My son always says people his age are all a little gay and that no one cares either way.

“Lesbians are kind of gross,” Steph says. “I mean, not you ladies of course.”

Lily and Erica look strangely at Steph.

“That’s kind of an archaic position,” says Erica.

I’m embarrassed for Steph.

“Not to mention offensive,” says Lily. “And we identify as queer.”

I shiver at this a bit. I hate the word “queer,” which my son says is more common these days. I don’t like the word “gay” either. Or “fag” or “dyke.” Tara said she liked the term “lesbian” because it’s the only word for homosexuality that isn’t rude. It comes from this Greek island where a famous ancient lesbian poet lived. Based on Tara’s description, Sappho seemed like a real player. Maybe I was born at the wrong time. I should have lived on this Greek island in ancient times and had a harem of women. I smile thinking about how tan I’d be.

“I’m a dyke,” says Steph. “I can make fun of them!” She pauses. “Or us.”

“It’s sort of counterproductive,” Erica says.

I am sick of this dumb debate. “Okay, Never Have I Ever.”

“Thank god,” says Lily. I am glad she is over that discussion as well.

“Never have I ever …” I look at Steph. It’s fun to play this game with people you know and target them. I’ve known Steph for decades, so I have lots of material. I am trying to think of something that Steph has done and I haven’t. I take a sip of my drink, and then it hits me. “Never have I ever … slept with siblings.” I giggle watching Steph put a finger down.

Shockingly, Erica puts a finger down too.

“Okay, Erica!” I say. “I know Steph’s story, but I must know yours.”

“I don’t know Steph’s!” Lily yells. “I want to know. I feel like a prude; I have all my fingers up.”

I squeeze her thigh again, and Steph happily takes the floor. “So,” Steph says. “It was ages ago.”

“When Daryl Hannah was famous,” I add, and both ladies laugh.

“High school, actually,” Steph says. “I dated the quarterback of our football team.” She waits for the girls to react, to be impressed, but they remain silent. She’s fumbling the ball, not unlike our quarterback, who everyone called “Butterfingers.” I stifle a giggle.

“I caught him cheating on me”—Steph puts her arm around me—”so I went with this troublemaker to a party to get my mind off it.” I snuggle into her embrace, happy to remember our golden years, when our boobs defied gravity. “His little brother was at the party, and I saw my opportunity for revenge.”

“Savage,” says Lily with a monotone voice.