real me, even if it was just one person.

The door to the closet was open that day. When we finally spoke again, it was for me to ask him not to say anything to either of our parents. The closet is a brutal place sometimes. My identity and sense of self have never been easy things to choke down and hide inside of me. Before I started to realize my queerness, I had an open relationship with my mother in which we talked about most things, boys included.

My crush on Amanda was instant but just as quickly, it gave way to a panic attack. Being in the closet, for me, raises questions like this: If I come out to my family, will they stop loving me? If I remain in the closet but can no longer have the relationship I desire with my parents because of the mental strain, is it even worth staying closeted? The first time I asked out a girl, I giggled so much it felt like I was a cartoon and bubbles would come spilling out of my mouth in hiccups so the world would know something miraculous was happening.

Happiness did not truly encompass all of what I was feeling. But my giggle died and my happiness was muted soon as I realized the woman I was asking out was an out and proud lesbian. I was a newly minted queer and everything I knew about queerness was rooted in coming out. If TV was to be believed, I would feel free even as my parents stopped looking me in the eye. So when I looked at the object of my affection, my happiness turned to guilt.

How could I possibly ask her to share my closet when she was enjoying the freedom outside of hers? In that moment, I thought she was giving me permission to date and love and lust after openly queer people. Now, I realize her words give me permission to write my own narrative and the closet is only a small part of that.

This idea is something that I carry around with me. I have come to believe that every queer person, whether they are out or not, carries their closet around with them. It has our height markers and stains from the times we bled into it. We often have to ask ourselves how visibly queer we can be.

If I wear traditionally masculine clothes in the workplace, how will their opinions of me change? When the heteronormative violence knocks, our closets protect us. I have since moved back home to live with my parents while I apply to graduate school and this has taught me to make the best of my closet.

My closet is safer for me than the world outside of its doors and it is enough for me right now. But if I am going to exist in this space, I might as well make it my own.

I have strung starry lights up and added Steven Universe pillows to make it cozier. I have put in windows that let me gauge how far I can stick my foot out without someone pulling me out entirely.

Every wall is covered in pictures of Samira Wiley and a corner is specifically dedicated as a shrine to all my queer friends. There is another corner dedicated to all the people I have come out to that support me and make me feel loved.

Sometimes they come to visit and we drink tea in my closet and whisper about the people we are secretly in love with. When they leave, I know they will come back. And for now at least, that is enough for me.

Lesbian sex in a closet

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5 Comments

  1. The closet, however, is difficult for any non-heterosexual , non- cisgender identified person to fully come "out" of, whether or not that person desires to do so.

  2. I have put in windows that let me gauge how far I can stick my foot out without someone pulling me out entirely. It protects me from being the reason my mother would want to die and it protects my mother from what for her would be the soul crushing agony of having a queer child. When my mother said that she would lose her will to live if I was anything but straight, I heard my own heart shatter.

  3. I have strung starry lights up and added Steven Universe pillows to make it cozier. On National Coming Out day in , I wrote an article for the magazine on campus. The closet I resided in was not just a doorframe.

  4. Sometimes they come to visit and we drink tea in my closet and whisper about the people we are secretly in love with. The closet is a brutal place sometimes. Scholar Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick , author of the Epistemology of the Closet , discusses the difficulty with the closet:

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