At Least Grab One Boob


Last Week on Nobody Scissors: I kissed a girl and I don’t know if I liked it, and then I didn’t exactly seal the deal.

After our kiss, Shmary and I went about our daily lives as usual except now you could cut the sexual tension between us with… well… scissors. There was this elephant in the room now that we were both avoiding like you would probably avoid a literal elephant if you encountered one in the wild. But one day about a week after the INCIDENT she passed me a note:

Let’s play a question game she wrote in a messy left-handed scrawl.
okayyyy I replied, not knowing what I was getting myself into.
If you could kiss anyone on the basketball team who would it be??? 

*Theme music and opening credits play*

I looked at her stupidly. Here I was, 14-years-old, awkward, trying to hide a brace-laced grin. Imagine Shane from The L Word but before puberty and before semi-cool early 2000’s lesbian haircuts, and before a sense of style. Now take the person you’re imagining and imagine their dorky best friend who gets minimal airtime on a mediocre cable sitcom… yea that was me.

How was this gorgeous girl flirting with me? Was this flirting? What do I do with my hands? What was this feeling in my stomach? Butterflies? Nausea? My ovaries exploding?

**Insert side story**
Speaking of ovaries… When I was 13 and started my period for the first time my mother and her sister (also known as my aunt) decided it would be HILARIOUS and appropriate to throw a period party welcoming me and my twin into womanhood. Nobody told us about this party it was a mothafuckin’ surprise. Everyone wore red. By everyone I mean my mom, dad, brother, baby sister, aunt, uncle, cousins, grandma, other aunt and uncle… it was a whole shebang. There were red balloons. Red velvet cake. Presents. It was horrifying. When you think you had an embarrassing mom remember that at least yours didn’t throw you a Menstruation Memorial…a Female Fiesta…a Womanly Wingding…a Girlhood Gala…a Vaginal Visitation…a Bloody Bash…a Cunt Cotillion? Thanks, shmom.
**Back to High School**

You. You know it would be you. I wrote back.
Would you do it again? 

My heart was pounding. I had just admitted via passed note (a sacred girl ritual as old as the earth itself) that I would kiss Shmary again. What did that mean? I was in way over my head here.

What I also didn’t know was that another teammate of ours, Shmia, was watching us from a row over in our English class. She had spied enough from our note passing to get the scoop and pass it along to all the other players in the locker room later that day. Word carries fast among teenage girls–faster than just about anything in the world I’d say–and word of two girls kissing in suburban Texas? That shit is viral. Like a RJ sex-tape viral (just kidding, we know who the star of that was). Like breaking the internet before breaking the internet was a thing viral.

That afternoon I got cornered in the locker room by the manager of the basketball team demanding to know the deets. I was pinned to the lockers like the little dweeb I was and had my phone stolen by my “best friend” who immediately texted Shmary with some super sleuth skills like she was fucking Grissom off CSI: Las Vegas. (By “super sleuth skills” I mean she sent: “Am I a good kisser?” and Shmary happily replied: YES!) Way to go Shmary, way to fall right into that one. (More importantly, way to go me for being a good kisser!) *Tiger Woods fist pump*

By our next basketball game Shmary and I were banned from sitting together by our clearly closeted bull-dyke of a coach (who told her anyway??) and were specifically told NOT TO TOUCH EACH OTHER on the bench. I couldn’t believe this. One kiss and I was a social leper.

Looking back, the reason the team was so interested in this gossip was because (mostly) everyone was so closeted that they were living vicariously through my G-rated lesbian romps. I mean who could blame them? Two ladies touching mouths? Oh baby.

If I could give my 14-year-old self some advice it would be: what these people think of you doesn’t matter one god damn bit. 10 years later you will still interact with two of these people outside of Facebook and one of them is your twin sister.

Another tid-bit of advice for former me: You should just chop your hair off now, it’ll do wonders for your game with the ladies (but maybe skip the Biebs side-swoosh look). And for god’s sake at least try to grab her boob (just one?) the next time you kiss her!

*Tune in next time as I wade into the ankle-deep waters of closeted lesbian dating*


I Kissed a Girl and I liked it…Kinda.


Last Week on Nobody Scissors: I rebelled against societal gender norms with all the ferocity of Canada’s most treasured pop-punk princess.

My first kiss was in 7th grade, with a boy named… let’s call him Shmarc. We were at the movies and he leaned in to kiss me. It was everything I dreamed it would be. Except that it was terrible and his tongue darted in and out of my mouth like a meerkat popping out of one of those holes meerkats live in. On top of that, we were watching a movie starring Nicholas Cage which can never be good, oh and the lights came on because the movie was ending. So there I was, 13 years old, mouth being probed by my boyfriend at the time who could have passed for an albino Tin-Tin, sitting in the front row of the theater with all of our friends staring open-mouthed at us still going at it. His mouth did taste like green jolly ranchers though, which was nice.

*Theme music and opening credits play*

Almost two years later I had my first lesbian encounter. That makes it sound like it was thrilling or wild. Like I was at a pool party with the cheerleading team and there was a baby oil slip n slide and some babe came sliding into my arms and into my heart — unfortunately, that’s not how it played out. My first lesbian encounter was rather tame in the scheme of things, but it was the first step in a long and shenanigan-filled queer journey and therefore it was monumental.

It was freshman year and my twin sister, Courtney, and I were having a sleepover with two friends from the basketball team. I was telling a ghost story about the ghost that haunted our upstairs hallway. My mother claims this story to be true, I don’t buy it, but nonetheless it makes for good storytelling. I wrap up the story and… let’s call her…. Shmary… looks at me with wide green eyes and cries “I’m sleeping with you tonight.” I had never really thought of that ghost story as a romantic one, but it got this super cute girl into my bed that night so I wasn’t complaining.

A little background on me and Shmary:
We played basketball together and from day one there an undeniable amount of sexual tension between her and I (well, as much sexual tension as two fifteen-year-olds can have). She was girly, tall, and conventionally pretty, I was short and awkwardly not boyish enough yet (give me a couple years, I promise I figured it out). She also had green eyes and was left handed, two traits that end up being VERY common when it comes to “my type” later on in life.

We were both just figuring things out in terms of who we were and who we liked. Being a lesbian wasn’t really “a thing” back then, or it wasn’t really that common–at least not in middle class Texas suburbia. In spite of not really knowing that much about the queer world, we dabbled the best that we could — but it was essentially the blind leading the blind. It started with always sitting next to each other, making bathroom trips together, passing notes in class, etc. We hadn’t quite acknowledged that we were attracted to each other, but we had held hands a few times on the bus, y’know, typical baby lesbian sexcapades.

So anyway, Shmary hops up in my bed and cowers into my shoulder as we try to fall asleep. Our other friend is talking with Courtney in the top bunk. (Oh yea, we had bunkbeds. All the way up until college. No wonder I never got laid). I was acutely aware of the smell of Shmary’s shampoo, and the way she not so subtly had her hand wrapped tightly around my waist. I turned to her in the dark and somehow we were kissing. Her lips were soft, Katy Perry had warned me that they might taste like cherry chapstick but hers tasted more like Burt’s Bees; either way, I realized that chapstick was way more my taste than green Jolly Ranchers, sorry Shmarc.

Almost as soon as it had started it was over, Shmary pulled away and asked me, “Are you sure?” to which I stuttered, “Uh, uh. Goodnight.” And rolled over.

Nailed it, Chris. Well done. Total ladykiller.

*Tune in next time to see what happens when the whole school finds out*

(S)He was a Sk8er Boi

sk8er boi

This “memoir” has been a long time coming–ever since I became “sexually active” (whatever that means) my life has never been short on entertainment or drama. My sister and I always joke that we (and our family) need a reality show, that there should have been cameras and crews following us around during my most formative years, cataloguing and preserving every horribly embarrassing phase and misstep. Who wouldn’t want to watch a mixture of The L Word and Keeping Up With the Kardashians? Because that’s my life–only way less fabulous and way more of a train wreck.

I should probably rewind to the beginning, back to the Pilot episode of this whole shit show, if you will.

*Theme music and opening credits play*

I would say that this fantastically queer adventure started out way earlier than anyone even realized. There were warning signs, sure. I lived in backwards caps and constantly had a skateboard under my feet. My sister and I were the only girls on an all boys street roller-hockey team. All of my Barbies met horrific, untimely ends. Someone should have caught on to this because looking back it’s all so clear.

Even though my mother acts like all of her dreams were crushed when I came bursting out of the closet with my twin sister in tow, she can’t have been completely blind-sided. Back in middle school, whenever we had a game day for the basketball team we were expected to dress up. The boys teams wore dress pants and button ups and the girls wore dresses. I abhorred these days, my anxiety ridden body filled with dread from the moment that the coaches announced these policies. This dread was combatted with rebellion against stereotypical gender norms and gendered fashion–leading to my sister and I wearing ties on game days. There I was, 12 years old, awkward as hell and styled like a mini less-Canadian Avril Lavigne and I knew that I had stumbled into something magical. This was the first step on a very long journey to becoming who I am today.

*Tune in next time for me kissing a girl and liking it (kind of)*