I might as well start with a confession: I subscribe to Netflix.

You probably have your doubts about me right from the start. Actually, I suppose you couldn’t care less what I do with my time. I can’t blame you.

I have other confessions to make, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves…

Every night, or almost every night, I eagerly watch my new heroes and hang on their every word.

I’ve empathized with a serial killer, rooted for a drug dealer, acquired superpowers, been a spy, advised a shyster lawyer, and made friends with a sex-obsessed author—and I became a bit obsessed myself with a group of lesbians.

Which brings me to my second confession. After 70 episodes over five seasons about a lesbian community in Los Angeles, The L Word, it was your character—Moira, or Max, as the case may be—who made me question my sexuality.


I was attracted to you as a woman—and as a man, for that matter. I bit my lips, I blushed, and I wondered what it would be like to feel a body like my own slip under my sheets and slide its curves against mine. I fantasized about a woman who would probably never give me a second look.

That’s what happens when fiction and reality blur together. Or when your fantasy life starts to take over your real life.

Because my real love life was starting to look like a Buddhist temple infested by flies. The men in my life repulsed me more than whatever that thing on Donald Trump’s head is. And I guess the show was more compelling than I realized, because I found myself wanting to cram a pair of uncooperatively pert breasts into a corset. And reconsidering my sexual orientation.

I adopted a mannish look. Cut my nails and removed the polish. I ogled women. I worked the room to find a lesbian who would have dinner with me—or more if we hit it off. I told a woman who was looking for her girlfriend that I was available. I wore a Xena: Warrior Princess T-shirt to a Madonna concert. Nothing.

Finally, one evening, I went to a concert in a quirky club with ill-matched furniture and mirrors everywhere. I was still mad at men. I had two martinis on an empty stomach, and the alcohol went to my head. It didn’t take long for me to make myself right at home. I floated from group to group, all wide eyes and smiles, making sure everyone was having as much fun as me and complaining about how hard it was to meet people.

Suddenly, I found myself next to a man who captured my attention with his uncomplicated kindness. (Total chick magnet.) I didn’t resist long. And one thing is clear…I do like men. A lot.