How to fail at being a lesbian

by Florentine

Ever stepped tentatively into your first gay club and spent half the night patting yourself on the back for becoming the brave new, pioneering self you always knew you could be, before drinking enough WKD to dye your bloodstream blue and seeking out the only straight man in the whole building for another emotion-void snog?  Or perhaps you spent a solid eight months at the beck and call of your best friend, hoping that one day the fog would clear and she’d suddenly declare that her two year relationship with a rugby-playing, walking sack of testosterone was merely an elaborate cover to hide her undying, all-encompassing love for you.  Naturally.  If this sounds at all familiar, then there’s little doubt that you’ve sucked at being a lesbian at some point in your life.  And if it doesn’t, then please accept a big, shiny gold star for display on a wall/blazer/mouse-mat of your choosing on us.

It’s not often that we remove our steely overcoats of bravado for long enough to admit our failings as worldy-wise purveyors of lady-loving.  As women, we’re often expected to be pre-programmed from birth in the finer skills of wooing others of our kind into higher planes of ecstasy via some kind of magical female intuition.  While that’s true to some extent (who else but a woman would listen to you spend three hours dissecting the placing of a comma in a questionably judgemental text from a loose acquaintance, without swiftly dumping you and heading to the pub?), it doesn’t stop the human among us making some colossal boo-boos in the dating department – particularly as newcomers to the bewildering Sapphic scene.  So imagine our joy when we stumbled across the following article by ducts.org writer Natasha Long, which typifies the experiences of a hormone-ravaged newbie wading their way perilously and messily through the all-too-familiar swamp of early lez-dom.  It’s a snigger-inducing read and one which, like us, might just make you want to pickle Ms. Long in a little, portable jar to carry around for reassurance the next time your colleagues flippantly probe you on the latest girl-on-girl celebrity scandal, to which you’ve uttered, “Cor, I definitely would”… before remembering you haven’t yet got around to telling them you’re a massive dyke.

“When your fifteen-year-old boyfriend, Peter, asks, “Do you think you’re a lesbian?” your silence will prompt him to explain his fascinating theory on the feminine confusion: “Every girl I’ve met has been worried she’s a lesbian, and it’s all bullshit. Of course they’re not all lesbians–there’d be no straight women left!”  In your sleepy Somerset town, hold a garden party for your sixteenth birthday.  After watching Peter crawl into a tent with a girl from the grade above, position yourself in the exact center of your lawn, swallow the July air, and growl from your lungs: “I’m a lesbian!”  The next day, listen to your best friend, Harriet, relate details you can no longer remember. Exhibit appropriate amounts of shame as she recalls how you kissed Leanne (Peter’s most recent ex-girlfriend), then Jenna (a not terribly attractive girl with a penchant for Lincoln Park hoodies), before pouncing upon Harriet herself and claiming to have loved her for years. Show suitable astonishment at the last part, despite your three-year intoxication with this elegant, acne-d Barbie-doll. Plead ignorance, apologize profusely, and blame the Bailey’s.”

For the full article, follow this link.