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She cares about clothes and buys a lot of hers vintage. She just got a tattoo commemorating Liverpool, her beloved football team. I love making her laugh.

She has a great laugh. Once, after I came in her hands, I burst into tears yeah, I know, big dyke energy , and she held me tightly in her strong, sure arms. Other things she calls me, in her unfairly irresistible British accent: cheeky bint, missus, girl, my dear, my love, my darling. Per the rules of our loose nonmonogamous agreement, I FaceTimed with my partner about what was happening on the cruise, first telling them about the catamaran girl and then, in so many words, about Lynette.

I was the one who seemed to stress this rule the most. I was less confident. Lynette and I had only just met, but in the emotionally intense bizarro world of the cruise, where relationships of all types seemed to develop at warp speed and I was feeling enough emotion for 10 lesbians combined, I liked Lynette very, very much.

A lot of it was, obviously, physical, chemical. But there were other things, too, that were harder to explain to other people or to myself. One of the first things I loved about her was observing her get dressed after she showered: her careful routine of lotions and gels and aerosols, her selection of a different wristwatch for different outfits. I loved grabbing her waist by the belt loops, loved playing with the silver cross she wore around her neck. It sounds shallow to imply that, in the beginning, I fell for her simply because of her style, her stuff.

Together they made up the way she wanted to be seen in the public eye, the way she wanted to move through the world. She was not a boy but a full-grown butch who, at 53, was confident in who she was and what she wanted. And that was new to me. By that, I mean b-o-i kinds of boys who may or may not identify as such : nonbinary dykes, twinky tops, Titanic-era Leo DiCaprios.

They are determined — via commitment to a bachelor-esque lifestyle regardless of partner status, and a refusal to even once go to therapy — that they should never, ever have to grow up. I think there was also a part of me that liked tempering my fastidious long-term planning, my conventionalism, my seriousness with their wild spirits, their rejection of every social expectation. Queer bois, with their embrace of pleasure above most all else, in their refusal to adhere to the rules of heteropatriarchal capitalism — why grow up if it means becoming a cog in the machine?

At least I barely wear any makeup! My frivolity was never out of hand. And I prided myself for that, for the ways in which I deliberately limited myself. What right do I have to indulge in my own gender trouble? After my partner came out as nonbinary a couple years ago, I felt even more confused and guilty about my conflicting desires to both lean into my own womanhood and flee from it.

I never felt like I had any choice about identifying as a femme — or as a woman, for that matter. She wore a different suit to dinner every night. We were lesbian and nonbinary dykes; we were supposed to be beyond gender.

I had plenty of my own domestic faults, to be sure: I can be disorganized and forgetful; I suck at trash duty; I despise doing dishes or cleaning out the fridge. It could be fun. It could be hot. It overwhelmed me, just then, the sudden force of my wanting. I wanted my own big, strong butch. I was used to being the person in a relationship who, comparatively, had more of her shit together. I took care of things for the both of us.

What would it be like if, for a change, I let somebody else take care of me? On Thursday, as our week at sea was coming to a close, everyone was encouraged to dress up in our fanciest gear for dinner, and later, dancing.

By this point, three days into our cruise tryst, we were effectively ship girlfriends. I opened it to find her casually leaning against the doorframe, looking overwhelmingly hot in her tux. I was startled to see her here so early; had I messed up our meetup time? Then she was gone. I shut the door and screamed into a pillow. I felt crazy. I felt like a teenager. I felt guilty and confused, like I had no idea what I was doing.

But I also knew that I might not ever do anything quite like this in my life ever again. So I might as well let myself live through this bizarro universe and see where it would take me.

The night felt emotionally like a prom, too: something joyous, but bittersweet. Everything was ending. We did a lap around the upper deck before sunset, arms linked, and when we arrived back on the main deck, a big group of lesbians literally cheered. I was even wearing eyeshadow. We did a lap around the upper deck before sunset, arms linked, and when we arrived back on the main deck, a big group of lesbians literally cheered, my catamaran hookup among them.

We smiled and waved, like and year-old prom queens, respectively. My heart swelled with such affection for each and every one of them.

We were back in my room before midnight. Lynette had been chatting with a few women the day before, more than one of whom confronted her in the cafeteria the next morning.

Less funny, though, was the fact that our respective romantic competitors were not the only ones who noticed us. Olivia actively partners with LGBT organizations at ports of call to foster camaraderie and community between Olivia women and lesbian locals. I planned to meet Dana in the ship lobby that morning so that we could wander around for a while before the event.

The entertainment options are nice to be honest, most of them are just But those things never seemed like the heart of Olivia to me. Olivia was hearing an American explain U-Haul jokes to a confused, elderly Australian woman.

Olivia was trading gossip that a woman in her seventies threw her back out having sex and ventured out to find some weed in Tortola. Olivia was the extraordinary comfort of feeling so seen, and so loved, by a group of strangers who, by the time we docked in gray, rainy New Jersey, felt more like my family. She lives in a different country. She knew what she wanted. And now it was my turn to figure that out for myself.

I was scared of so many things, and worried about, as usual, lesbian stereotypes — moving too fast, feeling too much. And I said so. After getting married, Julia took Eileen's last name. Julia proposed to Eileen during a gig in London, following which during a holiday in Brazil, Eileen proposed to Julia.

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