During the last year, in London, I had been seriously thinking about my sexuality. It was clear that my affection, my loyalty, my trust, my interest, were all directed at my women friends. The two years previous to that, in Spain, I'd spent all my time with women except for the most prefunctory sexual moments with men.

So - I thought-

what - I thought -

what would it be like? - I thought -

I'd always been curious - I thought -

In a new country - I thought

And surrounded by lesbians -

I thought - I could...

Then I met Linda, which must have only been a few days before she took this picture. In our first conversation, in which I paid more attention to her face and to her long, sprawling legs than to her words, I heard her argument. She felt that people have to make clear choices, not sit on the fence, those not with us are against us and will betray us and watch us burn if the day comes when the world turns against us. And I argued, I argued for amibiguous and fluid areas, but I let her assume that I was a died in the wool lesbian. It was partly because I could and partly because I didn't want to appear a novice, I wanted to be already a lesbian not going through an awkward metamorphosis.

Other memories jogged by this photo. This Photo. All the Photos

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