Writing Lesbian Erotica…

So, it’s no secret that I write erotica, mostly BDSM based, and I thought I made it fairly clear in my first two to three published works that sexual preference and gender identity was part of what made my writing work. I was wrong. Today I sent a chapter to one of my critique partners to read and we had to have a thirty minute conversation over the word genderqueer used in my heroine’s thought process…and why couldn’t I just say that she was butch, or a bull dyke, or — or — or –

I’ve never really left my critique partner at a lack of words before, frustrated yes…but stuck like a scratched record, no.
And I’ve never been comfortable with the using the word bull dyke so I’m not going to use it in my writing…although I’m really not certain if my heroine would be comfortable using it. Maybe she would.

Explaining what the word meant took longer than it should have even though the work was self explanatory as to what I meant by genderqueer. She just didn’t get it, didn’t really want to understand it. Finally she asked, “So, like what, are you switching genres?”

My brain screeched to a complete stop.

What?
I write erotica.

Yes, but –

I write erotica. If I can write multiple renditions of M/M/F and F/F/M ménage link-ups, M/M and M/F couple hook-ups, and even a M to F transgender scene and not ruffle her feathers in the slightest…all acceptable as being within the genre of erotica… why did writing a F/F scene totally fly outside that scope? And it isn’t just my critique partner, I’m finding it at publishing houses as well. I will not get on my GLBT soapbox that if you say you offer GLBT that little L second letter over means LESBIAN = F/F. Nope. Gonna. Stay. Off. That. Soapbox.

Tonight I put a note up on my facebook looking for readers comfortable with lesbian material…
I’m sad. Very sad.

Here’s a small excerpt so you can see the context:

I met her at Will’s Hardware. I was trying to find the right screws to hang a sheet of drywall in the garage and she was looking at nails. Actually she was reading the side of a small box intently and, when she glanced up to see me, blushed eight shades of red. I smiled. I couldn’t help it, she being so cute, so blonde, all blue eyes and dimples. I wondered why she was blushing so hard but then she said, “You’re Frankie, the new mechanic, right?”

That explained it. She’d heard the rumors all ready. Nice. I’m the newest freak show in town and everybody has heard the gossip. Its okay, I knew it would be hard being the only openly genderqueer for about two hundred miles…at least to the nearest real town. Houston. There had to be at least one butch there, right?

“Guilty.” I answered, “I’m Frankie Marlow and yes, I am everything you’ve heard and probably more.”

Batting her eyes, she blushed a little deeper and smiled. It had been a long time since a woman gained my full attention with just a smile. I decided she was absolutely adorable. I’d been hit on by straight girls plenty of times, mainly girls who were just looking for a little thrill, who sidled up to the bar where I was nursing a whisky and assumed their cup-size and a wink would get them into my bed if not my heart. So, I wasn’t beyond taking a straight girl to my bed, even knowing it would lead to heartbreak; most love does.

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