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Archived from the original on August 4, January 6, Archived from the original on October 19, Retrieved March 23, Fox News Radio.

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July 26, Archived from the original on July 29, Retrieved July 28, Allan July 2, Biblical Recorder. Cary, NC.

North Carolina Baptist State Convention. Archived from the original on July 25, Retrieved July 22, Los Angeles Times.

Archived from the original on July 19, June 26, Archived from the original on December 24, Retrieved August 4, Bloomberg Businessweek.

June 28, Archived from the original on September 21, Retrieved September 23, Archived from the original on September 20, Retrieved September 19, Kind Of, Maybe".

The Slatest. Chicago Tribune. Chicago, IL. Archived from the original on September 19, Citizen Link. Focus on the Family. Archived from the original on September 24, Retrieved September 22, Q Notes.

Archived from the original on April 30, Retrieved January 1, Archived from the original on January 2, Archived from the original on October 13, Retrieved May 31, The Boston Herald.

Archived from the original on July 23, Retrieved July 21, Chick-fil-A doesn't belong in Boston. You can't have a business in the city of Boston that discriminates against a population.

We're an open city, we're a city that's at the forefront of inclusion That's the Freedom Trail. That's where it all started right here.

And we're not going to have a company, Chick-fil-A or whatever the hell the name is, on our Freedom Trail. July 20, Archived from the original on July 24, Archived from the original PDF on September 23, Retrieved October 23, Mother Jones.

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About Haley Heart. Haley Heart. So I decided to believe in the potential of openness to enrich a relationship, rather than to unravel it.

Before I went on the cruise, not much had actually happened in the nonmonogamy department. Later, when my partner started sleeping with a friend of a friend, I was no more equipped to sort through my mess of emotions sadness, ambivalence, relief.

Nonmonogamy is hardly scandalous or even really notable these days. In some of my queer circles, in fact, monogamy is the rarer beast. The night before I left on the cruise, two of my best friends got married.

I know this. And I get it. Was that so bad, really, to want? My first day on the cruise, Saturday, I was hungover and exhausted. After deplaning and bumbling my way through the cruise check-in, I crashed in my quarters for a two-hour hangover nap.

When I woke to the gorgeous sight of water and sun outside my personal patio, I felt a little sad and a little lonely. I wished I could have scooped up the entire wedding party and taken them with me to San Juan.

The staff thought that since she and I had similar backgrounds, it would make sense for Dana to take me under her wing this trip.

I got my own Solos dog tag and a pink Olivia bracelet to signify my newbie status. So I felt grateful to Dana, who accompanied me to my first Solos dinner that night.

I knew I was supposed to be becoming pals with fellow cruisers, not the staffer who was basically being paid to be my friend. But I figured I still had time.

Other elements of lesbian culture have been steadily dying ; why should Olivia be any different? As I walked around the ship, which holds over 2, passengers, it was already clear that the average woman here was a couple decades older than me.

We all formed one big circle, and the staffers got the ball rolling. First things first: How had we all heard about Olivia? Now Jamie was back for her second Olivia cruise with her partner Matie, who runs Self Serve , a sexuality resource center and sex shop in Albuquerque, New Mexico; their other partner was stuck at home, studying for exams.

It became this…spiritual experience, almost. To see all these older pairs of hands holding each other — it was so beautiful and safe.

After everyone had doled out sufficient praise for the company, the conversation quickly turned, in perhaps inevitable millennial fashion, to everything Olivia could be doing a better job of when it comes to attracting a younger generation of queers.

Some people suggested that Olivia offer scholarships or student discounts, since cruising is so expensive. Someone mentioned that they were surprised there were no sex toys available for sale on board.

Later in the week, Tisha Floratos, the vice president of travel for Olivia, told me that she and her staff think about this a lot.

Maybe Olivia could do a specific queer-plus trip for trans people and gay men? The room exploded. Judy had to come up with all the money up front — she convinced women from around the country to put down deposits a full year ahead of time, with no real guarantee that the ship would ever sail — but it sold out nearly immediately.

Judy and Rachel chartered a second boat, and Olivia Travel was born. Nor did we want to dismiss the radical potential of dyke spaces.

I actively choose to identify as a lesbian and a dyke, as well as a queer. Meanwhile, lesbian activist groups like the Lesbian Avengers have been pro-trans for decades.

But there were, in fact, a number of stereotype-fulfilling boomer TERFs on board the cruise — and plenty of lesbians whose policing of gender norms took more banal forms.

The woman who bought me a drink after I sang Kelly Clarkson at karaoke — a petite therapist from California with a prim gray bob — ended up being one of them.

Throughout the trip, Matie and Jamie would have a number of tearful conversations about trans inclusion with some older passengers who refused to accept trans women as their fellow sisters.

But they also got many women to reconsider their more middle-of-the-road views on trans inclusion. A couple days later — after getting my serious lesbian conversations out of the way — I was about 14 rum punches deep and drunk-dancing on a catamaran.

Whenever we docked at port, we were offered a bunch of different excursions vetted by Celebrity and Olivia, and Dana had generously offered to book one for me.

Kitts to the island of Nevis instead. Ugh, fine , if I must. At first, sitting alone on the catamaran heading out for my snorkeling excursion, I felt shy again, and wished I had Dana or Jamie and Matie at my side.

One of the guys running the boat, a youngish dude with dreads, took pity on me and brought me a glass of water. He asked me if I was staff on the cruise, noting my friendlessness, and I told him I was a reporter.

But he did occasionally seem to forget about the realities of the situation. For the last stretch of our afternoon, we were dropped on a secluded beach at Nevis, where a few of us ferried beers and our new favorite drink, the very college-esque Panty Ripper coconut rum and pineapple juice , from shore to the rest of the women waiting in the water.

One woman stuffed a bunch of beers into her bathing suit and we cheered whenever anybody pulled one out. A couple women had GoPro cameras, with which we took a lot of increasingly drunken group shots while we swam.

One of them was attached to a floating handle that looked very much like a big yellow dildo, which, once somebody pointed it out, kept sending us into hysterics.

Bonding is built into an Olivia trip, which, I realized soon enough, is basically like grown-up lesbian camp. On this floating gay island and its satellite getaways, time works differently than it does back home.

You can skip the normal-life process of slowly getting to know somebody on the shallowest of levels and get right to the good stuff.

Back on the catamaran for our return to port, we got into some deep and very lesbian-y talk about relationships. In the spirit of lesbian camp bonding, I told my new crew about my situation — nonmonogamous, not sure how to feel about it — which seemed to pique the interest of beer bathing suit girl, because she would soon afterward follow me into the impossibly tiny bathroom, bursting in on me mid-pee.

By this point, I was — somewhat unintentionally — quite drunk. But there was another part of me that was very much not into it, especially when the makeout gave way to other things and people started banging on the bathroom door.

I was also, literally, developing a pretty bad sunburn. I made my way up the tiny laddered chute to the deck, bouncing against the walls like a pinball, and immediately moved as far away from the bathroom as possible.

Later, when telling friends what had happened, I did laugh about it — one told me it sounded like something pulled straight out of The L Word , which, true — but I was also a little mad at that girl, and even more so at myself for being so sloppy.

The consent element there was indeterminate; I had willingly gone along with the hookup, at least for a little while, though I remain uncertain about how much I really could have consented while drunk-peeing in a bathroom the size of a broom closet.

Bad sex happens. Even with lesbians! I was going to move on, get over it, and go back to enjoying myself. Before I left, I talked to a few of my reporter friends about it, just in case a hookup opportunity should present itself and I decided to partake for, um, research purposes.

We decided that my Olivia story fell in some sort of weird journalistic in-between, just like my own job does.

And the thing a lot of women on the cruise were looking to experience was, yes, getting laid. Instead, I found singles and couples of various ages and gender presentations looking for something extra, something different, something more.

My lesbian friends and I have often complained about how much easier it is for our gay guy friends to hook up with abandon — they have way more bars, and they all have back rooms!

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Open Preview See a Problem? Details if other :. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Ashlyn knew she at least had some game.

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Lists with This Book. The staff thought that since she and I had similar backgrounds, it would make sense for Dana to take me under her wing this trip.

I got my own Solos dog tag and a pink Olivia bracelet to signify my newbie status. So I felt grateful to Dana, who accompanied me to my first Solos dinner that night.

I knew I was supposed to be becoming pals with fellow cruisers, not the staffer who was basically being paid to be my friend.

But I figured I still had time. Other elements of lesbian culture have been steadily dying ; why should Olivia be any different?

As I walked around the ship, which holds over 2, passengers, it was already clear that the average woman here was a couple decades older than me.

We all formed one big circle, and the staffers got the ball rolling. First things first: How had we all heard about Olivia? Now Jamie was back for her second Olivia cruise with her partner Matie, who runs Self Serve , a sexuality resource center and sex shop in Albuquerque, New Mexico; their other partner was stuck at home, studying for exams.

It became this…spiritual experience, almost. To see all these older pairs of hands holding each other — it was so beautiful and safe.

After everyone had doled out sufficient praise for the company, the conversation quickly turned, in perhaps inevitable millennial fashion, to everything Olivia could be doing a better job of when it comes to attracting a younger generation of queers.

Some people suggested that Olivia offer scholarships or student discounts, since cruising is so expensive.

Someone mentioned that they were surprised there were no sex toys available for sale on board. Later in the week, Tisha Floratos, the vice president of travel for Olivia, told me that she and her staff think about this a lot.

Maybe Olivia could do a specific queer-plus trip for trans people and gay men? The room exploded. Judy had to come up with all the money up front — she convinced women from around the country to put down deposits a full year ahead of time, with no real guarantee that the ship would ever sail — but it sold out nearly immediately.

Judy and Rachel chartered a second boat, and Olivia Travel was born. Nor did we want to dismiss the radical potential of dyke spaces. I actively choose to identify as a lesbian and a dyke, as well as a queer.

Meanwhile, lesbian activist groups like the Lesbian Avengers have been pro-trans for decades. But there were, in fact, a number of stereotype-fulfilling boomer TERFs on board the cruise — and plenty of lesbians whose policing of gender norms took more banal forms.

The woman who bought me a drink after I sang Kelly Clarkson at karaoke — a petite therapist from California with a prim gray bob — ended up being one of them.

Throughout the trip, Matie and Jamie would have a number of tearful conversations about trans inclusion with some older passengers who refused to accept trans women as their fellow sisters.

But they also got many women to reconsider their more middle-of-the-road views on trans inclusion. A couple days later — after getting my serious lesbian conversations out of the way — I was about 14 rum punches deep and drunk-dancing on a catamaran.

Whenever we docked at port, we were offered a bunch of different excursions vetted by Celebrity and Olivia, and Dana had generously offered to book one for me.

Kitts to the island of Nevis instead. Ugh, fine , if I must. At first, sitting alone on the catamaran heading out for my snorkeling excursion, I felt shy again, and wished I had Dana or Jamie and Matie at my side.

One of the guys running the boat, a youngish dude with dreads, took pity on me and brought me a glass of water. He asked me if I was staff on the cruise, noting my friendlessness, and I told him I was a reporter.

But he did occasionally seem to forget about the realities of the situation. For the last stretch of our afternoon, we were dropped on a secluded beach at Nevis, where a few of us ferried beers and our new favorite drink, the very college-esque Panty Ripper coconut rum and pineapple juice , from shore to the rest of the women waiting in the water.

One woman stuffed a bunch of beers into her bathing suit and we cheered whenever anybody pulled one out.

A couple women had GoPro cameras, with which we took a lot of increasingly drunken group shots while we swam. One of them was attached to a floating handle that looked very much like a big yellow dildo, which, once somebody pointed it out, kept sending us into hysterics.

Bonding is built into an Olivia trip, which, I realized soon enough, is basically like grown-up lesbian camp. On this floating gay island and its satellite getaways, time works differently than it does back home.

You can skip the normal-life process of slowly getting to know somebody on the shallowest of levels and get right to the good stuff. Back on the catamaran for our return to port, we got into some deep and very lesbian-y talk about relationships.

In the spirit of lesbian camp bonding, I told my new crew about my situation — nonmonogamous, not sure how to feel about it — which seemed to pique the interest of beer bathing suit girl, because she would soon afterward follow me into the impossibly tiny bathroom, bursting in on me mid-pee.

By this point, I was — somewhat unintentionally — quite drunk. But there was another part of me that was very much not into it, especially when the makeout gave way to other things and people started banging on the bathroom door.

I was also, literally, developing a pretty bad sunburn. I made my way up the tiny laddered chute to the deck, bouncing against the walls like a pinball, and immediately moved as far away from the bathroom as possible.

Later, when telling friends what had happened, I did laugh about it — one told me it sounded like something pulled straight out of The L Word , which, true — but I was also a little mad at that girl, and even more so at myself for being so sloppy.

The consent element there was indeterminate; I had willingly gone along with the hookup, at least for a little while, though I remain uncertain about how much I really could have consented while drunk-peeing in a bathroom the size of a broom closet.

Bad sex happens. Even with lesbians! I was going to move on, get over it, and go back to enjoying myself. Before I left, I talked to a few of my reporter friends about it, just in case a hookup opportunity should present itself and I decided to partake for, um, research purposes.

We decided that my Olivia story fell in some sort of weird journalistic in-between, just like my own job does. And the thing a lot of women on the cruise were looking to experience was, yes, getting laid.

Instead, I found singles and couples of various ages and gender presentations looking for something extra, something different, something more.

My lesbian friends and I have often complained about how much easier it is for our gay guy friends to hook up with abandon — they have way more bars, and they all have back rooms!

On Grindr, you can just ask someone to skip right to the sex. That is, in fact, the norm. One of my friends was in a hot tub, in the middle of the day, when she noticed that the women across from her were having sex in the same hot tub she got out immediately.

My friends Jamie and Matie, for their part, were determined to make things happen. At our evening activities, Jamie was frequently flagging , via colored handkerchiefs placed in her back pocket.

She and Matie also hung up a white board outside their door and encouraged their neighbors to invite them to their play parties.

They had a very sweet exchange with a curious anonymous neighbor who wrote them a note, inquiring what a play party is. It was only on our last day at sea that I discovered a Public Posts board, tucked away by reception in an area that most guests definitely would not be walking by every day.

Afterward, I had lunch with Dana and some of the other Olivia staffers and asked them about it — why not make the Public Posts more prominent, MichFest style?

Especially since the younger people at the first Gen O event had explicitly asked for more sex content.

Olivia had run sexuality and intimacy workshops before, and at the lunch, the staffers floated the definite possibility that they will again.

Tisha, the cruise director and VP, met her wife on an Olivia cruise. When my partner jokingly warned me, before I left for the cruise, not to fall in love with a hot older butch — seriously, we joked about this — I thought, Fat chance.

Not only because I had no intention of falling in love with anyone else, but because I thought hooking up with hot older butches would remain the stuff of my fantasies.

I even reported out an entire article about intergenerational lesbian relationships a few years ago. I have a lot to share. The lesbian bars and events I frequent in New York — the gay capital of the world!

The older women I did meet tended to be coupled up. It was Monday night, at the Deck 11 elevators. The only thing Lynette said to me, in the brief window after introductions and before we went our separate ways, was that my accent made me sound like an American newscaster.

I was high on my newfound karaoke fame, and she was, by far, the most beautiful woman in the room: tall, dark, and striking, dressed all in white.

But I walked right up to her, catching her alone, and asked if she wanted to take me home. When we left, wobbling down the sea-bucking hallways, she offered me her elbow, a gentleman from the first.

All our nights together have swirled together in the strange, heady flux of my memory. I was lying on my bed, on top of the covers, shivering slightly.

Lynette stood over me, her head cocked to one side, a slight smile on her face. We stayed that way for a while, just breathing, as if waiting for whatever would happen next.

Lynette is 53 years old , though she looks at least 10 years younger. She was born and raised in London to Jamaican parents.

This cruise was the gift Lynette gave herself in the aftermath. She was starting over. My Capricorn groundedness makes us a good match, allegedly.

She plays the drums, loves cars — like, posts-on-car-forums-level loves cars — and follows tech news. She cares about clothes and buys a lot of hers vintage.

She just got a tattoo commemorating Liverpool, her beloved football team. Once, after I came in her hands, I burst into tears yeah, I know, big dyke energy , and she held me tightly in her strong, sure arms.

Other things she calls me, in her unfairly irresistible British accent: cheeky bint, missus, girl, my dear, my love, my darling. Per the rules of our loose nonmonogamous agreement, I FaceTimed with my partner about what was happening on the cruise, first telling them about the catamaran girl and then, in so many words, about Lynette.

I was the one who seemed to stress this rule the most. I was less confident. Lynette and I had only just met, but in the emotionally intense bizarro world of the cruise, where relationships of all types seemed to develop at warp speed and I was feeling enough emotion for 10 lesbians combined, I liked Lynette very, very much.

A lot of it was, obviously, physical, chemical. But there were other things, too, that were harder to explain to other people or to myself.

One of the first things I loved about her was observing her get dressed after she showered: her careful routine of lotions and gels and aerosols, her selection of a different wristwatch for different outfits.

I loved grabbing her waist by the belt loops, loved playing with the silver cross she wore around her neck.

It sounds shallow to imply that, in the beginning, I fell for her simply because of her style, her stuff. Together they made up the way she wanted to be seen in the public eye, the way she wanted to move through the world.

She was not a boy but a full-grown butch who, at 53, was confident in who she was and what she wanted. By that, I mean b-o-i kinds of boys who may or may not identify as such : nonbinary dykes, twinky tops, Titanic -era Leo DiCaprios.

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