by Anna Pulley
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Table of Contents
About the Author’s
Copyright Page
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To our parents. None of whom are lesbians (or cats) but are nevertheless delightful.
INTRODUCTION
In 2010, the girl I planned to marry dumped me. I had proposed to her nine months earlier, on the Isle of Lesbos, in Skala Eresou, where Sappho was born, in case we’re playing Who’s the Gayest. She decided she wasn’t into ladies as much as she originally had thought. (For the record, she’s a lovely person, and we are good friends now, because part of the lesbian hex—which affects even those who aren’t lifers—involves remaining friends with your exes forever.) At the time, though, I was shattered. My chest was a brick, and I could do little besides cry-hyperventilate. I fantasized about getting hit by cars—not fatally so, just some light maiming—so that my ex would have to come back and take care of me and then decide to grow old with me the way we originally had planned.
Also, my dad had been recently diagnosed with lung cancer, and my stepdad had a stroke, and my mom ended up being hospitalized as well due to the stress of it all. I had just started a new job (“paid internship” is a more accurate description) making about six dollars an hour in the most expensive city in the United States, a city I most certainly could not afford to live in on my own. It was not the greatest time to be dumped by my fiancée, as far as those things go.
And because of all these events, I couldn’t write. I couldn’t even journal. I peered at the stories of my life thus far and didn’t recognize myself in any of them—they were like those dreams in which you wake up and remember nothing but the feeling they inspired. When I tried, my words would devolve into self-loathing expletives, like a fifth grader’s reenactment of a Martin Scorsese movie. But I was also contractually obligated to write for work. And by “write,” I mean tweet. So I did that, not just so I wouldn’t get fired but also because it was strangely satisfying and required very little time commitment. Plus, it helped me avoid thinking about the emotional tsunami of suck that had become my life. A tweet, 140 characters. A haiku, seventeen syllables. A task that small and manageable I could do. Anyone can write seventeen syllables, I told myself. And so I did. I wrote one every day for a year, just like how Ryan Gosling’s character wrote one letter every day for a year in The Notebook, because he was copying me. One of the first ones was this:
Being on Twitter
all day for work makes it hard
to finish any.
And another:
I face all my fears
in yoga: flying, falling,
farting in public.
And another, and another. I wrote haiku until I no longer felt like I would die from ineptitude, or that my life was a huge cosmic mistake, particularly my hair and the errant incisor that made me appear to be always on the verge of toothing something. Not to get too Oprah one-thing-I-know-for-sure on you, but writing haiku was how I slowly re-raveled myself. I put my life back together three lines at a time.
My healing process was aided by two things: (1) a handful of beautiful, unavailable women and (2) an unwavering belief that poetry would make those women want to have sex with me. Of course this strategy failed a lot of times. (How often? It’s not like I counted. Fourteen.) But it also worked a great many times too. It led to a four-year sexy-romance-heart-tumble-thing with a married woman who lived on the other side of the country. We wrote a lot of haiku to each other. Hundreds of them. It also led to a one-night stand with a straight girl I met on Twitter. It led to two fuck buddies developing feelings for each other and ceasing to fuck me (see Chapter 5, “How Lesbian Sex Works”). It led me to bars (see Chapter 2, “How to Pick Up a Lesbian”) and sex parties and sex dungeons and spectacular rejections and spectacular hangovers and some truly amazing friendships (see Chapter 8, “My Ex Is Your Ex”), and eventually it led to a fantastic girlfriend who did not balk at all when I suggested we do a book together whereby she would draw cats in various states of lesbian anxiety (see Chapter 4, “U-Hauling”).
WHAT’S A HAIKU, ANYWAY?
Our attention spans are getting shorter. Blame ADHD or the Internet if you must, but the truth of the matter is not much can hold our attention for long, even when it’s about topics dear to our hearts, such as love, Nutella, or cunnilingus. This is why haiku was invented—to give our short-form brains something else to do when we aren’t photographing dogs wearing leggings. The word “haiku” has been around since the nineteenth century, but it has appeared in other variations since as far back as the ninth century, when people had to actually memorize things in order to impress anyone.
What is a haiku, you ask? It’s a form of poetry that the Japanese invented and that we Westerners graciously stole from them and changed ever so slightly to fit our language wonkiness. We mostly think of haiku as seventeen-syllable poems, in the 5-7-5 format, that look like this:
I like poetry,
flowers, and waterfalls. I’m
a haiku genius!
Japanese haiku isn’t based on syllables, however. It’s based on onji, which are units of sound that don’t correlate with English very well. The Haiku Society of America (which is a thing that exists!) explains, in a somewhat exasperated manner, that haiku isn’t a type of fixed form poetry (like a sonnet, for instance) and that people should just get over the rigid 5-7-5 format already, because they were probably tired, as I was, of getting into Twitter fights with people over syllables. That said, I tried to adhere to this format when I could in this book because it’s what most of us think of when we think of haiku, and because, like most lesbians, I am a pleaser.
In the West, haiku was popularized in the 1960s by writers like Jack Kerouac and Gary Snyder, though the trend was soon superseded by enthusiasm for hipsters, zombies, and vampires, per our collective cultural boner for brainless dead things that sparkle and drink PBR.
WHAT’S A LESBIAN, ANYWAY?
Like haiku and poetry in general, lesbians (and bisexuals, trans folk, queers, genderqueers, tenderqueers, heteroflexibles, and all womyn-loving wimmin) are frequently misunderstood. Sure, you may have read about them once in a Women’s Studies class, glimpsed them on Grey’s Anatomy or in the plaster aisle at Home Depot, but it’s a rare thing indeed to experience queer women in the wild. Who are these mythical beings? What do they do? What do they wear now that hipsters have appropriated flannel? How do they meet? Is it true that lesbians move in together after the second date? Is there a “man” in such relationships? And if so, can it be me? What does Rachel Maddow have that I don’t? These are some of the questions you may have. This book aims to dispel myths, to enlighten, to demystify, to remystify, to gently chide, and to perplex your parents, all in the most straightforward medium available to humankind.
But first, a caveat! I am not out to speak for every queer lady. The following haiku are by no means trying to capture the lesbian experience, be
cause there isn’t one—it differs for every queer lady. I realize also that not every queer-identified person subscribes to female pronouns or female sex parts. I totally support that, but for ease and clarity, I decided to keep it simple. In fact, if you don’t like a pronoun or genital reference, feel free to scratch it out and use whatever feels comfortable to you. I don’t mind.
Careful observers might also notice that this is called The Lesbian Sex Haiku Book, but that it encompasses a lot more than that—breakups, makeups, friendship, courtship, etc. The reason that this is so is because sex is in a little bit of all we do. For a group that collectively eroticizes Teva sandals and Greenpeace, the sky is the limit, you know? It’s also because maybe I secretly want confused heterosexual men to pick up this book and think it’s porn and then be like, “Ahh, I just read lesbian poetry!” And join a coven in New Mexico. One can dream.
LESBIANISM 101
Have you always wondered if you might like girls that way, but weren’t sure because you don’t have several dietary restrictions and aren’t perpetually covered in pet hair? If you don’t know what a lesbian is but picked up this book because you are a cat who enjoys looking at pictures of other cats, then put it down, Mittens. This book is not string! If you are a human person who doesn’t know what a lesbian is, but also doesn’t know how to use the Internet or read a book or watch television or movies, then what do you do with yourself? I’ve always wondered.
Here’s a haiku definition:
Lesbianism:
So much more than folk music
and hemp shorteralls.
Now that that’s cleared up, the following haiku present some indications that you might be, perhaps unbeknownst to you, sapphically inclined, bicurious, full-on lesbionic, or “in college.”
YOU MIGHT BE A QUEER GIRL IF …
You can’t even break
up with your therapist in
under a decade.
When an ex-lover
has thrown a Boca Burger
at you drunkenly.
When you live with your
ex far longer than you should
because “it’s cheaper.”
Do you own bongos?
A djembe? A didgeri-
don’t-mind-if-you-do?
When asking, “What are
you thinking?” is your go-to
icebreaker question.
Does a “naked mud
dance” sound like a great way to
commune with nature?
Do you find yourself
wondering why songs don’t have
more ukulele?
You are accused of
making uncomfortably
lengthy eye contact.
If you’ve gone out a
dozen times and still don’t know
if you’re dating her.
You obsessively
Google prospective dates in
the guise of “research.”
You play flag football
but are, by every other
measure, an adult.
Do you own more than
one vest that your mother did
not purchase for you?
You have developed
unhealthy attachments to
several baristas.
The only “doctors”
you are familiar with are
Bronner and Martens.
When you dance, does it
look like you’re Hula-Hooping
in a wild typhoon?
You’re allergic to
everything—except passive-
aggressive memos.
You have at least four
jobs at any given time,
and you volunteer.
You’ve got 99
problems and 98 of
them are your “bitches.”
A REPRESENTATIVE SAMPLE OF EVERY LESBIAN MOVIE EVER MADE
Lesbian films serve many important functions—visibility, levity, fodder for processing, etc.—but their most important function is to make us feel better about staying alive so well because most lesbian and bisexual characters in contemporary queer films (and television) die horrible deaths. Ha-ha, weird, right? But seriously, congratulations on not dying. You are great at that. Hopefully.
Girl has sexual
awakening with teacher/
roommate/friend. Then dies.
Girl has horrible,
traumatic past, present, and
future. Then she dies.
Girl has sexual
awakening with druggie.
The drug addict dies.
Girl has sexual
awakening. Kills her mom/
lover for “funsies.”
Girl has lesbian
tryst during the Holocaust.
Everybody dies.
Girl has sexual
awakening, decides she
likes men. She still dies.
Girl doesn’t have a
sexual awakening,
but she shaves her head!
Cheerleader figures
out she’s gay. NO ONE DIES! Film
revered forever.
Gina Gershon wears
a tight tank top. Sorry, does
something else happen?
First hour: eating.
Second hour: fucking. And
third hour: crying.
Straight-looking girl goes
gay. Male director slowly
jerks off for two hours.
Girl spends half the film
staring vacantly into
bodies of water.
Married lesbians
suffer from bed death, but can
still be great parents!
Hetero subplot
is added to make straights feel
okay with “gay stuff.”
HOW TO PICK UP A LESBIAN
Picking up a lesbian is not as easy as it looks, even though many are around five feet tall. For starters, it’s difficult to tell simply from appearances what ladies walking among us might be receptive to seeing us naked. Unless your potential paramour is wearing a sign that says “My other ride is your face!” it’s not often obvious that you are in fact courting a lady-lovin’ lady. There are a few signifiers to look for, of course—short asymmetrical haircuts, Coexist T-shirts, a preponderance of jorts in her wardrobe—but nothing foolproof. Just ask the countless lesbians who have mistakenly ogled both the teenage boy and his heterosexual mother sporting a mullet and a college sweatshirt because they thought they were lesbians. Alas, until the day comes when we decide to help potential lovers decipher our sexual proclivities with, say, a large face tattoo, we can only surmise, ask questions, and take chances. That said, however, the following haiku provide a jumping-off point to picking up the gay gal of your dreams using well-worn approaches field-tested in places as diverse as bars, gender studies classes, and the modular cube aisle at the Container Store.
MORE REALISTIC WAYS TO “FLAG” AS A WOMYN-LOVING WO’MOON
Host a dinner where
you promise to serve harm-free
vegan macro bowls.
Do not brush off the
cat (or dog) hair you are most
surely covered in.
When girl remarks on
pets’ hair, say names are Vita
and Virginia.
I was serious
about that “My other ride
is your face” button.
Find an excuse to
take out your wallet so she
can see it’s empty.
Stand in a corner
and refuse to drink all but
low-calorie beer.
Stand in a corner
and incessantly sweep your
hair out of your eyes.
“Hi. I would like to
officially invite you
to join my coven.”
Introduce yourself
using the words “witch,” “poet,”<
br />
“grad school,” or “co-op.”
FOOLPROOF LESBIAN PICKUP LINES
Of course I read Cunt.
Painting with menstrual blood
was transformative!
Girl, I would love to
help you move that modular
couch from IKEA.
Cold? Take my micro-
fleece vest. I only wear it
ironically.
Have you reconciled
your identity with race
and class privilege?
Don’t label me—I’m
a non-het-identified
poly pagan witch.
It has been MANY
years, but I’m not done griping
about The L Word.
LESBIAN PICKUP STRATEGIES THAT RARELY WORK YET ARE REPLICATED INCESSANTLY
Perfect the art of
leaning on things. Once mastered,
hook thumbs into jeans.
Drink excessively
the whole night. When she’s nearby,
talk a lot louder.
Buy Tipping the Velvet.
Don’t give it to her! Hope
she gets the “message.”
Visit a witch store.
Not for spells, just to support
local queer business!
Name obscure “shipping”
reference. When she does not
get it, run away.
Knit your feelings for
her using symbols culled from
dream dictionaries.
Say “Hi.” Before she
can respond, run outside and
hail a taxi home.
Go to Trader Joe’s
any day but Saturday.
(That’s just good advice.)
Write a haiku book
(with cats). Fill with deep longings.
Sign hers “TRANSFERENCE.”
HOW TO PICK UP …
The serious lesbian
Intersectional
cisgender hegemony
