Previously in this series.

You are living intimately with another young girl in a French military barracks.

You become curiously fascinated with your fiancé’s aunt.

You keep a woman’s portrait in a cigarette box on your dressing table and brush away all inquiries about her identity.

You meet a woman with her hair tumbled like a young boy’s.

You seduce a young girl in your sorority, and when you are caught, you try to have her institutionalized.

Sex with your boyfriend is the most miserable and disgusting thing that’s ever happened to you.

You open the front door to greet a total stranger and inform her you are in love with her.

You are an artist, and you draw your models nude or not at all.

The faint odour of pomade lingers wherever you go.

You are ageless.

Your boyfriend is glad to learn you’re not running around with other fellows.

You go to the nurse because you think you might be a lesbian. You seduce her, just to make sure.

You feel sorry for men by virtue of them just being men. They can never know what you know.

You want to move in with a woman you have known less than a week.

When you say the word “Lesbian” in your head, you capitalize it.

You make your girlfriend go on a date with a boy, because you couldn’t live with yourself if she didn’t at least try to hide who she is.

Your appetite is gone.

You dress very carefully.

You live with a couple, a husband and wife, who take turns each night to knock on your door. You hate them both.

A man calls you hysterical.

A man calls you stark, raving mad.

A woman calls you.

You become suddenly aware that someone’s tongue is in your ear.

You describe lesbian sex as an all-encompassing ecstatic storm.

All of your Scotch bottles are half empty.

Your ex may or may not be insane.

You may or may not be insane.

Your girlfriend and her ex confront each other in a blaze of gunfire and scandal. Four weeks later, you move to Florida.