One lezzy doesn’t want it to be all about her. Another does.
Dear Lipstick & Dipstick: I had my first lesbian experience two years ago.
It was so wonderful to be free to explore who I really am. Up until this point, I had always fantasized about women and what we could do together in the bedroom. Finally getting to experiment with that was amazing. Not long after that short-lived relationship fizzled out, I met a woman who knocked me off my feet.
Sadie was everything I wanted. She’d been out for 30 years and knew how to treat a woman right. It was fun, in the beginning, because it was all about me. She didn’t allow me to touch her intimately. No going down on her.
No touching—not even body massages. Only kissing and hugging. In the beginning, that was enough, but then it started to bother me, and it still does. We got married last year and now I’m totally regretting it. This is not the kind of relationship I want to be in. She doesn’t want to make it any better, and it seems she only wants a live-in friend, not a real wife.
I am contemplating leaving and freeing myself once again to be me, a happy and proud lesbian who loves to meet and appreciate other women. So now for the question: How can someone call herself a lesbian if she doesn’t want or enjoy all the beautiful sexy adventures—all the skin-to-skin contact and intimacy?— Jumped the Gun
Dipstick: Dear Jumped, it seems you’ve found yourself in a relationship with a stone butch—or at least a Stone Sadie. Since you’re newly out, you may not even know about this subset of our community. Lesbians who are “stone” are completely satisfied by pleasing their partners and prefer not be to touched sexually. I guess this is a conversation you should have had before you married Sadie.
Lipstick: To answer your question, according to Merriam Webster, the word “lesbian” is defined as “a woman who is sexually attracted to other women,” so Sadie has every right to call herself a clit crusader and fly that flag.
Dipstick: True that. Stone butch lesbians are part of our LGBT history and culture. For some perspective, I suggest you read the iconic Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg.
Lipstick: It sounds like Sadie simply isn’t the type of lezzy you want to sleep next to each night. There are myriad reasons why she’s not into certain kinds of intimacy. Perhaps she’s a survivor of sexual abuse and has put walls up for protection.
Dipstick: Actually, Lipstick, I think there is a misconception in our community that all stones must have some kind of trauma in their past. In many cases that is just not so. For a number of stones, it’s just a sexual preference to please. There is nothing wrong with her—she is just different from you.
Lipstick: I’m certainly not suggesting there’s anything wrong with Stone Sadie, Dip—no need to get your boxers in a bunch. I’m just peering into my crystal ball, colored and animated with 10 years of giving lesbians advice. For some survivors, this is their reality. With all due respect to stones, I couldn’t be in a relationship with one. I need more—the give and take is essential to fan this femme’s flame. Jumped, have you ever asked Sadie why she doesn’t like to be touched? If not, then letting some light into this dark room can give much clarity. In fact, it will be essential as the two of you figure out how to move forward, with or without each other.
Dipstick: Just because Sadie doesn’t like to be touched, it doesn’t mean she’s not into sex, or she’s not sexually attracted to you. It’s just that she wants to run the show— that’s what gives her pleasure. It’s time you and she figure out if and how this is going to work for the both of you. But quit blaming her for being exactly the person you knew her to be when you tied the knot.
Dear Lipstick & Dipstick: About a year ago, my girlfriend and I were out with friends and the conversation somehow turned to having children.
I mentioned that I didn’t want to get pregnant, but I wanted my partner to carry my egg for our first baby.
That way, she could give birth to the child, but biologically it would also be a part of me. My girlfriend’s response to that was, “I want my baby first, though.” The way she said it made me feel like we weren’t in this together, like if she carried my egg it wouldn’t be hers, and that her egg, her baby, wouldn’t be mine. All I said was we still had plenty of time to talk about that later on. I was slightly embarrassed that she’d said anything in front of our friends, but I didn’t want to discuss it further until we were in private.
I think she reacted that way because she is an only child and has a lot to learn about being in a partnership— like how things are not always going to be just about her. Recently, we’ve gone through some other rough patches. We try to talk about the things that aren’t working and find what we can do to fix them, or just compromise. So far, so good, except for that one little thing we haven’t discussed since that night. With each rough patch, that moment of her saying “my baby” always pops into my head.
When I replay it, fear stirs up inside me, because I’m terrified of being a bad mom. I’m worried that if I don’t have a biological connection with our first child, one day she or he is going to throw it in my face: “You are not my real mom.” Is this something I should discuss with her now, or can it wait until we get closer to having kids, which wouldn’t be anytime soon, as we’re only in our early twenties?—Worried About the Womb and Whom
Dipstick: Are lesbians still having babies? I thought that was a ’90s fad. Worried, you must talk about this, and the sooner the better. The fact that you’ve kept it inside for more than a year concerns me more than the issue at hand.
Lipstick: I disagree, Dip. Worried Womb, I say you’re overthinking all this right now. I know Mom Fever is a fiery beast, but just try to chill for a while. You’re young—just enjoy your life and each other, and try to live in the present moment. There’s plenty of time to deal with the specifics of starting a family when it’s actually time to conceive the baby. At that point, you should sit down with a professional to help you girls suss it out. All couples, in my opinion, should spend time on a therapist’s couch before taking such a huge step. A little housecleaning is critical prep before you have a child, so you can air all your fears, and laundry, before the first cry. With some work, you can get to a place where you feel as secure about the fruits of “her egg” as you do about your own.
Dipstick: Worried, I agree that she’s being selfish in saying “my baby first,” but frankly, aren’t you also being selfish in saying you want your egg up the fallopian first? Think about it.
Lipstick: Maybe you should reconsider the whole idea. I know a handful of couples who’ve gotten pregnant at the same time with the same donor’s sperm. How cool is that!
Dipstick: As for your fear of being a bad parent, I’d be more concerned if you were overly confident about your child-rearing abilities. Start on this parenting journey with an open heart and an open mind and I’m sure you’ll do just fine. No parent is perfect. Every child needs a therapy fund, but before you start that fund, put a few dollars away for yourself and make sure your partnership is solid—which means being able to have hard conversations—before you bring any embryos to the petri dish.