Photography © Jennifer Matthews

 

Lesbian American Girl Doll

I think that I used to hesitate to rule out the possibility of men because I don’t want to increase limitations on what already feels like a hopeless pursuit of romance. I think that I hesitated to part ways with that fast hit of reassurance, the promise that I’m desirable and objectifiable, even though the two are vastly different things. There is a part of the patriarchal umbrella under which I was raised that I still return to for the comfort of familiar shade. There is a part of me that understands my sex appeal as it relates directly to being wanted in general, for anything at all. There is a part of me that resents the labor and emotional vulnerability that goes into being with a woman, into the being wanted, the way that the stakes are high and her hands travel every inch of my body. I tremble under the power that even her most delicate touch has to offer, the devastating truth that I could melt like this, I could die like this, she could be heaven and hell, the scariest and the safest place and we could lay here for one million years while I smell traces of her vanilla perfume lingering on my neck. There is not the same nuance when it comes to dating a man, fucking a man, loving one. Sure, he has a smell, and arguably he has a hunger, a ravenousness that is validating during a dry spell – but the way a man moves, loves, breathes, it doesn’t satisfy the ache the way a girl can. A girl is a novel and a poem, irreverent raspy giggle, uninhibited joy. A man is a philly cheesesteak. It’s ok. It sure…uh, exists? I grew up with it. But it’s not life changing.

The other day, this man said I reminded him of an American Girl Doll. With my freckles and blue eyes and bangs. It wasn’t the first time someone told me I looked like a doll, weirdly, and he was actually trying to be nice. but it felt like such a strange comment – like there was a sense of unreality associated with it. Dolls are cute, sure, but also plastic and unmoving and not autonomous. A doll is something you can purchase. You know, that comes in a box. And so for a man to imply that I reminded him of a doll, it was off putting. Like instead of evolving and forming, someone made me for him and we’re in the store and he’s trying to get me off the shelf with the sweet talk. I think there is a version of me that this would’ve flattered. And maybe I’m still looking for a reminder that I’m desirable, but it doesn’t satiate me. It falls flat.

I genuinely don’t think I’ll ever be able to love a man and it breaks my heart. They leave nothing to the imagination. A woman tells me she has “impure desires” and I’m grinning ear to ear because she leaves me guessing and so I crave her in my bones. The American Girl Doll man tells me exactly what does and doesn’t make him come. There’s no narrative bliss, no poetry, no lyric, no fluidity of prose or reading in between the lines. A woman touches around the spot where the words go, and you yearn so hard, you work for it until you’d do anything to see how the story finishes, angelic lips parted beneath an earned surrender that reminds you you’re alive. A man just lets the words out. It’s mechanical. It’s a bullet point. A sentence falling flat.

It breaks my heart because getting attention from women isn’t easy. It’s not fast and cheap the way a man’s is. It’s profound and rare. That’s a billion times harder with a smaller dating pool.

You know, it actually might’ve been helpful if there were a lesbian American girl doll. Queer representation in traditionally feminine spaces during formative years might’ve saved us all a lot of confusion. Just saying. Like damn maybe they should’ve given Kit a carabiner and a collection of vinyl records. Or honestly maybe they should’ve made someone hyper femme and campy like strawberry shortcake dyke vibe. Maybe that would’ve saved me from years of “but I’m a cheerleader!” Ass bull shit. I almost don’t even care as much about other people pointing out my femininity as if it exists in direct contrast to my gayness. I care that any of these stereotypes interfered with MY self knowledge. I care that the world tried to convince me that because I liked sparkly things, I liked boys, too.

 

Meredith Aristone holds her MFA in creative nonfiction from Columbia University and her BFA in creative writing from Pratt Institute. She teaches college writing at Atlantic County College and Delaware Valley University. She is the first place winner of NYC Poetry Contest (2024) and her poetry is featured in NYC Poetry Magazine, Wax Poetry and Art Magazine, Cathexis Northwest Press, https://oddballmagazine.com/wp-admin/media-upload.php?post_id=297241&type=image&TB_iframe=1and Fjords Review. She is the author of “Excessive Sodium: A Collection of Poems For The Troubled Soul,” as well as writer/director of indie short, “Psych-Idyllic (2015)”. Her creative nonfiction work is featured in Pink Disco Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Hobart Magazine, Defunkt Mag, and Mr. Bull Magazine as well as “Stained Glass & Thunderstorms,” for Girlz, Interrupted: An Anti-Lifestyle Blog for Crazy B*tches,” & Go Magazine (NYC). Meredith is a selected reader for Columbia University’s 2025-2026 KGB nonfiction series. She remains passionate about amplifying queer voices, finding the magic in the mundane, investigating liminal spaces, and romanticizing her life.

Poet/Photographer Jennifer Matthews’ poetry has been published in Nepal by Pen Himalaya and locally by the Wilderness Retreat Writers Organization, Midway Journal, The Somerville Times, Ibbetson Street Press and Boston Girl Guide. Jennifer was nominated for a poetry award by the Cambridge Arts Council for her book of poetry Fairy Tales and Misdemeanors. Her songs have been released nationally and internationally and her photography has been used as covers for a number of Ibbetson Street Press poetry books and has been exhibited at The Middle East Restaurant, 1369 Coffeehouses, Sound Bites Restaurant in Somerville and McLean Hospital.