W and I might be vacationing in Provincetown, Mass., in July.
We don’t get a lot of alone time, so this could be just what the Lesbian Doctor of Love ordered. (Think Melissa Etheridge with a stethoscope.)
Initially, we had talked about going to Boston or Salem, Mass., but W texted me today and asked what I thought about P-Town.
I texted back that it is one of my life goals to buy something from the Provincetown Women’s Bookstore.
Cue flashback swirls and trippy music.
The year was 2002. A guy named Bush was president. Later on, this will seem ironic or like heavy handed foreshadowing.
I am participating in a therapy group called “Married to a Man and in Love With a Woman.” I am married to a man. I can’t fathom the woman part even though I fantasize about it.
During one of these therapy sessions, a fellow participant talks about going on vacation in Provincetown with her family. She is surrounded by hand-holding, rainbow flag-waving gay people but unable to tell her conservative family about her girlfriend.
She tells us that the Women’s Bookstore in town offers a 10 percent discount to women-loving women. “You just have to ask for the lesbian discount,” she explains.
The bisexual in the group asks if she would get a 5 percent price reduction.
The moment that I hear about the lesbian discount, I want it. It’s not about saving the 10 percent (even though I’m cheap like that) but about being able to identify as a lesbian.
At the time, it’s something that I can’t even imagine. No one knows I’m a lesbian. Not my husband or my parents or my friends. How could I possibly tell a stranger that I’m one?
The Women’s Bookstore becomes a mythic mountain of sorts. A challenge to train for and to conquer.
More than a decade later, I am ready.
I know that I can confidently ask for the lesbian discount.
Somehow, I suspect that they would give it to me anyway.