I used to think I had a clear preference for muscular girls with raven black hair and coal black eyes, who had a preference for progressive politics and read Hemmingway and Faulkner and listened to Edith Piaf; then, a long-time platonic friend of mine asked one day, "What's up with you and lesbians?"
And I said, "Oh."
"We've been fishing from the same well, haven't we?" I asked.
"Have been for years." She said. "But, I never held it against you." She continued, clasping a solid hand down on my trapezius muscle as a sign of friendship and respect.
"I guess that explains my batting average," I said, in revelation and sad resolution.
"Mine too, brother." She said. "Mine, too."
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