This spring, on the eve of the equinox at a loft party in Brooklyn, I hinted to a woman I’d been crushing on that we might have a vibe. She was tomboyish with wavy mermaid hair; an engineer, a skater and punk guitarist. We were both surprised when she hopped into my Lyft and called in sick the next day, weathering a spring blizzard from my bed. It was not unlike spontaneous nights I’d had with men, but at 37, it was my first with a woman.
We’ve been together ever since.
My whole life, I dated and loved only men. But when I told family and friends I was dating a woman, no one seemed shocked — for some reason, that bothered me. I imagined them all in a room together, nodding solemnly and saying, “So this is why she never settled down.” Though I was raised by a free-spirited nomadic mother in a liberal environment surrounded by queer folks, I felt compelled to make it clear that I wasn’t coming out. This was situational.