Women

Ever since I’ve come out, both to myself and to others, I’ve noticed how beautiful women are. I guess that’s to be expected. I mean, the whole definition of being gay is being attracted to the same sex. But it’s more than that. It’s more than attraction. I don’t look at every girl I see and think, goddamn would I like to fuck you. Honestly, my brain doesn’t even stretch that far. If there’s a girl I’m attracted to, it’s more like, goddamn I would like to hold hands with you and maybe kiss you lightly on the mouth. Sex hasn’t entered my mind yet, just because it’s so  damn foreign. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a freshly out lesbian virgin at 20. Good ol’ guy-on-girl sex was daunting enough, but now I just can’t wrap my head around any kind of sex at all. But I digress.

                Women are beautiful. Again, it’s not like I’m lurking in bushes lusting after the females that walk past my house. What fascinates me about women is the diversity of their beauty. I sit in class (all women’s college, hurrah!) and I am astounded by the curves and hooks of noses, the pallor of skin, eyes and mouths and wrists and elbows. Yes, even elbows. How is it that we have so few standards of beauty in this society, when there are so many options to choose from?

                I want these women to know that they’re beautiful. It’s true that some do; they preen and pout and pass judgment on all who dare to gaze upon their form. I’m not worried about them.. It’s the ones that don’t know that worry me. And there are too many of them! Walking with their shoulders hunched, sucking in their bellies, chins tucked into scrawny or unruly chests as if they would curl into themselves and disappear. I want to go up to them and tell them every single thing that makes them beautiful. But I can’t, because a) that would be creepy and b) ok, so there’s just one, that would be creepy.

                Instead, I smile. I smile and try to convey my chaste (remember, this is not attraction, this is different—think  of the courtly love of the Romanticism, appreciative, rather than investigatory) admiration. I try to comfort with smiles, and laughter and telepathic thoughts.

                I don’t know if I’m successful. God knows there are still more than enough girls with poor self-esteem. We hear about them every day. But what I do know is this: sometimes, they smile back. And it's enough.