I lead a pretty charmed life for a homosexual. You’d think it would be all separate water fountains, bar raids, and Eminem-led assaults on my character, but as a resident of a liberal state who has surrounded herself with a buffer of likeminded individuals her whole life, I have been largely untouched by discrimination. Even my stint in Middle America happened to coincide with Iowa’s legalization of same-sex marriage and my affiliation with a program called AmeriCorps that was shockingly gayer than a women’s rugby team.

Sure, I am occasionally forced to acknowledge in a detached way that the “Christians” on television carrying on about the “gay agenda” actually consider me a danger to their children, but I have never met one of these individuals face to face. (This is a total tangent, but I’m really more offended by the suggestion that I would ever pursue an inappropriate relationship with the spawn of a people who so proudly display such unfunny bumper stickers. The “Christian” answer to the pro-Darwin Jesus-fish-with-feet sticker? The highly innovative Jesus- fish-with-feet sticker…with an X through it! That’s basically the theological comeback equivalent of “No, YOU’RE the stupid head.” I also think the linguistic wizard behind “Jesus Christ is Lord, not a swear word” is literally the only one who chuckles when he reads his quip on the side of big rigs, before congratulating himself with a “Christ, I’m good!” and becoming immediately racked with guilt. The idea that I would even associate with someone so un-clever is appalling. But I digress.)

Sure, I may feel compelled to crank my voice up a few octaves when talking to a client on the phone for fear of sounding like the local softball coach, or cringe every time a frat boy struggles to come up with a more creative expression of derision than “dude, that’s so gay”, but these are small sacrifices to make in exchange for the privilege of sleeping with women.

Still, sometimes an unpleasant situation as a result of my orientation manages to permeate my bubble, and not so much oppress me as remind me in an uncomfortable way that I’m a gay in a largely un-gay world. And sometimes these little, everyday discomforts are just as unsettling as the image of Anita Bryant and her hate mongering minions, because they’re more personal and more real. And more awkward.

Here are three scenarios that come immediately to mind.

…Gym Locker Room
When you are a member of a group that is routinely accused of being sexually deviant by ignorant assholes, you sometimes feel weirdly pressured to demonstrate your un-perverse nature to your peers, even if you have never exhibited behavior that would suggest otherwise. More specifically, you feel the need to reassure individuals of the same gender who could be frightened by your advances that you are not at all interested in them romantically. It’s sort of like guilty white people who prove their lack of racial prejudice by going out of their way to be friendly to black people.

“Yes, I am gay, but look at how I deliberately avoid physical contact with you! You have a boyfriend? Perfect! I’ll make a concerted effort to ask about him all the time and seem really excited when you hit important benchmarks in your relationship…cause I couldn’t be less interested in you!”

This pressure is enhanced in an environment like the locker room, where for some reason I feel my orientation prohibits me from ever laying eyes on a naked straight woman, even if I’m not attracted to her whatsoever. Perhaps the setting itself transports me back to sixth grade P.E., where the mere accusation of looking at another girl’s non-boobs could get you labeled as a “lezzy” well into high school.

The truth is, most women in the gym locker room don’t know I’m gay, nor are they concerned about the possibility, but I still have this irrational fear that if I so much as glance in the direction of even the most unattractive gym patron while she’s disrobing, she’ll begin screaming, “dyke!…DYYYKKEE!” and an angry mob of villagers with pitchforks will pour into 24 Hour Fitness and string me up on a pull-up bar.

And when you’re gay and at the locker room, how credible would your excuses sound?

“I’m not even attracted to her, I just wanted to know the brand of her sports bra…”

That would make perfect sense to another lesbian, but probably not the angry mob.

…Doctor’s Office
In my experience, gayness is handled by medical professionals with a respectable level of political correctness, but not necessarily an optimal level of understanding. They’re kind of like the awkward acquaintance who tries to demonstrate their acceptance of your sexuality by accidentally asking you offensive questions – “So are you the boy or the girl?” – or defend your sexuality with an accidentally offensive argument – “It’s not a choice! They’d change if they could!” Their hearts are in the right place, but they still manage to make you feel totally uncomfortable.

This discomfort is at its height at the gynecologist’s office, where every year I look forward to the following series of questions:

1) “Are you sexually active?” (to which I always answer yes, even if the real answer is “Well gee I’d like to be!”), followed by,

2) “What is your current form of birth control?” (to which I always answer “None, not even the rhythm method!” because I enjoy the look of horror that flickers across their neutral doctor face while they grasp frantically at their prescription pad and drawer of free condoms. “None? Well we can get you on something right now…Let me suggest one of our implanted options since you are clearly too dumb to be trusted with a method that involves you swallowing something other than semen once a day.”)

Once we get past this inevitable misunderstanding, the doctor suddenly adopts the opposite amount of fervor regarding my vaginal health, asking in a sort of an annoyed, confused tone,

3) “So do you even want me to BOTHER screening for STDs?” (to which I reply, “What the hell, I drink A LOT, who knows how religious I am about his whole ‘lesbian thing’ during a black out?”)

I’m flattered that my willingness to divulge my orientation has invited your total trust in my abstinence from activities that might cause me to contract an STD, but really, you’re a gynecologist; aren’t you supposed to peddle HIV tests like a Monster crew pushes energy drinks at a street fair? They’re free, relatively painless, and I’m shoving them in your face!

Even doctors who do not deal directly with your sexual health have trouble acting natural about gayness. I once filled out a questionnaire at my general practitioner’s office that included a “Domestic Partner” option under “Relationship Status”. As my doctor skimmed over my form, murmuring my answers aloud, she stopped for no reason at the “Relationship Status” section, in which I had checked “Single”, peered over her bifocals at my rugby t-shirt and soccer shirts and asked almost accusingly, “Domestic Partner?” I think I actually looked over my shoulder to see if a girl with an emo haircut and promise ring had followed me into the examination room and was now gazing upon me lovingly while stroking our dog.

“Yes doctor, I actually managed to meet the love of my life walking here from the lobby and we’ve decided to enter into a Civil Union. We lesbians DO move fast don’t we? Update the ‘Relationship Status’ on my form won’t you?”

Doctor Henderson, if you want to make sure your gaydar is functioning correctly, please add a “My U-Haul is Packed But Idling”, “Currently Between Long, Dramatic Catastrophes”, or “Just Broke Up For the Fourth Time But Will Probably Get Back Together Twelve More Times Before We Realize We’re Terrible For Each Other” option to your form so we single homos can label ourselves accordingly.

…The Gap
There are unspoken behavioral expectations one must follow when entering an establishment that is divided down the center by gender like a summer camp dance. For example, when I venture into the Gap on one of my reluctant, bi-yearly shopping excursions, it would be strange for me to make a beeline for the men’s section directly after the peppy store greeter informs me of the special on Sexy Boot jeans.

My approach to meeting these expectations while still accomplishing my retail goals is to first feign excitement at the Sexy Boot news and then slowly peruse the women’s section, gazing thoughtfully at silk pashminas and fitted blouses with armholes the circumference of baby sapling tree trunks. I’ll even select a few items and cart them around the store, pretending that these articles will in no way make me resemble:

1) The Incredible Hulk when he’s angry.
2) The Beast in the falling-in-love montage from Beauty and the Beast when he is dressed in a silly 18th century suit and gingerly holding a soup spoon in his massive paw.
3) An unfortunately proportioned drag queen.

After I have accumulated a respectable pile of women’s clothing, I amble casually over to the men’s section and then look around in bewilderment, as if I have just gotten lost during my search for tight, scoop necked tees. I wrinkle my forehead in a concerned manner while avoiding eye contact with the flamboyantly gay male Gap employee (there’s always one, and he’s never fooled), before quickly grabbing a few things and sprinting back to the women’s dressing room.’

“How many?” asks the unassuming dressing room attendant. “Let’s see, one pair of skinny jeans, a cami, an ultra thin cardigan and…(quizzical look)…three extra small men’s plaid button-ups with various color patterns?”

I give an equally quizzical look – how’d those get in there? – snatch them from her hands and slink into my dressing room to see which plaid best compliments my fashionable athletic shoes.

Mission awkwardly accomplished.

Possible future installments: Gay and at the…
1) Event requiring formal attire
2) Pacific Beach Bar
3) ? – Would love suggestions…