I hate coming out. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

It’s not my closet. I’m not hiding anything. A given interlocutor has a closet in her head out of which I am obligated to wrest myself. It is the assumptions of others that dominate those conversations. It makes me fucking insane. This is likely because I was lucky enough to spend five years in a place where, generally, heterosexuality was not assumed, or not as vigorously as it is here in New Eden.

Now, I don’t read as queer, even to other queers, because I’m not butch. (Dispensing, for the nonce, with the rant about the supposed equation between dykeness and butchness.) I’m not femme, either (another rant about binaries hereby dispensed with), but I’m a fey little thing and will always be read as feminine, no matter how I present. Body language can do a lot — folks with good queerdar will pick me up pretty quickly after a few minutes of conversation. But, sadly, New Edeners tend not to come with the right software for such nuanced observation. (In high school and early college, I wore a rainbow belt — and even that wasn’t enough.)

Since presentation won’t do it for me, language has to carry the burden of proof. Unfortunately, I don’t have energy to explain my identifications fully, but I also hate identifying with a simple label for the benefit of the clarity of mind of others. And there’s always the which-label problem: when pressed, I identify as queer or as a dyke. I despise “gay,” and “lesbian” makes my skin crawl. “Sapphist” is a fabulous throwback, but illegible in most circles. Further misfortunes occur surrounding the fact that, in a place like New Eden, “queer” and “dyke” must carry with them an ungainly Queer 101 lecture that is likely to sound threatening to these sweet little straights.

Not that I mind threatening, but some of these sweet little straights are my coworkers and I must continue to get along with them, for my own peace of mind. I’m not fully out at work yet, and it drives me nuts. Worse, of course, than any of the dynamics of coming out is the horror of being read as straight. But I refuse to engage in the kind of PSA-style revelation of my so-called “sexuality” that dominates narratives of disclosure in this culture. So how do I maintain my integrity in a way that also allows me to continue to have healthy working relationships with my coworkers, about half of whom are probably homophobes?

Sex lives, or even romantic lives, are not a topic of conversation at New Eden Books. And I’m not currently partnered, so the “my girlfriend” drop is out. So I envision a scenario like this one:

“Hey mouse, have you read the new Joyce Carol Oates?”
“No, not yet. But I was reading that Sarah Wa–”
“Oh, but the Oates is so great! There’s a galley in the back – grab it before someone else does. Hey, will you shelve these for me?”
“Sure. Also, I have sex with women!”

Clearly not the way to go about things, but what’s a little dyke to do when nobody knows she’s a dyke?