The first time I went in to get my intrauterine device, or IUD, my doctor asked me if I was in a relationship.
“Um, kind of?” I stammered. “I mean, no. But you know, I hear this is the way to go as far as, you know, protectiveness.”
“Hrm,” she said, flipping her chart closed. This was the first time I’d been to this gynecologist, who ran her practice in my tiny suburban hometown. I was 20, home from school on Christmas break, and tired of frantically eyeing the moon and waiting for my period once a month. Keep reading »
There’s something about large groups of femmey, gregarious women that makes me feel like I’m perennially choking on my own nervous snot. It’s not the whole queermo thing, because I react to being surrounded by attractive men by becoming almost aggressively casual. It’s more that finding myself swept up in a crowd of giggling, nice-smelling women takes me almost viscerally back to middle school, when I wore a retainer every hour of the day and thought that playing the alto sax in the jazz band made me the next Kathleen Hanna.
Also, I was really into Kathleen Hanna. So. Keep reading »