How “Work in Progress’s” Abby McEnany Found Freedom Using the Term “Fluid” (2024)

Comedian and writer Abby McEnany turned one of the most pivotal moments in her life into a TV show. In Work in Progress, her semi-autobiographical Showtime show, Abby McEnany plays a fictionalized version of herself in the middle of a crisis. “I’m 45, I’m fat. I’m this queer dyke who hasn’t done s*** in her life, and that is my identity?” she asks at the start of the series.

Through an unexpected romantic relationship with Chris, a much-younger trans man played by Theo Germaine, Abby broadens her definition of life's possibilities. But her problems don't go away. The show faces depression, suicidal ideation, OCD, and self-discovery in a way that feels unlike anything on TV now—or ever.

Like her fictional character, McEnany, 53, describes herself as a "queer dyke." It's taken her decades to arrive at that term. In this as-told-to essay, McEnany recalls the ongoing coming-out process—which may begin in one's formative years but doesn't necessarily end there. As Work in Progress shows, we're all always in a state of "becoming."

I rarely talk about the first time I came out. Not because I have anything to hide—I just don’t think it’s particularly inspiring. As an improvisor, actor, and writer, I spend my life telling stories. And frankly, there’s not much of a story here.

When I was 24, I called home on October 11^th, National Coming Out Day, and told them I was bisexual. The call ended up being what we in our family would call a non-event. In 1994, I felt there were three options for identifying sexuality: lesbian, bisexual, or straight. None of the labels quite fit, but since I was attracted to both men and women, “bi” felt the most “correct.”

My dad said something like, “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.” And that was that. Our relationship was not affected by my sharing my sexuality with them.

Before that conversation, my parents had demonstrated their open-mindedness in subtle ways. My father was a cardiovascular surgeon, and we moved around a lot for his job. I’m grateful we ended up in San Francisco in 1982 when I was starting high school. I encountered an openly queer community for the first time—and witnessed my parents’ reaction to being around queer people.

Several nurses who worked with my dad were gay men. I was brought up Episcopalian, and there were many openly gay members of our church in San Francisco. We drove through the Castro to get to church, and my parents never made snide or disparaging remarks about the neighborhood or the queers we would pass.

When I was growing up in the ’70s and ’80s, my peers weren’t coming out. There were obviously queer kids, but it didn’t feel safe. Even still, I knew I was never in fear of losing my family, friends, or community because of my identity. I knew that when I told my parents, they wouldn’t say I was going to hell. I’ve always considered myself extremely lucky in that regard.

Not everyone is that lucky. Years ago, a friend came out to me and told me she was going to tell her parents she was a lesbian. Thinking of my own experience, I'd encouraged her, telling her: “It’s going to be great.” But it was not. Her family is very conservative. They didn’t disown her, but it was very difficult for several years. I was like, “Check your f***ing privilege, Abby.”

I’d say the first conversation with my parents was the first of many I’ve had over the years as my sexuality and gender expression evolve.

So far, I’ve defined myself as bi, lesbian, dyke, and now queer dyke/fluid. People are often shocked that I use “dyke,” since it’s so often used as an insult. “Dyke” has been leveled against me as a slur—but so has “lesbian,” and so has “Hey, you fat cow,” and so has “Pat from Saturday Night Live.” To me, “dyke” is a reclamation. It’s powerful. This is my way of taking it back.

But language has a way of falling short whenever we try to use it to keep ourselves or other people in a neat little box. Even when I was like, "Nah, I'm a lesbian," I still had crushes on dudes.

And then came Alex.

Alex changed everything. (Note: Alex used he/him pronouns when I met them, and now uses they/them, which I’ll use in this story.)

It was 2009. I was out to dinner with my improv troupe after a show in Washington, D.C., and I was in a crappy mood. The restaurant was boiling hot and cramped. In a word, my mood was “Ugh.” I was sitting there, simmering, and then I heard a waiter say, “Can I take your order?”

I did a double-take because the waiter was the hottest person I had ever seen. And it was Alex. I assumed Alex was a woman—a dyke like me.

I got Alex’s email address to invite them to the show, and then sent a very smooth follow-up email, asking about lesbian bars in the area. Alex replied, “I’m a trans man.” I was like, “Oh. Okay.” That was that.

And then, despite this awkward beginning, the miles of distance between Chicago and D.C, and the nearly two decades of age between us, we started dating. That’s when I realized I’d need yet another label. If I continued calling myself a dyke or lesbian, I was denying Alex’s identity as a trans man—because I wasn’t a woman dating a woman. I was a woman dating a man.

That’s when I started calling myself a queer dyke. I’ve kept that ever since.

I’m never done learning or trying to get to know myself better. I’m not done being open to change.

My family was supportive about the relationship, just as they were when I first came out. I remember my dad and I had a phone call that mimicked our first conversation. I told him I had started dating someone. He was curious—I didn’t talk about my dating life much. He asked what she was like. “Actually, dad, Alex is not a she. He’s a trans man.”

“Oh, okay,” he replied. Nonplussed. In the McEnany tradition, it was another loving "non-event."

Still, I encountered gatekeeping from people within the queer community about my relationship. Once, when I was out in Chicago, a friend asked if I was seeing anyone. When I told her about Alex, she responded, "Well, I guess you're not a lesbian anymore." I was shocked by her reaction. I joked about it in a storytelling show. "Does this person have a whiteboard at home with a list of lesbians, and I got crossed off the list?"

We broke up, but Alex is still a big part of my life. I’m grateful to them. The experience informed my show and led me to greater clarity about who I am. Now, at 53, I have found the right words: queer, dyke and fluid. When I heard the word fluid five years ago, I felt, for the first time, a word that neatly sums up my sexual identity.

For now, at least. “Fluid” is a resting place. I’m never done learning or trying to get to know myself better. I’m not done being open to change. So much pain has been caused when people aren’t allowed, or don’t allow themselves, to explore their gender and sexuality. I’ve spent my life exploring and I feel enormously grateful for my community and family (both biological and chosen) that have been along for the ride.

I hope my show, Work in Progress, can be a way of seeing that it’s possible to really be yourself, a self that isn’t a fixed destination but is more like a fluid journey that we’re all going on. I’ve been incredibly lucky, and I want to show that there is a life without shame out there. There’s love and acceptance out there for you, even if you don’t have the perfect words for yourself yet. Of course, I’m still working on internalizing that as truth, too. Like everything else, it’s a work in progress.

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