She is a straightgirl. I meet her at a party populated mostly by straight people. Maybe it’s my fault for attending these things, for momentarily believing we can respectfully co-exist.
She thinks I want her because she mistakenly thinks I lust after everything that’s shaped like a stereotypical woman. She flirts blatantly with me, but if I were to confront her about it she would pretend to be wrongly accused.She thinks I enjoy doing favours for her, thinksI can’t admit how badly I want to please her.She thinks being straight equals being hard to get equals being twice as desirable. She wants me to cup her pretty ego between my queer artist hands, and stroke, stroke, stroke.
She lives in a comfortably straight world, where lesbianismis either a sitcom punchline or a pornographic plotline – firmly on the fringes, where it should be.
She thinks messing around with women is sexy (or at least that’s what her boyfriend tells her). She doesn’t think being a lesbian is sexy, though. Lesbians are mullet-wearing freaks with extra facial hair, issues with men and pets named Buddy.
She thinks there is something wrong with me, something apparently sad about me. She shakes her head at my unfortunate “lifestyle choice.” Why don’t I try harder to fit in? She thinks I envy her, in secret, because she is a “real” woman, because she can get a man and keep him. Because she will have a nuclear family someday and forever be a part of the acceptable stream of society.
She is under the impression that her straightness is attractive. She thinks I sleep with other lesbians only because the straight girls are (usually) unavailable. She thinks she can teach me things lesbians don’t know about women. She wants me to undress her but doesn’t care about undressing me. Her wet mouth on my ear, she tells me earnestly about all the fun we’ll have. I could fuck her while she pretends to be her boyfriend’s favourite porn star, then she could… well, talk about it on the phone while I get off alone.
We could have a secret life together. We could sell tickets at parties. I wouldn’t have to worry about being invited home for Christmas. I wouldn’t have to worry about her tagging along to all my “little gay events” (except the Pride Parade, of course, in which she’d wear less than all my friends, make out with a dozen gay men and a dozen other straight girls, take lots of pictures, and display her accumulated rainbow paraphernalia in a prominent location for the rest of the year).
We’d both have other lovers, she because I’m not enough and me because she’s too much. All that posing and closeting sounds too good to be true.
She expects me to feel lucky, lucky to have been chosen as a woman when she would normally choose men. She wants me to know that she is making an exception for me. Touching her, kissing her, taking her bra off, all of these are a privilege not to be taken lightly. There is no question as to which role she will play. She will be the irresistible woman, the good little virgin, and I will be the boy-girl who momentarily corrupts her.
Her straightness will not be called into question, but affirmed when she grows tired with our show and slips back into “normal” life.
“Want to see my lesbian picture?” she asks, barely halfway through the party, thinking she can make me wet just by making the possibility of getting with her more tangible. She’s done it before, she could do it again, right? The thing is though, I could care less.
She hauls the picture out anyway, puts it on her screensaver for the boys to drool over. I am not impressed. Despite all of my inner battles, I feel absolutely separated from the boys in this moment. She has no idea how her “lesbian picture” trivializes my sexuality, how her having a moment with her best friend in the middle of a dancefloor with 50 witnesses and a digital camera has no relation to my life or what I do with women. I’m not trying to look naughty or make my boyfriend jealous. Women are not something I do when I’m bored, drunk or high. If I wanted a hobby, I would take up something that didn’t have the potential to break my heart.
She is one in a million, and by that I mean there are a million just like her. I don’t want to hurt her feelings or piss her off – I just want to wake her up. Britney Spears and Madonna were a bad example. In my opinion it’s what you do off camera that counts as sexuality. Everything else is a day at the theatre.
She’ll probably think I’m a big bitch if she ever reads this, which she won’t, because she’s straight, and about as likely to pick up Xtra as I am to pick up Maxim.