Hello God, Am I a Lesbian?

My disdain for men has never been a secret. It’s been apparent since childhood. I never particularly cared for boys—I hated my older half-brothers, and that still hasn’t changed. Boys were (and remain) plainly obnoxious with a sense of entitlement that needed to be stopped. Now, granted, at that age I didn’t know what entitlement was, so I couldn’t put my chubby child finger on it—but now I know. I fucking know.

Being raised in a cult, I was taught early that girl-on-girl was bad, and boy-on-boy was badder. God, apparently, had created only two genders: man and woman. Yet somehow, as I flipped through the Bible, I never found the scripture that said, “But men were created with a flaw causing them to act like a bitch.” Imagine my surprise, then, growing up trying to keep men on a pedestal when I knew they belonged under my foot—with my heel pressed into their neck.

Growing up, I was attracted to both boys and girls. My first girl crush? Christina Ricci—big shocker there. My first boy crush? Keanu Reeves in Speed. Take a moment to reflect on what Keanu looked like in that movie: very femme, in the hottest way possible. It was giving stud vibes. HELLO. At my tender age, I didn’t know what “gay” was. I knew about drag queens because they were everywhere in the ‘90s—and honestly, I wanted to be one. Probably explains my lifelong love affair with makeup.

I fucking digress.

By my preteens, I had crushes on two boys—both hella femme. Danny had green eyes, eyelashes for days, and looked like he wore eyeliner. He was a year older, visiting his cousins two buildings down. I’d see him pull up, throw on my rollerblades, and roll past his building like my life depended on it. The boy had no idea I existed. Then there was Tommy—dark lashes, big baby-blue eyes, cherry-red lips like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. Adorable. He was a sixth grader; I was a nerdy tomboy who basically lived in jeans and a T-shirt.

My vibe was never frilly. I lived for blue jeans and plain white tees. When bell bottoms and wide-leg JNCOs hit, there I was—12 years old, overdeveloped boobs, giant jeans dragging through the mud, and a tight little tee. Looking back, I was a vibe. I leaned into my girly side around 13 when butterfly clips took over the world and Britney dropped Hit Me Baby One More Time. I strutted into eighth grade with glittery butterflies flapping in my hair, jeans, and my new obsession—T-shirts with quotes. My favorite said “Princess.” Princess, indeed.

In middle school, I had a crush on Michael—short, sweet, and again with eyelashes that could cut glass. Two earrings, cherry lips. We did everything together. Later, at the Kingdom Hall, I had a crush on an older boy named Chris. He and his cousin Lenny were the bad boys of Jehovah’s Witness royalty. Lenny was the masculine one; Chris—surprise, surprise—had the lashes, the lips, the slicked-back hair. Cute in a girly way.

No one noticed me until I switched up my style. At 13, I started wearing heels, pencil skirts, white button-ups, and lipstick. Suddenly, boys paid attention—but I still wasn’t interested. They gave me the ick. I only noticed the ones with softer features. And, looking back, I was sniffing out the butches in the congregation. Nailed it every time.

Then came the pressure to marry an “older, more experienced” man. I told my mother constantly that I’d never marry. I hated the idea—thought it was pointless. Around that time, I also started side-eyeing the Bible. I’d mastered scripture, and when we studied Job, I rolled my eyes. He reminded me of my father and grandfather—whining about losing crops. I wanted to yell, Be a man!

I had a soft spot for Daniel—don’t ask me why, but I swear that man was gay. He was gentle, kind, sweet. Then came John, Noah, Moses—annoying as hell. Not Noah, though. Noah seemed nuts, possibly schizophrenic, and I respected that. Isaiah, though? I couldn’t stand him. During meetings, I refused to participate. When asked why, I said, “I don’t like Isaiah’s voice.” The elder blinked. “What do you mean, his voice?” I said, “The voice I hear when I read his scriptures makes me angry. He’s… too much.” He looked baffled. Skill issue, honestly.

When it came to women in the Bible, my favorite was Jezebel riding the beast in Revelation. She looked like a 1970s harlot with blue eyeshadow, probably riding a Harley in Cher’s leather. Iconic. Then there was the prostitute Jesus helped. I remember pointing at The Watchtower magazine, whispering to my mom, “Are you seeing this? The whore?”

When I’d bring up women in scripture, I’d get in trouble. I’d ask why it was always whining men in the Bible, bitching about everything, while women got no credit. Once, I said Lot’s wife didn’t turn to stone because she missed home—she turned because she realized her husband was annoying as fuck and she’d rather die than walk another mile with him. I didn’t say it exactly that way… but close enough to get a lecture.

Anyway. In my teens, the questioning was definitely there. But I was doomed to marry a man, so I shoved it down. My dad didn’t help—he always pushed “womanly” things. I wanted to ride motorcycles, get dirty, build houses. He said no—women didn’t belong there. So I sat talking to ants while he built homes. As an adult, my walls now have holes from me hanging things wrong—but at least I did it. Maybe he saw the inner butch that needed to be stopped.

At 20, I worked as a receptionist and met a girl—19, sweet, plain Jane, very butch. I liked her. One night we were driving, stopped at a red light, and she looked at me that way. My heart stopped. She smiled, leaned in, and just as something was about to happen—the light turned green. She laughed and kept driving. I stayed quiet, blushing like a fool, ears burning. Inside, I thought, Oh shit. God’s going to hate me for this.

Nothing happened, but everything happened.

Immediately after, I forced myself to date this guy from my religion who’d been chasing me since I was 14. I told her about him. She distanced herself. The friendship faded. I think about her a lot.

Later, I married a sailor—nothing femme about him. Tattoos, muscles, military. I was attracted to him, sure, but he was unlike the androgynous types I’d always preferred. I became the wife. More feminine, subdued. Then I met my boss—gay dad, metro energy, safe vibes. Probably the only man I ever felt completely safe with. With him, my look evolved again—tight pencil skirts, heels, slutty-secretary chic. That’s when people started whispering that I was secretly a dominatrix. Turns out, I was just fucking butchy.

Years later, I kept questioning God—back when I still believed in him. My brother came out when I was 14. I didn’t really know what “gay” meant, just that he hung out with boys and I thought, okay, whatever. Love is love. I’ve always loved the phrase “I love hearts, not parts.”

After my divorce, I met someone on Hinge. He was male, and later told me he was trans. He was nervous I’d reject him—but I was very attracted to him. Feminine features, soft energy, and I think part of it was that before transitioning, he was female. He knew what it was like to be a woman. That was deeply attractive to me. Cue another existential crisis. My therapist gave me a label, but I hate labels. I was raised in boxes—religious, gendered, behavioral. I want to be free.

Fast-forward four years. The more I explore my sexuality, the more I discover my identity. I still have questions. AI wasn’t helpful—it threw me a million quizzes and trackers to “find out if I’m gay,” and I wanted to throw my phone into traffic.

Even though God and I parted ways long ago, sometimes I still say, “HELLO GOD, am I a lesbian?” Then I laugh. We laugh. The universe laughs. And I move on with my day.

Is it trauma? Lore? Too much Tylenol my mother ingested? We’ll never know. What I do know is: I have a type. And the beauty of life is that you don’t need a label to have an identity. Just be who you are. Be free. Love fully.

Loving the same gender isn’t a problem. Pedophilia is. But according to Christian conservative Republicans, pedophiles are rockstars worthy of a throne. Just saying.

And with that… we close another unhinged chapter of The Lore of Elaine.