I am butch.

Let’s just get that out of the way. I have my feminine attributes; but I am, for all the world to see, as gay as a glitter-farting unicorn.

That said, I have never really had to come out to anyone. You’d have to be blind or Mormon to not see how blatantly les I am. From my shaved head to my classic converse, I am as comfortable in my own skin as I can be in a culture where skinny, flippy-haired pixie women are worshipped as demigods in the church of high expectations – but that’s a whole ‘nother blog.

Back to how naturally gay I am.

It made coming out really easy.

What made it easier was my mom walking in on my girlfriend at the time and myself while we were…um…doin’ stuff.

I was 15.

Yep, folks – no muss, no fuss, no weepy “Mom and Dad? I have something to tell you,” at age 22 after forcing myself through however many sham heterosexual relationships it would have taken for me to go crazy and stop caring.

I never had to tell my friends. I never had to tell my extended family. I mentioned it in passing once or twice and they all just…accepted it. It was pretty wonderful, actually.

I got lucky.

I am not a femme. I don’t have to face the reality of coming out of the closet over and over again to people who think they know what a lesbian “looks like” for the rest of my life.

I consider that bullet dodged.