One of the most annoying things about hea­ring the refrain “same-sex mar­riage” over and over again is that I don’t know many—if any—queers who think of their desire’s main fea­ture as being “same-sex.” It’s true that a lot of les­bian sex wri­ting from the ’70s was about being tur­ned on, and even poli­ti­cal­ly trans­for­med, by an encoun­ter with same­ness. This encoun­ter was, is, can be, impor­tant, as it has to do with seeing reflec­ted that which has been revi­led, with exchan­ging alie­na­tion or inter­na­li­zed revul­sion for desire and care. To devote your­self to someone else’s pus­sy can be a means of devo­ting your­self to your own. But wha­te­ver same­ness I’ve noted in my rela­tion­ships with women is not the same­ness of Woman, and cer­tain­ly not the same­ness of parts. Rather, it is the sha­red, cru­shing unders­tan­ding of what it means to live in a patriar­chy.