At a concert a few weeks ago, I took notice of the two girls standng in front of me. Both were in their late adolescence, one short-haired and boyish and the other undeniably feminine. Face to face, they locked and unlocked their hands, swinging their arms to the music while watching the performance as much as they watched one another. Even the musician they were there to see couldnâ€™t have tempted their gazes away from each other for too long. As I watched them, I couldn’t help but think of CK and me. Together, we are just like that, enveloped in each otherâ€™s presence and content to reside in a space apart from others. Together, we share thoughts too intimate to be communicated above a whisper. Together, we would have smiled at those girls, knowingly.
To my left, I heard a boy whisper to his friend a hushed message, indecipherable save for the word â€œlesbians.â€ I was less certain than he was that these girls were more than just friends. I had my doubts. What was undeniable, however, was that they were in love.
I object when people insist on labeling me bisexual â€“ or worse, bicurious. They hear me profess my love for CK, and at once, they disregard the many, many male precedents who have come before and after her. CK is not a fetish. She is not an experiment. CK is not the exception to the rule even though she is far from the rule. I do not love her in spite of her womanhood, but because of it. Yet I hold no misconceptions about my overwhelming attraction toward men; I am not interested in women in that manner at all. I am not bicurious. I am CK-curious.
There is something about my relationship with CK that I have never been able to pinpoint. I think I now know what it is. Our relationship is marked by a level of emotional and physical intimacy unmatched by any relationship I have shared with another woman.
I love her. I love her in the way that I love my girlfriends, but in another way as well, not just unconditionally but intimately. I feel for her in a manner only a lover can. I appreciate qualities like her voice. I like it whether it is pitched high with laughter or dipped low with reprimand and concern. I like her when she is girlish and I like her when she is boyish, but mostly sheâ€™s in between. And I like that too. I like her deliciously disheveled as much as I like her when she is in stockings and pearls. I have picked up her habit of saying “baby” and her Southern accent is now more song to me than drawl.
It’s ironic that my first romance-related entry on Sex and the Ivy is about a woman. But perhaps, it is fitting, because loving CK taught me just how unimportant sex is. She has told me repeatedly that we would never work out romantically. Besides our insurmountable preference for men, we’d be faced with disagreements about all the essentials â€“ money, lifestyle, and most importantly, sex. But in a relationship like ours, sex, for the first time, hardly matters.