Y

I've been thinking, and it takes vowels to make a lesbian.

The e, and the i, and the a, but there are the implied vowel sounds, as well.

There's the u, obviously,

as in "I love you,"

as in the sentence whispered at the end of entirely too many second dates between two women,

as in "You and I should move in together,"

as in "U-HAUL."

And then of course, there's the o,

which is sometimes silent,

but which is usually very, very loud but hidden

under blankets and bed sheets and muffled by pillows,

so that it is often mistaken for silent.

If I could use only one letter to describe the ways

in which women differ from men,

I would choose the letter O.

Because when I think about women loving women I hear an ocean of Ooooohs.

And when I think about straight sex,

I think of women who want to be whole instead of o's—

women who want to be made into spheres instead of sounds,

which feels good, too;

Though I'd prefer to stay O

because to me, no O means there can be no orgasmic, no Oh, oh God,

there can be no onomatopoeia,

which is pretty much what O is, anyway.

Ooooooooooooooh.


And yet I am not quite O.

If I were a letter, I would in fact be Y

because I am A, E, I, O, U, and sometimes gay,

Usually gay, but not strictly, and so I am Y.

This is somehow fitting, given that the tiny piece of me,

a piece the size of the bit of the letter X

which must be removed in order to make the letter Y,

is quite equally proportioned to the size

of the part of me

that is stricken with desire

when an atypically attractive owner of the Y chromosome removes a layer of clothing.

And though, as a Y, I did once go though the consonant/vowel identity crisis,

insisting that I was one or the other at any given point in time,

but never both,

not possibly both,

because dual-citizenship in the world of letters

just results in constant queries from

consonant companions as to whether I'd be cool

with adding an extra letter into the mix,

turning our sex life into a three-letter word,

if you catch my drift,

or even just a two-letter word,

two vowels: you and oooooh

or maybe he would just sit that one out

or maybe he could just watch

or maybe you could just take pictures

or maybe you could just tell him about it later

in excruciating detail.

No, dual-citizenship in the alphabet world

will cause certain O's to turn up their noses.

I once found myself in a long-term U and I situation,

but when I revealed to my U

that her lady-loving O had once dabbled in the affairs of consonants,

her reaction was dramatic—

head flung back,

hands balled into fists,

mouth opened into that lovely wide O that I love so much

and she cried,

"WHYYYYYYYYYYYY?"

And I said, "Yes!"

"Yes, exactly," I told her. "Y!"

And she looked confused and she asked softly,

"But, but...why?"

And I told her, Because that's who I am,

and that's how I feel,

and I can't spell my name with just the letter O.

I need H,

that Hhhh sound,

the sound of an exhale,

the sound of the humidity of your lover's breath

heating up the back of your neck.

And I need L's

I need two L's because I like them that much

because L's taught me love

and love taught me licking

and licking taught me lesbians

and lesbians taught me more licking, more love.

And the Y is the most important letter because the Y is me.

And the Y is what gives me power to ask myself things like:

Why is it that I let him wrap his arms around me

if she's the one I see when I close my eyes?

And:

Why is it that sometimes it takes forty-five minutes

and some gentle guidance for his touch

to feel like anything at all?

And:

Why is it that she brushes my hair out of my face and the whole world slows

to the point that I swear I can feel the molecules of my skin being rearranged

beneath her fingers

and I want to bottle her touch?

And this is when I find the words that make myself understand,

And this is when I say the words that make her realize,

I say, "My O, the Y is the most important letter

because without why I could have never made it to you."