Lately I’ve been munching my way through interesting conversations with straight men calling about my 1980 Datsun 210 wagon for sale. Sometimes the questions about the car become questions about me. “I’m assuming that your husband has a car, too?” “You sound cute. I didn’t realize that you were so young.” Today’s conversation ends with his va
gue whispery words telling me to call him if I feel like it. It feels like this isn’t even about the car anymore. He’s not even that into my car. My car that looks to me like a Birkenstock and Carhart wearing dykemobile. The sort of thing that one would pack with smelly lesbos and drive to clothing-optional hot springs and women’s music festivals. It is decorated with bumperstickers that say “keep Portland weird” “No on 8” and “well-behaved women rarely make history” for goshsakes. I might as well have a bumpersticker that says “smash patriarchy with me and my hella hella gay friends.”
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