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In my early twenties, I finally came to terms with the fact that I am a woman who loves women. I love their tastes, their smells, their emotional makeups (which some might sterotype as irrational or even crazy, but I call fun) their methods of kissing, and their lovemaking styles. Yes, indeed, after years of fighting it, I came to terms with the fact that I am a "lesbian", "dyke", "carpet muncher"... you pick the word or phrase fits your concept of what I am. I really don't care.

However, reaching the point of self-acceptance didn't necessarily make "coming out" -telling my friends and family who I am- an easy feat. Fortunately, all of my close friends were fine with it, and most told me that they already knew and had been waiting for me to tell them when I was ready. Their responses were truly comforting, and the majority of the gays and lesbians I have shared "coming out" stories with tend to agree. Most of our friends are well aware of what we are before we are willing to admit it.

Telling my parents, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. I was raised in a very traditional, Christian church whose teachings condemned to hell anyone who drinks alcohol, listens to rock music, dances, engages in premarital sex, or enjoys any type of entertainment other than reading the Bible and praising Jesus. ( For most of my tender young years, I lived in fear that the hand of God was going to come down and smite me because at various points in my life I have taken part in, and enjoyed, these "lascivious" activities...but those are stories for another time.) It's time to get back to my parents and my tale.

On Thanksgiving of 1998, my "roommate" - a term many closeted gays and lesbians use when referring to their lovers- and I were celebrating the holiday at my parent's. My father and I had been knocking down quite a few beers - yes, by this time he and my mother, had renounced the draconian teachings of the church in which I was raised, and were quite drunk when he decided to pursue a line of questioning that brought my secret right out into the open. The conversation went like this:

"Kelly, you have been living with your 'friend' (a term parents use when they don't want to acknowledge their son or daughter is homosexual) for two years now? Is that right?"

"Yes, Dad."

"And I have been to your house once or twice. It's got three bedrooms. Right?"

"Yes, Dad."

"But there is only one bedroom, the master bedroom, that has an acutal bed in it. Am I correct?"

"Yes,

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