A Man Raped Me, And I’m Still A Lesbian


She looked at me apologetically and said, “Not for nothing, but every lesbian I know has always had some traumatic experience with a man.” She said it as if I was supposed to cross my arms, look pensively at my shoes, and in my smallest voice say, “Well, there was this one night…”

The implication is that all lesbians were once straight women who were turned off by men because of some incident that brought forth some fucked-up PTSD that no one talks about. I wonder what Monster would think about this…

Dear Monster, was it the three shots of tequila that made me lose my inhibitions, my clothes, and my homosexual preference? Or was it the liquid you slipped in my drink that did the trick? Was I gay before you ripped off the dress I’ll never wear again, violated me, and then left me in a parking garage? Or did I just conveniently decide to prefer the curves of a woman after I realized that men can be monsters?

Monster, I can answer these questions for you. I’ve been “officially” gay since I came out to myself my junior year of high school—that’s a whopping four years before you slithered into my life. Did I wish I was out of the closet and not fake-flirting with your friend that night? Of course I do. But if you think that your icy scars have anything to do with my sexual preference, don’t flatter yourself.

It’s just one more thing you’ve taken from me, Monster—a normal lesbian evolution beyond the closet.

I’m sure the folks that tote around this notion don’t quite understand how offensive it is. Not only is it incorrect to assume that one can choose what gender(s) they are attracted to, but it’s offensive to reduce my sexual preference to something that’s been beaten into me by some fucked-up twist of fate.