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My cosmopolitan, artist friends are no less shocked.

“Wow, when a lesbian falls off the wagon, she really falls off the wagon,” my friend Deirdre says.

He is a sort of Freudian projection of a man, and I am a lesbian. I simply fell in love with this person and didn’t hold his gender against him. “Gay is not something we do,” Robinson says, “it’s something we are.” It is not about whether you “practice” (though that makes perfect!

I know plenty of people who identify as bisexual; I am not. That won’t change because of our vows, any more than my eye color will. Episcopal Bishop Gene Robinson of New Hampshire explains it better than I can: He scoffs at the idea that the Church of England may consecrate gay priests as long as they’re celibate, not actively gay. ), or whether you have a partner, or what you do with that partner, or even that partner’s gender (as any gay person trapped in a het marriage knows).

But she is clearly a little shocked by our decision to marry.

But no one had presumed to relabel me, to retrofit me to their categories — at least, not to my face.

But here was my fabulous Portland pal, trying to claim me for the Bi-Het team (which sounded like a synagogue rather than a sexual identity, and certainly not my own).

Over that drink, I learned he had been a graduate student in New Haven when I was an undergraduate there.

In those days, he had recently returned from the Peace Corps in the Solomon Islands and North Africa, while I was slowly, painfully coming out, finding my way from an economics major to books.

We talked about languages we speak — Arabic, Portuguese, pidgin, lousy French — and Shakespeare plays we love, of which he could quote an impressive amount.