Lesbian Crush Quotes

What do you want? I want to stop living in fear. I want to stop coming up with excuses about why I'm not interested in dating. I want my family to know me. I want to get to learn more about Lisa. I want to stop feeling like everything I am is inadequate or makes me unworthy of love because of something I can't help.

Baseball was a safe bet. Baseball also didn't have a girlfriend. Then again, baseball didn't have big brown eyes or show a little hint of cleavage under its uniforms. Decisions, decisions.

She flipped her hair over to the opposite side. My stomach flipped over to its opposite side.

Many a woman secretly has a crush on a man who secretly has a crush on her man.

On several occasions she'd half jokingly maybe quarter jokingly, told me she was glad I was gay if only because it meant no boyfriend or husband of mine would ever murder me. What a relief.

Dyke. I still got a thrill whenever she said it. To Dee and Gaby, Jamie and I were baby dykes. To us, according to them, they were dusty dykes, old-fashioned and just plain old. To hear them tell it, you'd think no one had ever been gay before their generation showed up. As they often reminded us, they were our foremothers in dismantling the heteropatriarchy, and so they said the word dyke as readily as they said our names, with a kind of defiant urgency. As a word I liked it so much better than lesbian - the hardness of it, the single middle-finger syllable.

In a world dominated by violent and passive-aggressive men, and by male institutions dispensing violence, it is extraordinary to note how often women are represented as the perpetrators of violence, most of all when we are simply fighting in self-defense or for our children, or when we collectively attempt to change the institutions that are making war on us and on our children. In reality, the feminist movement could be said to be trying to visualize and make way for a world in which abortion would not be necessary; a world free from poverty and rape, in which young girls would grow up with intelligent regard for and knowledge of their bodies and respect for their minds, in which the socialization of women into heterosexual romance and marriage would no longer be the primary lesson of culture; in which single women could raise children with a less crushing cost to themselves, in which female creativity might or might not choose to express itself in motherhood. Yet, when radical feminists and lesbian/feminists begin to speak of such a world, when we begin to sketch the conditions of a life we have collectively envisioned, the first charge we are likely to hear is a charge of violence: that we are “man-haters.” We hear that the women’s movement is provoking men to rape; that it has caused an increase in violent crimes by women; and when we demand the right to rear our children in circumstances where they have a chance for more than mere physical survival, we are called fetus-killers. The beating of women in homes across this country, the rape of daughters by fathers and brothers, the fear of rape that keeps old—as well as young—women off the streets, the casual male violence that can use a car to run two jogging women off a country road, the sadistic exploitation of women’s bodies to furnish a multibillion-dollar empire of pornography, the decision taken by powerful white males that one-quarter of the world’s women shall be sterilized or that certain selected women—poor and Third World—shall be used as subjects for psychosurgery and contraceptive experiments—these ordinary, everyday events inevitably must lead us to ask: who indeed hates whom, who is killing whom, whose interest is served, and whose fantasies expressed, by representing abortion as the selfish, willful, morally contagious expression of woman’s predilection for violence?

The first girl I dated was named Cammie Anthony. She was a year older than me. She had failed eleventh-grade calculus and had to take it again with my class. The specific chemicals that are released when we have a crush are called norepinephrine, dopamine, and endogenous opioids. I remember Cammie reaching to hold my hand in a movie theater. We went to see a horror movie, and it was unclear if we were going as friends or on a date. Norepinephrine is what causes our bodies to have sweaty palms and increased heart rates. I remember lying awake in my bed texting Cammie until three in the morning. Dopamine is energizing; it makes us feel motivated and attentive. I remember every time my phone pinged with a text from Cammie, I felt happy. Endogenous opioids are part of our reward system. It's what makes having a crush feel enjoyable rather than just crushing. Oxytocin and vasopressin are the chemicals that make us feel calm, secure, comfortable, and emotionally attached to long-term partners.

How’s it going so far?” “Eh.” I examined my hair for split ends. “That good, huh?” “Well, let’s see. My sister just called my ex ‘babe,’ my mom may have suggested I got fat, and my dad might think I’m a lesbian.” Cade laughed. Like hard. “Okay. First off, you’re not fat. I should know. I’ve seen you naked.” My face warmed. “That you have.” “Very naked. In fact, picturing it right now.” He made a low satisfied sound. “Nope, definitely not fat.” I laughed. “Focus, Cade.” “Sorry, so, um, lesbian? What’s that about?” “Dad was teasing me, asking a bunch of questions about you. I told him if he mentioned anything to Mom, I’d tell her I was into girls—it would totally freak her out—then he gets all supportive of my lifestyle choices and says he’d love me no matter my orientation.” “So you told him about me?” I could tell he smiled by the sound of his voice. “Yeah. Though I’m not sure I’ve convinced him of your gender. On a good note, he approves of you, regardless.” Cade chuckled. “Good to know. Guess you said something right.

Well, good. I figured you were, but…” He turned down our street and glanced at me. “Wait, there’s another guy, isn’t there?” He grinned. “Ugh, Dad. I’m not talking boys with you.” “What’s his name?” I feigned a scowl. “Does he go to Sutton?” I rolled my eyes. “Where’d you meet?” A smile cracked. We pulled into the driveway. “What’s he do?” I sighed then rattled off his answers. “Cade. He’s a therapy dog handler who volunteers at the hospital where I did my internship, and he works at the university rec center.” Dad let out a low, long whistle. “I approve.” I rolled my eyes again. “If you tell Mom, I’ll deny everything and tell her I’ve started dating girls.” “Your life choices don’t change how I feel about you, though your mom may be slow to come around.” “I’m not a lesbian, Dad.” “I’d love you even if you were.” “Dad.” I covered my face with my hands. “This conversation is so over.” He chuckled. “C’mon, short stack. Later, you can show me a picture of this young man or special lady in your life, that’s your choice.” I groaned. “That was meant to deter this conversation.” With another laugh, he hopped out, grabbed my suitcase from the back and unlocked the front door.

Her lips drew me in, bringing me back to that summer. Each and every one of her smiles felt like they were just for me, like we were sharing a secret between friends. And when I’d come out to her and her mouth didn’t curve the way I’d hoped . . . why did I still feel crushed to this day? Yes, I’d lost a friend, but why did it feel like more? Why did it feel so intense?

One of the most annoying things about hearings the refrain “same-sex marriage” over and over again is that I don't know many - if any - queers who think of their desire’s main feature as being “same-sex.” It's true that a lot of lesbian sex writing from the ‘70s was about being turned on, and even politically transformed, by an encounter with sameness. This encounter was, is, can be, important, as it has to do with seeing reflected that which has been reviled, with exchanging alienation or internalized revulsion for desire and care. To devote yourself to someone else's pussy can be a means of devoting yourself to your own. But whatever sameness I’ve noted. In my relationships with women is not the sameness of Woman, and certainly not the sameness of parts. Rather, It is the shared, crushing understanding of what it means to live in a patriarchy.

Well, another thing we know is that a lot of people who are gay don’t have the ability to admit it even to themselves. But if she were straight, if she were a straight teacher and a male student had a crush on her, would she react that way?

The other had come from that very same taiga gryphon. They'd been young and playing on a frozen lake. Both were adults with their hunting grounds. Both were new adults with their first hunting grounds. The taiga gryphon had seen her try to pounce a bog hopper and miss. The light snow had concealed the ice underneath, and Satra had gone sliding. The taiga gryphon's name was Mignet, but Satra hadn't known that yet. Satra heard the laughing and growled - well, squeaked, her voice giving out - a challenge. Mignet had flown down and landed daintily on the ice. She'd been beautiful, graceful. While taiga gryphons included several designs and shapes, she's been the one most strangers conjured up if asked to describe the taiga pride: white with black bars and rosettes. She was Satra's first, and only, crush.

You think that’s what America wants – to rule the world and crush you?’ The man answered with a sneer. ‘America will die. Why? Because they’re 25 million gays, more than 4 million lesbians, 17 million drug addicts and many people who live in poverty.

You are so crushed and revolted. You become a lesbian

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