Queer Girl Café

Queer Girl Cafe is currently open for submissions from July 1 - July 30

If you are a queer woman, particularly if you are a QWOC, trans, or disabled, I would absolutely love to hear from you.

I cannot pay, unfortunately (unless someone wants to donate, which I would consider.) I’m one person running a Tumblr. But I believe we still need this space, so I’m opening it back up.

Submissions are limited to 1,000 words. Please email me at [email protected] if you’re interested.

Things I’ll Need if your piece is accepted:

Queer Girl Cafe is currently open for submissions from March 20-April 15

If you are a queer woman, particularly if you are a QWOC, trans, or disabled, I would absolutely love to hear from you. 

I cannot pay, unfortunately (unless someone wants to donate, which I would consider.) I’m one person running a Tumblr. But I believe we still need this space, so I’m opening it back up. 

Submissions are limited to 1,000 words. Please email me at [email protected] if you’re interested. 

Things I’ll Need if your piece is accepted:

by Chasia Lloyd

In exactly two days after this post goes up, it will be fifteen years since I realized I was into girls. One girl, especially, whom I'll call E here.

It was my fourteenth birthday, and my librarian was so excited when I told her. She said, "I met my husband on my fourteenth birthday. Maybe you will too?" I smiled and thought to myself, "I'd rather marry E."

And that was that. I realized I was bisexual (I currently identify as pansexual - it's totally okay to change your labels as you grow!)

Growing up in a Christian home in the Bible Belt, I should have panicked. Been grossed out. Dropped to my knees and prayed fervently for a change. But I was actually pretty okay with ir. My sexuality was a secret, the first one I ever had that was all mine to control who I told. Plus, being in love was awesome.

What happened with E and me wasn't so awesome, but that's not the story I want to tell here.

Too often I see the narrative in media demand queer people - youths, especially - experience a bout of guilt and uncertainty. While it's true many people do have to wrestle with the truth of themselves, some folks simply accept it as soon as they figure it out. Either situation is okay.

I've never wished I was different when it came to who I was attracted to. I've wished my face didn't look like a horse's, wished I could figure out how to say the right thing at the right time, wished I didn't fall over my feet in front of other people. I've prayed I could get over crushes who wanted nothing to do with me. But never have I disliked the fact I'm not straight.

By the time my year as a fourteen-year-old came to an end, many friends at school knew about my feelings for girls. I had people open up to me about their feelings on romantic and sexual attraction. People who weren't sure or were afraid to be queer. For some of these folks, I was the very first person they ever told.

I wasn't articulate or too bright back then. I wasn't out of the closet to everyone, and I was aware it was downright dangerous in some places for queer teens to be out, especially for my male and/or non-white friends. All I knew was that I liked this part of myself, and I wanted these fellow teens to like that part of them too. To hold their secret and let it empower them the way mine uplifted me. How to tell them that?

You're okay the way you are.

I'm always here to listen.

Take your time.

I love you.

Did any of my words help? I don't know. I'll never know. I've drifted far away from that place I was when I was fourteen, emotionally and physically. I still wish I was prettier, more eloquent, less clumsy. But I've never stopped loving my sexuality, and I've never stopped hoping everyone else will love theirs too.

by Anna-Marie McLemore

Three magical things I had never encountered before that the Transboy and I encountered in our first two hours in New York:

1. Dahlia Adler in real life 2. The restaurant Dahlia picked, which makes vegan versions of everything, including chicken, which unnerved Dahlia with its lack of bones 3. The word demisexual 

I had never heard it. But as I heard Dahlia describing demisexuality, I felt something in me turning toward that word like a plant finding the sun.

 According my family, I was born a romantic. Fairy tales floated through my dreams and daydreams like clouds. My mother and I put on back-to-back romantic comedies while we prepare holiday meals; I think our record was five while making trays of enchiladas for a Christmas with extended family.

 So yes, maybe I was always a hopeless romantic.

 A hopeless romantic who didn’t like making out with anyone.

 The first time a guy took off my bra, I started thinking about what color nail polish to wear to my cousin’s wedding. The first time a guy reached up my skirt, I was so startled I actually jumped. I had been off thinking about whether the red tide bloom at a nearby beach had faded enough for swimming, and I hadn’t realized how far up my leg his hand had gone.

 Yes, I acknowledge that this could have something to do with being an SA survivor. Letting my brain go somewhere else helped me survive. For a long time I thought it was this, that I didn’t feel safe under any of the hands unhooking my bra or unbuttoning my jeans. And that was certainly there. It was a thing I lived with until I fell in love with the Transboy, whose words, and then touch, made me feel like I was more than a body made for giving something.  

 But after talking with Dahlia, I thought about it more. I remembered my first kiss, before any of what I would later survive happened. And I cringed remembering how during that kiss I was—wish I was kidding—running through the physics formulas I had to memorize for summer school.

 Things with the Transboy, I realized, were different not just because I’m queer, not just because he has been kind and gradual enough not to trigger me. I wanted him because I was in love with him, and I had fallen in love with him in a way I didn’t know the landscape of before meeting him. Desire existed in my body, but its origin point lived far and deep in my heart. And knowing that this was me, that this was not some result of being damaged, that let love and desire inhabit a space they had never quite been able to share.

 I am still finding my bearing in my identity as demisexual. But I’m tremendously grateful to Dahlia and to those who’ve spoken about their identity. Because in hearing those stories, I got to reclaim how I love. I got to hold in my hands the truth that even though my SA left me with wounds, it did not cause or wreck the way I love. The way I love is its own complicated, beautiful thing. No one made me that way, and no one took it from me.

by Tristina Wright

September 19-23 this year is Bisexual Visibility Week (BiWeek). Every year, us invisible bisexuals take off our cloaks, pause bank heists, and step into the spotlight for a weeklong celebration of what it means to be bisexual.

However, the shadows lurk outside the spotlight, waiting for any one of us to slip a toe into the glare and dare to defend who we are on our own.

Slut, whore, confused, lying, greedy, out for attention, performing, really gay, really straight, pick a side. And my personal favorite: “I’ll never date a bisexual because they’ll eventually cheat on me.”

It’s almost old hat at this point and many of us can laugh it off. “Oh that insult again? Please.” Especially if the insults come from other adults. I can ignore them or turn them into a teaching opportunity if I’m feeling up to it.

But when those insults roll in under the guise of “protecting children,” I can’t ignore that hurt. I can’t brush off that pain.

A trade review recently claimed a book should be for mature readers only because of “many references to bisexuality” and bad language.

Read that again.

We live in such heteronormative and puritanical society that anything outside of cis and straight is seen as other and sexually explicit and deserving of content warnings. If there’s anything other than straight, the book suddenly has sexual themes, even if there’s no sex anywhere in the story on page or off.

News flash, there are bisexual children out there. There are young teens who adopt the label. To throw bisexuality into the same category as gore, violence, rape, language, etc is deeply troubling, highly problematic, and pretty damn insulting.

Sexual orientation is not defined by who we do or do not have in our bed. It never will be. I’m no less bi as a married woman than one of my single bi friends is. A bisexual person in a dating relationship or married is still bisexual if they claim it.

When you tell children that mentions of bisexuality in a YA book require a content warning, you tell them they are something Other. That their orientation is something to be ashamed of, to warn others about, that they’re not good. That they’re wrong and unacceptable.

But it’s just a review?

No, it’s actually not.

In the publishing world, queer books are still severely underrepresented. Books with queer characters where queerness has nothing to do with plot are also hard to find. It’s getting better but we still have a very long way to go to reach anything even resembling parity.

Queer books depend on trade reviews because librarians use trade reviews to stock their catalogues. They only have so much budget and libraries are sometimes the only way a queer teen can get their hands on a book for them.

When a review labels bisexuality as mature, a librarian has no way of knowing (unless they’ve read it) if the review is biphobic or if the book contains explicit content such as an on-page sex scene. And many librarians only have time to decide based on the reviews themselves so this is an incredibly important distinction.

These types of reviews, in addition to being insulting and harmful to actual queer teens, hurt queer books because they could be passed over. Queer books, by and large, don’t get the big advances or the huge marketing budgets so they depend on word-of-mouth, hand-selling, and libraries. Being in a library could quite literally make an author’s career.

But the simple fact of the matter is this, bisexuality doesn’t equal mature content. You can be bisexual and haven’t ever had sex. You can be bisexual and married. You can be bisexual and have had many partners. None of those make anyone more or less bi than the other, and none of them are deserving of a mature content warning.

To insist otherwise is to erase us, invalidate us, and heap more harm and pain upon us as we continue to fight against these stereotypes again and again.

To the teens out there who may have been harmed by this review, you are valid. You are worthy. There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with your orientation. You aren’t confused or greedy or unfaithful.

You are bi.

by Sara Taylor Woods

“Truth or dare?”

Sophomore year: we’re all standing in a loose circle in front of the school, waiting for the first bell to ring. Truth or dare has never been my favorite game, and especially not in a place where I can get detention.

So I say, “Truth.”

Someone rolls their eyes. Bo-ring.

“Okay,” my friend says, “if you could have a threesome with any of the couples in band, which one would it be?”

I pretend to think about it, but I don’t have to. My choice has nothing to do with the boy—he’s actually kind of the worst. But to my fourteen-year-old brain, that’s the only way I could ever get my hands on that girl.

My friends are waiting, so I answer them, my hands shaking. But it’s okay. Nothing awful happens; no one seeks the two out to tell them. No one asks me if I have a crush on the boy; no one asks me if I have a crush on the girl.

As if that was possible.

My junior year, my sister’s friend Jenny* dumped her boyfriend and started dating one of my friends. One of my girl friends.

This was big.

Don’t get me wrong: I grew up in the third largest city in South Carolina, in the largest school district in the state. We had four universities and a boarding school for the arts. My high school had over 1200 students, and I graduated in a class of over 300.

What we didn’t have? Homosexual teenage couples. I mean, maybe they had them at the art school—because art students, right?—but no, never in my public high school in the suburbs.

Did I like girls? I mean, I’d always noticed which girls were prettiest, who had nice legs, who was developing breasts—but girls noticed this stuff, right? I had a boyfriend, so I wasn’t a lesbian; I just admired girls. I wanted to be pretty like they were. That cheerleader in all my Honors classes, with hair like corn silk and a smile that lit up the room? I admired her. That was all. And a girl so gorgeous I’d tolerate her jerk boyfriend just to touch her.

But I didn’t like girls. I wasn’t a lesbian.

Even Jenny and Lauren becoming a public item wasn’t the splash of cold water that it should have been. I was proud of them for going all out so quickly and so fearlessly. I was… I don’t know. Jealous? But what did I have to be jealous about?

Nothing. I just admired that girl on the mellophone line. Especially when she was standing in front of me.

No problem. This was me. No problem.

And then Kendall came.

Kendall was an Army brat, brand-new to my AP English class. Kendall was gorgeous and funny and liked the same music I did.

Kendall was also bisexual.

Was that… was that a thing?

The Bible had come between Jenny and Lauren, and the newly single Lauren suddenly had more free time. We were friends already: we hung out, got drunk sometimes. Did I like her? If I was this shiny new thing—bisexual—did that mean I had a crush on her? Did I have a crush on all my female friends? No. Absurd. But did I want to hook up with her? Was it inevitable?

Because I definitely had a crush on Kendall. A desperate, aching thing. I needed her smile like oxygen. When I spent the night at her house, we shared a bed, and I spent hours staring at the dark ceiling feeling my skin strain towards hers. Sleepy limbs brushing tense ones, this sharp stone in my chest and twist in my gut. What would she do if I kissed her?

God, what would I do if she kissed me?

She never did.

“Bisexual” has always been the easiest word for me. The most basic, brass-tacks explanation of my libido. But I don’t think it’s right anymore.

Sexuality is not static. Despite all evidence, I had considered myself heterosexual. But the moment Kendall came out to me, when she said, “I’m bisexual,” everything changed. Not necessarily because I thought it gave me a chance with her, but because she gave me a gift no one else could have: language.

College changed me, too. My best friend was super happy to let everyone know how much he loved men. He was funny and fearless; he took me to gay bars, where I danced with women who liked women. My world cracked open like fired rock. I came out to my closest friends back home, my sister. No one laughed; no one disowned me.

But sexuality is not static. Between the ages of seventeen and nineteen, I had very little sexual contact, and no romantic contact at all—which was how I wanted it. At twenty-three, I called it a dry spell, but at thirty-one, I have language that I didn’t a decade ago. Was it a dry spell if I didn’t want anyone? Or was it aromanticism?

How much does it matter?

The definition of bisexuality has become amorphous in the last few years. In my mind, at sixteen, there were two genders, and I liked both of them. Easy. But neither gender nor sexuality is a binary—so does bisexual mean “my gender and not my gender”? Or is it just “male and female”? Pansexuality is more clear-cut, but it’s never felt like the right word for me. My sexuality isn’t just about gender—it’s about gender roles, power dynamics. Jillian Keenan, the author of Sex with Shakespeare, has said more than once that her kink is part of her sexuality.

What a revelation.

So if I’m not bisexual (though technically I am), and if I’m not pansexual (I’m technically this, too), what am I? If gender is a social construct, do I even have a gender? I’ve always been a tomboy, but what does that mean? What if my gender identity changes? How much does gender—mine, or anyone else’s, or someone’s lack thereof—play into my sexuality?

“Bisexual” has always been the easiest word, the most comfortable, but I’ve outgrown it. The truth is, I don’t know how to define myself anymore. I don’t know if the specific vocabulary exists; if it does, I haven’t found it yet.

Sexuality is not static, so my identifier needs to be broad, elastic, forgiving. I need a word that allows room for error. Room for evolution.

by Rachel Davidson Leigh

My mom isn’t bi.

She’s okay with me being bi, but that term doesn’t apply to her.

We sit on the floor of my childhood home, in her living room. I am thirty and she is confused.

It’s not that she has a problem with bisexuality, she says, and I know that’s true. It’s not just that she has gay friends. I’ve always been surrounded by badass queer women. They have been my teachers, my mentors, my Rabbi. Queerness is not and has never been a problem in my home, but the confusion remains.

No, I explain, I don’t want to leave my husband. I don’t want an open marriage. I don’t want to date women right now, any more than I want to date men. My self-knowledge is not an advertisement. It’s just part of me that now has a name, and I like knowing its name. Now I know. I’m Jewish. I’m an introvert. I’m bisexual. I don’t want to change anything. I just want her to know.

This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to say something. Still, the previous try was in 2001. I was in ninth grade, and she could be excused for missing the connection. I admit that I’m confused by her confusion or, at least, by its vehemence. I’m not used to bridging gaps with my mother. If anything, I’m used to a discomforting closeness, that sense of being re-translated and remixed for a new generation.

“How do you know?” she asks, head cocked. “If you’ve never dated women, how do you know?”

I blink and talk about seeing cute baristas. It’s less queer theory and more tumblr social justice 101. “You know that feeling when you think someone is attractive, but you don’t want to date them, because you aren’t looking?” I ask, and she nods.

“But doesn’t everyone feel that?” she replies, her elbows on her knees and her head in one hand. “Sexuality is a spectrum. It’s fluid. Don’t most people feel that for men and women?”

I pause. “No mom, I don’t think they do.”

We change the subject.

But I keep thinking about it. It feels like I’m supposed to celebrate.

“Aha!” I’m supposed to say. “I have discovered the source of my mother’s confusion. She’s bi too! We’re the same! Victory!” Except, we’re not the same. Not quite. The conversation comes back in new forms, from new angles. She’s still confused, but then again, so am I.

If we think about sexuality as a spectrum, we agree: we’re both somewhere in middle. She simply cannot comprehend the value of claiming a label or an identity if she isn’t trying to date anyone. If it isn’t about action, then why give it a name? “Why would you want to tell people about that?” she asks, genuinely curious, and I falter.  For her, talking about bisexuality is the same thing as talking about my sex life, and I don’t know how to explain the gap.

I don’t know how to say that claiming queerness is about community and politics and self-knowledge. It’s about rejecting the idea that bisexuals (and particularly bisexuals in relationships) are co-opting an identity that doesn’t really belong to them. But I don’t know how to talk about any of that, because it still doesn’t feel like my story to tell, so I retell a joke about how bisexuals are like hide-a-beds (or maybe werewolves) and she laughs.

I understand the appeal of fluidity, at least in theory. As much as we, in the YA book community reject the “I don’t like labels” shorthand for bisexuality or pansexuality, there’s something nice about the idea that queerness itself doesn’t have to be a minority identity. If everyone really exists somewhere on a vast grid of sliding scales, then why bother chopping it all up into little boxes?

To be clear, that was a rhetorical question.

There are lots of reasons to appreciate those little boxes, not least of which because not talking about them doesn’t make them go away. There’s something comforting in addressing them directly, in saying “there are experiences that are unique to being bi” that doesn’t come with being one point in a vast graph of sexual difference. Yes, the categories are still massive conflations of intersectional difference, but the specificity feels like a move in the right direction, toward better mental health care, toward better news coverage, and toward better representation.

by Caissa Casarez

I’ve been what some might call a hopeless romantic for most of my life. I’m a sucker for love songs (especially duets), I dig Valentine’s Day for more than just the candy, all of that.

It started in middle school. Two of my 8th grade teachers were married to each other, and while most of my classmates shrugged it off, I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Although I hadn’t even thought about boys like that, I wanted that kind of love one day.

Two years later, I found out just how hard that would be for me. Not only was I considered one of the weird kids in school, I started to realize I liked girls. A lot.

I didn’t fully start coming out until my first year of college, when I turned to my local feminist bookstore’s LGBTQ section to try and figure things out. Unfortunately, as a big socially awkward queer mixed-race Latina with glasses who prefers going online to going out, I didn’t find anything that matched my full identity. (Some books came close, though!)

As the years went on, I became happier with myself and who I was, but unhappier with society’s expectations of me. Although I’ve embraced being different for as long as I can remember, it hurt so much that I started to shut myself off from the idea of ever having a partner. When society teaches you that the way you want to love is wrong – both because you’re a girl who likes girls and because you don’t fit the right stereotypes – you tend to avoid love and the happiness that surrounds it.

Even when it’s staring at you on a screen.

I first met A. in 2013 over a hashtag on Twitter. I found it peculiar that she used only her first initial on Twitter but her full birth name on Facebook – until she came out to me. A. is a transgender woman, and at the time, only a select few people in her life knew. I felt honored to be included.

We live in different states, but that didn’t stop us from quickly becoming friends. I loved having a fellow queer person in my life who works in the same business as I do and who understands my issues with anxiety. Talking with A. soon became a highlight of my overnight shifts. We met in person two months later, and even though we were nervous, I could tell there was something about her that I didn’t want to let go of. Something that made me realize I was falling for her. Hard.

Despite my revelation, I became a full-blown skeptic about love. I was still convinced it wasn’t for me, even as A’s and my friendship got even stronger. We didn’t go a day without talking to each other in some way, even when my schedule changed. I knew something had changed between us when we saw Selma in January 2015 and I wanted to hold her hand – and not just because of how emotional the movie is.

Two months later, the unthinkable happened – someone I liked felt the same way about me! And naturally, I shut her down. I told A. I wasn’t ready for a relationship, when in reality, I didn’t want my heart broken for the 856th time.

A. and I still talked, and I’m so glad we did. She has been one of my best friends and one of my biggest supporters since the day we followed each other on Twitter, and I didn’t want anything to tear us apart – even the confusion and joy that comes with having a crush. It didn’t take long for me to start letting my romantic feelings for her back in. The heart emojis we sent each other every night before we went to bed now meant something more.

About a week after her cat most likely kept us from cuddling on her couch that September, I finally confessed to A. that I liked her, and have all this time. I was THRILLED when she told me she still felt the same way about me.

We have both experienced various degrees of failed long-distance relationships in the past, but we still wanted to try it together. A. and I haven’t had many partners, and we haven’t even been dating for a year, but our love for each other is so strong that we can tell this one will be different. It’s like we’re making up for lost time.

To say it’s a struggle having my girlfriend so far away is an understatement. We see each other once a month, but we don’t get much time together since we have opposite schedules, so we’ve learned to make the most of our visits. A. and I have to sacrifice a lot to make our relationship work, but it’s all been worth it.

One of the many things I’ve learned while in a long-distance relationship is that you do things a little differently than most couples. A. and I first said “I love you” at the end of a FaceTime call about three weeks in without us even realizing it. We would send the sentiment to each other over the Internet several times before our next visit a month later, but I had a feeling it would mean more when we got to say it in person.

And even though it took me two years to gain the courage to do it, I was right.

“I love you...” My voice faded away as I held her close in my bed.

“Love you too,” A. replied as if we had been saying it our entire lives. “So much.”

She then thanked me for showing her that trans women deserve love just as much as my cis counterparts.

Oh, love. It is you, too, who should be praised. So thank you, A., for showing me that a queer mixed kid with a little extra skin on her bones and a big heart who never truly found herself represented in life can find and deserve love, too.

No matter how far away it is. (But I can’t wait to close the distance one day.)

Hi y’all,

By Kristie Matheson

I want to thank you, my dear. You’ve helped me overcome and embrace my true self that had been awaiting to emerge. You see, I’ve known since about high school that I was queer. But at that time, I was just gaining my independence. 

For those of you reading this letter; when I was 15 I was able to rid of my breathing tube that required me to have a nurse or a family member who knew how to care for me 24/7. So as you can see, independence wasn’t an easy feat for me to have. 

Sure, I had noticed the attractive girls, but most of them were straight. There were a handful of guys, but that didn’t lead to anything but heartbreak or faded crushes. It wasn’t until my second year into university that I started fearing my disability was truly affecting my ability to find someone. I kept thinking to myself that maybe someone wouldn’t want to be with me because of my posture, or the way I walked. I was going on 20 and I was still single and still hadn’t even been kissed. Most of the time I didn’t think about it, though it’s discouraging when everyone around you is kissing or holding hands. It wouldn’t be for a few more years that I’d even have a boyfriend.

I was starting to be turned off by men when I started online dating stuff. I felt it was necessary to be upfront about my disability. I wasn’t trying to hide it, as it’s one of the things that makes me, me. It was when I mentioned my disability, some of the guys automatically asked, “Can you have sex?” I was angry to see that’s all guys wanted to know. I think back now and wish I was more aware or open with myself. Does that mean I would have tried to check out more women? Who knows!

I was at the point I just wanted to hide from the dating world all together. In the meantime, I would go to the gay club with my gay friend, where I’d notice the gorgeous women; but at that time I was too nervous and unsure whether or not it was the alcohol taking over. I started taking Business Admin and was welcomed by even more queer people. I started unintentionally started reading more books with queer characters in them. Between enjoying all the sex scenes that had a straight, gay or lesbian couple in it, something inside me was hinting it was ready to come out. 

To the readers, when I started school, I made it a goal to be either in a relationship or have gone on a date or two within my schooling years.

Then my ex came into the picture, but you know the story, my love. But as a reader, you don’t. So I’m going to quickly sum it up for you. I met a guy in October 2014, it was about a month or two into the relationship that I had noticed that he wasn’t going to be the long term person for me. He wasn’t a family person, it was hard to get him to go out on dates, and the disability definitely came into play when we’d make out or do anything beyond that. I ended it January 2015, my close friends and his one female roommate were there for me. (I’m still very close friends with the roommate) This was also the time my depression decided to come back full force, was it because he also fought it? I’m not sure, but I can say it was a contributing factor; though I was the only one who actually acted upon it and saw my doctor. One of the bigger reasons why I ended it was because he wasn’t taking care of himself, and I needed someone who I didn’t have to coddle.

It was after my first boyfriend that I was feeling ready to explore my likes more. Then I ended up in the hospital and school became stressful as fuck. Shortly after that, my Nan became quite ill. So, I chose that time to have you come into the picture as more of a pick me up than anything. The thought of having a boyfriend or girlfriend at the time wasn’t even on my radar. I wasn’t ready to explore that part of myself yet, my main focus was to take care of myself.

Then we started talking, and as we talked, I saw you change. The tone in your voice, the words you’d say when talking to me, changed. I think about this now, wondering why it took so long for me to realise what you were trying to tell me.

The day I told you the guy I had asked out ended up having a girlfriend, you had acted like you had won the lottery. A lottery to which I was the prize. When you confessed these feelings for me the day after my news, my brain essentially blurted out yes before I knew what was happening. I know you keep asking yourself whether I said yes out of pity, or fear of our friendship ending; thus making it awkward for our mums. But the answer will always be no. I guess my body knew it was ready for this journey. I was ready to fully embrace and understand who I was as a woman.

Even today, 10 months into our relationship, I still am trying to put all the pieces together that makes me, me. When we first kissed, the last thing on my mind was my disability and how that’ll affect our personal time, for once I felt normal. I didn’t notice that my right arms strength wasn’t the same as my left, that my lungs weren’t on the same functioning level as other peoples. Sure, we have to do slight modifications, but we still experience the same rush, passion and love as any other couple.

I’m happy that the person I’m holding hands with loves me, tries to understand me and still puts up with my craziness all this time later. You yourself are embracing who you are as a woman and I’m proud to be the person on that journey with you. Seeing you become more confident with your body, having more self-love, becoming more aware of your anxiety and depression; makes me love you even more.

Hi all,

Queer Girl Cafe is currently open to submissions. 

What are we looking for?

Personal essays about being a queer woman, reflections on representation, etc. (See our past posts for a general idea.) 

Who can submit?

We’re particularly interested in stories that deal with the intersectionality of identities, as well as stories by trans women, queer WOC, and disabled queer women.

Does it pay?

Unfortunately, QGC doesn’t have the funds at the moment to pay contributors. We understand if this affects your decision to submit.

How do I submit?

Email a pitch to [email protected]. 

by Dahlia Adler

Prologue: It’s Not Like You Ever Had Feelings For That Friend Anyway; It’s Just Bizarre That Your Stomach Fluttered That One Time You Flirted With Her. It Wasn’t Even About Her; It Was That You Were Flirting With A Girl, And You Liked It. It Made No Sense Then And It Doesn’t Even Really Now. You Promptly Forgot About It Afterward Anyway, And It’s Not Like She’ll Ever Know. Anyway, That Wasn’t Very Long Before The Rest Of This. What Kind Of “Queer Girl” Doesn’t Have A Story Tied To Xena Or The L-Word? What Is This Even Doing Here? Don’t You Listen To Literary Agents On Twitter? This Story Doesn’t Need A Prologue.

Chapter 1: Flirting with Girls is Fun and I’d Like to Keep Doing That

Chapter 2: Huh, Flirting with Girls is So Much Fun I Seem to Have Accidentally Put it Into My Supposed-to-Be-Heterosexual Romance and Also Made it Something I Do All Day That Gives Me Weird Feelings Sometimes but Like Definitely Not the Bad Kind of Weird

Chapter 3: On Realizing You Are Researching the Look of the Love Interest Approximately Sixty-Nine Million Times Harder Than You Researched for College Term Papers

Chapter 4: So, You’ve Published a Supergay Book! (Now, Let’s Start Talking About How Much of You is in There)

Chapter 5: Talk About How Much of You is in There

Chapter 6: On Emails and Comments that Say “ME TOO” and Finding There Are So Many More of Your People Than You Ever Knew

Chapter 7: Help! Claiming a Label Didn’t End Up Feeling Like Anything, and I Don’t Really Care What You Call Me (But Don’t You Dare Extend that Apathy to Others)

Chapter 8: Do People Think I’m a Fraud Who Came Out to Sell Books? Is That a Thing? I Bet that’s a Thing

Chapter 9: Stepping Out of Bookworld: Coming Out to Someone IRL (Who’s Known You Your Whole Life and Actually Isn’t Surprised and is Very Cool About It)

Chapter 10: So, You’re Publishing a Second Book in Which Girls Have Sex (But Why? ask People in Your Offline Life, Who Don’t Put Obvious Pieces Together Because Queerness Still Doesn’t Really Have a Place in Your Shared Religion)

Chapter 11: (Ohhh, wait, this is where you should’ve put the one about publishing f/f books, for accurate wordplay reasons) (But Seriously, This Way Does Not Lie Cash) (Or Media Coverage) (Or Guaranteed Inclusion in LGBT+ Spaces, Displays, or Awards)

Chapter 12: On Realizing Everyone’s Discussion/Speculation/Judgment Literally Revolves Around Whom You Find Sexually Attractive, Which is Absurd, and You Definitely Do Not Need to Bow to That

Chapter 13: Resume Living. And “Researching.” Always.

You can read more about Dahlia on our contributors page. 

by Ozma Bryant

           My sexual life shares an interesting connection to the mental illnesses I have struggled with from as early as I have conscience memories of childhood. I still can’t explain precisely what that means, but I do know the two are connected in ways I do not always understand. For some- one of the hallmark signs of bipolar illness (in children) is hypersexuality. I hid that part of me as a child so well that it never occurred to me (until much later, as an adult) it was connected to mental illness. Where does my sexuality meet up with my illnesses and where does it end(?) is a question I have struggled with frequently in the past.

           I was diagnosed with bipolar Mix after slicing so deeply into my upper arm I still carry the scar, accompanied with seeing bugs crawling all over my walls (that were not actually there), and hearing voices telling me to do things I didn’t want to do. I got so anxious and scared, hospitalization was my only helpful option and I went willingly to a psychiatric unit, for the third time. This was after one near successful suicide attempt and many other plans to end the misery I was slowly losing control over in my mind. In my more manic mixed states of Bi-polar episodes, having sex was a top priority. I know there is a connection to the frequency of masturbation and the high risk making-myself-orgasm-while-driving-80 miles-down-the-freeway late at night activity I engaged in in the past. I also became an exotic dancer for three days because it seemed right at the time.

           But one thing I have always known- to my core- is that my sexual attraction is equal in desiring men and women. It annoys me that there are many who would say THIS attraction is connected to my mental illness- I know it is not. I’m not going to give up an argument as to why that is so- I do not owe that kind of explanation to anyone. I’ve always been a bit ‘F You’ with my attitude on how I know I like both guys/girls. At 15 I had a threesome with both sexes. It was not the last one I would partake in.

           What I do want to share is this: At five years old the first person I ever loved was a girl named Lily. She melted my heart and I wanted to marry her. When my siblings said, “Girls don’t marry other girls.” I decided to become a boy. I wore my hair slicked back and announced to anyone that would listen that I was going to be a boy. For the next three years I did every “boy” thing I could think of: Climbing, chasing, saying dirty things on the bus, rude noises BOY (in my child perspective- these behaviors were allowed to boys more so- and doing them could turn me into a boy). If our family went out to dinner I tucked my jeans into my boots and asked other girls to dance with me. If we went to the pool in our apartment complex I wore swim trunks and nothing else. Until we moved. My mother cut off the rat tail I had grown out at the back of my head, and my hair grew in long enough for a perm that made me look like a sad little wet poodle. Many tears were shed over the realization I had not been successful in turning myself into a boy.

           So I gave up on being a boy- but I never forgot my first love. It wasn’t really until the 6th/7th grade I started realizing girls were forbidden to “like”- so I kept that info. to myself and had “boyfriends”- the kind you hold hands with and kiss randomly. In the 8th grade I chopped my hair short again and fantasized about both girls and guys- but stuck to dating guys.

           During my freshman year in high school I had repressed the urge for female companionship- for a sexual relationship- for so long that I convinced myself in actuality I had to be gay. I desperately wanted to claim that title and start dating women. Coming “out” and discovering that three girls liked me at the same time was overwhelming but relieving. The one that had the courage to ask me out (not just tell others that I was cute and had a great ass) the one who asked me out- was the one I dated. She is the girl I later rejected and crushed- out of my own fear and insecurity that I was revolting and didn’t deserve her anyway. Amazingly, we are still friends to this day, even though I sincerely doubt I deserve it.

           After that I dated whoever I felt like dating- but mostly for the sexual experiences I craved that gave me the fleeting feeling someone found me deeply desirable- lovable. I also think my sexual appetite was some kind of release from the mental illness I battled daily. That and running until my lungs burned and my knees shook were the two things I could count on to clear my mind- if only for a short time.

           But I never felt confused about it- even if everyone around me was. If I was with a girl I was labeled a “lipstick lesbian”- if I was with a guy it was because “they had changed my mind.” The messages I received like, “It’s a phase, you’ll grow out of it,” as if my sexual attraction to others was no more than a weird ice-cream craving, were annoying and frustrating.

           So I hid it. It was easier- more comfortable- to do that.

           In my 20s I slept with men and women but never talked to anyone about it. I’d kiss girls at gay clubs and participated in a wet lube contest with a girlfriend during a pride festival. But I never talked about it. Those who were close to me called me a “free spirit.”

           Now in my 30s, after years of therapy and a continued regime of weekly therapist visits + neurofeedback + medication, I have a clear understanding that my sexuality was not- and is not- defined by my more manic phases in life (even if there have been times when I would seek out sexual experiences as a tool for relief). I have a clear understanding that anyone who tries to condemn me or shut me off as ‘bad’, ‘wrong’, etc. has never understood complete self-acceptance. The kind of self-acceptance we come into this world with, and somewhere along the way have it ripped away from us-little by little- piece by piece- until we are left with remnants of what we once knew.

           If I could do anything differently, it would be to claim my sexuality/desires instead of allowing others to label it for me. I half-heartedly tried but battling mental illness always took the forefront of my energies, and my sexual identity took the back seat. But it is a part of me-and it’s a part of me that makes me uniquely who I am. I knew it when I was younger- and only as I got older did the confusion of other people sway me.