Gay on the Outside?

In my first year at college, just two years ago, I wasn't exactly what most people imagine a lesbian to look like. I wore flare jeans and flip-flops and rocked fitted button-down shirts and pretty printed T's. My hair was always straightened and worn down, framed neatly around my face. My bubbly personality matched the perfume I wore, which came out of a pink bottle. I was an 18-year-old from a small town that might just hold the world record for having the most nail salons. I had Ashlee Simpson songs in my head and was oblivious to the possibility of – dare I say – a lesbian culture.

The look. The attitude. When I got to Salem State, being gay was suddenly so much more than sexuality. No, I didn't have a pixie cut, and no, I didn't wear plaid – but I knew that I liked girls. I liked kissing girls. I liked sex with girls. But not being gay enough to hang out with the lesbians and not being straight enough to hang out with the hetero girls was an identity crisis I had never prepared myself to face. No one told me that, before lugging my belongings into the residence hall, I should call Ellen DeGeneres's people for some kind of manual. I was beginning to think I would forever be in a hellish sexual limbo. Until I met Janie.

I was a theater major and looking for a way to be involved in any production on campus. An audition was posted, and I was there. When my name was called, I joined four other girls standing against a dusty chalkboard wall. Alex, the sexy-smart student director, surveyed us as if we were soldiers in front of our commander for inspection. She carefully considered her options: "So, I just wanted to double-check with you guys and make sure you felt comfortable kissing another girl onstage."

On the outside, I remained cool. Inside, I was freaking out. Clandestine Love is a 10-minute play in which two women, Leah and Cara, are hiding their romance from Cara's boyfriend. Romance? I would get to kiss a girl onstage. I quickly scoped out my possible "lover." And there she was – standing right next to me.

With her lip pierced, a funky, short haircut, and her band T-shirt, I figured she must be some garage rock star's girlfriend. Her adorably punked-out look had made me question her sexuality briefly, but from my experience in cow-tipping country, I figured I was just looking at an alternative hetero. Yeah, I could kiss her. Apparently, we looked good together, because we were cast in the show. And then we dated for a year.

Our fake smooching onstage, which consisted of pressing our lips together and moving our necks back and forth, had made me want to really kiss Janie. One night after rehearsal, the two of us were talking outside her apartment, and Janie casually invited me in. Our director had told us that we should grab coffee or something and get to know each other, to really become friends to benefit our characters.

In her room that night, we talked about everything from girls to books, friends to goals. We started hanging out more often than just rehearsals, and one night in her room, Janie and I had our first offstage kiss. I'm convinced I fell in love with her that night.

Leah kissing Cara turned into Sarah kissing Janie. When Janie started developing the same feelings I had for her, a lot changed for me. Yet, to everyone who watched us in Clandestine Love, I looked like a straight girl playing a lesbian. Here I was, genuinely kissing another girl in front of my peers, and I still wasn't gay enough.

Surprise: Stereotypes don't magically go away after high school, and now, at college, I can't help but feel that I still don't fit into the lesbian culture.

So when I return to school in a matter of days, I'll be reprising a familiar role: the lesbian who looks straight. But now I don't care. Janie made me see that as long as I'm alive in my own skin, I don't have anything else to prove.

Sarah E. Correia is entering her third year at Salem State College in Salem. Send comments to coupling@globe.com.