Five lesbians leap from a black SUV and run into someone's home. One carries a bass guitar, one holds tattoo equipment, one has got a laptop, another one totes a bag full of black fishnet clothing and one's struggling to push a dolly containing a baby grand piano, an organ and a synthesizer -- she looks just like Tori Amos. All five women talk on cell phones as they run. Five lesbians jump out of a rusty '71 VW van.
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Can adolescent love lead to adult desire?
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When I was 15 years old, my parents and I took a road trip to Boston to visit my older brother Blake. We drove from our town of Westport, Connecticut. I was sitting in the backseat, sporting my typical closeted angst-ridden grunge-goth lesbian-attire—a black fishnet shirt with a neon colored bra, wildly distressed super skinny black jeans, black motorcycle boots with actual springs in their five-inch platform heels, strands upon strands of tangled up faux pearls, a lip ring, an eyebrow ring, a nose ring and my hair twisted up into two ecstasy buns that dramatically shot out of the sides of my head, like unicorn horns. Dad kept his gaze direct on the Post Road and calmly tried again. My mother quietly chuckled from the passenger seat. Maybe because I was blasting a song about lesbians having sex with strap-ons in the backseat of their Mercedes SUV? I folded my arms and stuck out my lower lip. The truth was, I knew I was a lesbian.
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