We are trying to bring back our big list of lesbian books! So things might get a little crazy here. In the meantime, if you would like to look at all of our Yummy Lesbians, check out the almost 6,000 posts on our Pinterest page! They will be discontinued here on this website, but always available on Pinterest.
Sometimes I like to wander into dangerous territory. Like Reddit. It reminds me of the Internet, before the world wide web. Back when it was bulletin boards and Usenet groups. I can’t even say there were pictures at the time. I am that old.
Anyway, a user named “hoursailor” said this [edited for space] in one of the forums:
“I recently broke up with my SO and came out as gay after identifying as bi most of my life. And life just got a whole hell of a lot harder… Every girl I knew who even so much as kissed girls identified as bi, even if they never intended on having sex with one, let alone date one. It seems to be the in thing, to not be totally straight. The only mild annoyance was guy fetishizing me.
Now… Sigh. The last few months have been rough as fuck. My dad has disowned me, even though we’re all each other has, and I may never get to speak to him again. I’ve been called dyke and spat on, for politely rejecting a guy. I’ve been told that basically I need to be raped so I can see the light because clearly I haven’t had the right dick.
I know that no matter who I spend my life with now, we won’t be able to get legally married in my country. I know that I’m officially a second class citizen without equal rights. That no matter how I have kids, there’ll be people criticizing my family, and bullying them…
Am I just having an unusually shitty experience being gay? Is it way easier to be gay than bi in America? I feel alone in this.”
Let’s just say I’m old enough to know what she’s talking about. What she is experiencing is not new, not at all. Check out this book, or this one, or this one. Here’s what I had to say to hoursailor:
Old timer here. Been there, done that. My mother suggested electro-shock therapy to “cure” me, been spit on, yelled at by random people, blah blah blah.
I don’t want to sound like a cliché, but it does get better. Just probably not soon and probably not where you are. And you have to work at it. There is a reason large cities have large and diverse LGBT communities — people move to where they are welcomed and are more likely to find a partner and friends. I never thought I would see same sex marriage, but now it’s easy and even commonplace, and is spreading around the world.
The world is changing, evolving. It’s amazing, actually, and I never imagined any of it when I was 20. Not in my wildest dreams.
You will get stronger. The world will change. Your life will become awesome if you work at it.
(Warning for all my veg/vegan friends — close up pic of medium-rare beef at the end)
By my own admission, I am not a great cook. I am an average cook, I think. I’m not sure, I don’t stand on street corners surveying people:
Me: Excuse me, am I a good cook?
Passerby: (walks past silently, looking the other way, ignoring everything anyone ever says. After all, this is the city)
I took an online test to determine if I was a good cook. At the very start, before the Begin button, it says: “This is about common sense, people. No wasabi vinagrette on the sweet potato pie.”
Okay, number one, what is wasabi vinaigrette? Number two, they spelled vinaigrette wrong. So nyah. After my test, they advised me, not too unexpectedly, that I am average. Hell, I still need to look up how long to cook hard boiled eggs. Every. Single. Time.
I blame my mother who, I think, boiled everything – water in the pot, put the item in, turn up the heat, then once it boils, turn it down and simmer for 30 minutes. Potatoes? Boil ‘em. Peas? Boil ‘em. Corn? Boil ‘em? Meat? As a teenager, I realized that boiling pork chops was a big fail, but I never did anything about it except continue to boil ‘em.
I went through a vegetarian phase before I met Kelly, and the very first meal I ever made for her was the Enchanted Broccoli Forest, from Molly Katsen’s cookbook of the same name. How did it turn out?
That was almost 30 years ago. Now, I don’t make broccoli forests and I don’t usually burn stuff. Usually.
I really do cook and eat everything I list here. The photos are mine, taken while cooking (perhaps unlike the “private chef” I found online, whose recipe for slow cooker chicken included only photographs of chicken in a cast iron skillet).
My goal is to eat a little healthier, a little at a time. I have cut back on red meat, but you wouldn’t know that from this meal. It’s based on a recipe from Martha Stewart’s website. Served with organic mashed potatoes and a bit of salad with a raspberry vinaigrette (Ha! Spelled it correctly again!).
- 1 beef roast (already tied up when I bought it at the grocery store)
- Salt and pepper
- 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened (I nuked mine for 15 seconds)
- 3 tablespoons Dijon mustard with seeds, it’s all I had
- Preheat oven to 425 degrees
- Season beef all over with salt and pepper
- Whisk together butter and mustard
- Rub mixture all over the beef
- Roast on a parchment-lined baking sheet in the upper third of the oven until my instant-read thermometer read 140 degrees (for medium-rare), about 40 minutes
- Let rest for 15 minutes before slicing.
P.S. I no longer boiled pork chops…
These pet rocks are raised in miserable, overcrowded conditions
Hilarious! Thanks to reddit user /u/moogmania, I am reminded of the pet rock I once owned. No googly eyes, no mouths or other face parts — it was silly and funny and took imagination — or boredom. I’m not sure which. A pet rock just sat around, you maybe looked at it once or twice, but mostly you read the accompanying booklet. The fad ended within 6 months, made the guy a millionaire, and it was worth the laugh.
Again the first thing Tinhara noticed upon waking was the smell of the room, but this time it was heavy and musky, the smell of sex and sweat, and was far more pleasant than the groggery had been. She shivered slightly and pulled her arm out from underneath Qaltroq where it ended up after their hours of love making. She struggled to lace her clothes quietly, and snuck out from under the blanket. Retrieving her otuk, she slipped it on quietly, blew at the flame of the dying fire in the hopes of bringing it back to life, and crawled out of the ice house.
The sun was low in the sky, as it had been when she arrived, and she was grateful for the dim light. It made her eyes harder to see from a distance, gave her anonymity from any villager who might spy her. Women and children were about, but none turned her way. Qaltroq was truly a disdained woman, a woman whose existence was now completely ignored by people who had decided to band together for food and protection, to settle down on a land that forced any right-thinking person to travel its plains. It was not like that two years ago, when Vel was alive and kicking.
As Tinhara stepped toward her sled, one of Huel’s black eyes opened and his black nose popped out of the snow. Tinhara gestured to him to stay asleep. “I am getting food and bones,” she told him softly. She had spent many years talking to him as he was usually her only companion. She wondered if he understood her, believed her when she told him why she was returning to Visby, why she had to flee the Guards of Galmaq. She opened the caqun as a gentle breeze blew across her gloveless hands. The ghost of one of her missing fingers tingled in the chilly air and she hurried to find the qamux. Just a few moments of exposure could freeze any body part off, causing it to snap, if she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d seen a man lose his penis that way.
Love is within the lifeblood of the Goddess, pulsing every moment, circulating, seeking, and returning. Blessed Be.
Each month we donate to some charity or fundraiser or another. Sometimes it’s queer, sometimes nature-based, sometimes it’s just whatever feels right. I mean, what’s wrong with donating to an heritage if you really want to, you know?
Although various religions poo-poo against announcing your donations, I track the various contributions on the Lesbianfunworld Pinterest board for everyone to see. I am not telling you HOW much I donate, just WHERE I donate, in the hopes it might inspire, remind or even entertain (you have to check out the donkey!)
There is a poll open to vote on where you would like me to donate in May. But in April, I selected the Toronto Public Library. Long a haven for the weird and wonderful in both human and literary form, the Library is our go-to for used books (both buying and donating), for research and because it’s just kind of awesome.
Be as proud of your battles as you are of your battle scars. Blessed Be.
Your path forward is simple: Decide on your journey and begin in that direction. Slow or fast, it is still a beginning, and the Goddess loves beginnings. Blessed Be.
Dionne Brand is a Black Canadian lesbian poet, novelist, professor, and essayist. She was Toronto’s third Poet Laureate from September 2009 to November 2012. Her work explores themes of gender, race, sexuality and feminism, white male domination, injustices and moral hypocrisy. She has contributed to many anthologies opposing the violent killings of Black men and women, the massacre of fourteen women in Montreal and racism and inequality as experienced by Aboriginal women of Canada, particularly Helen Betty Osborne’s death in the Pas. Find out more about Brand in this Prezi presentation.