How Does Lesbianism Start?

I have a particular fascination with popping zits and tweezing. Some people may even call it a sickness. For the most part, I control myself and only subject my husband and myself to my "picking." Once in a while, my friend Rebbecca falls victim to my compulsion, and I gleefully hold up my trophy of a long, almost see-through facial hair (visible only in certain lights). She used to be weirded out by this rather familiar overture, but over the years she has come to accept that I am disabled and, therefore, is tolerant of it (much like a sighted person is tolerant of facial fondling by a blind person).

Rewind. I am eleven years old. My sister, Ola, is sixteen. (My sister shares my disability...genetic?) She has a huge whitehead in the middle of her back. It's the kind that practically has a neon sign that demands to be popped. Ola cannot reach the zit to properly pop it, so she calls me into her room to take care of it. Ola had her shirt pulled up, and I was eagerly and clinically considering her back, deciding when and how to pounce. Before I could begin to squeeze, we heard my mom yell, "Hey!" Startled, we turned to her and she demanded that we leave the offending zit alone. This, she told us, is how lesbianism starts. Well. We immediately jumped apart, because neither of us wanted to become an incestuous lesbian couple.