The Unrequited Lesbian

Yes, an unrequited love.  I do pick them.  Yesterday I found out that the girl in my affections is spoken for.  It’s my own fault for letting my feelings snowball so much when I didn’t even know if she was available.

She came into my life like a welcome wrecking ball.  The night before I met her she appeared in my dreams, in my bed.  When dawn and reality hit, I was still tangled in the threads of the dream, shaking off confusion and getting ready to dismiss.  She arrived at my door an hour early.

I wasn’t ready for her.

Officially, she was the student.  She paid me to help her with a practical skill that I find eternally interesting.  In return she introduced me to unknown angles of my own passion.  Professional…and otherwise.

She arrived at my place twice a week for two months with her leather jacket, self-assurance and inner light.  When she left I missed her.  I couldn’t shake her.  Something inside me had woken up and wasn’t going to let me continue to sleepwalk.

It was like she held up a mirror.  You know when all your life something is knocking and you don’t listen?

I kissed a girl when I was 23.  She was a particularly beautiful flatmate and there was lots of wine.  Tatu was all over the radio at the time and all I could think of was all the things I’d said and how I had to show her I was straight as I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. She was all of two years younger than me and I felt like a predator, which in all honesty I quite liked.  ‘Fortunately’ I had a long distance thing with an American guy at the time.  He was flying in the next week to stay for a few days so thank God that could prove to beautiful flatmate that I was just drunk and not at all a lesbian really.

I’ve only ever been jealous of men.  Like I kind of want to be them.  I want to take a woman out.  I want to approach.  I don’t want to be delicate.  I was joking once with a guy I dated about how I’m not really the kind of girl guys want to throw rose petals on the bed for.  He was like, ‘nah – more like pork scratchings!’  He then bought me a pint, some of which spilt on my ripped jeans, then we had a laugh and…sex.  Minus the pork scratchings, thankfully.

I don’t fancy men in pictures.  I do fancy women in pictures.  I have always known that.  I just assumed all straight girls must feel like that?  Do they?  Specifically, I mean pictures of bodies.   Sexy pictures.  Take your Calvin Klein boxers and headless torsos and toss them in the Thames…I’d rather look at boobs.  Put a real, talking, laughing person in front of me, however, and, well…

For years, I’d always had the unexamined intention to visit a lesbian bar in a city where no-one knew me.  All straight girls want to do that, don’t they?  In summer 2010 I found myself in NYC, scrolling through names of lesbian bars on my BlackBerry.  Roaming data got switched on for five minutes specifcally to do this because fuck the phone bill, girls are important.  I downed probably too many Coronitas (teeny tiny Coronas, for the uninitiated) and swung by one establishment whose name had caught my eye (I’d cite said name but it’s too cheesy).  Flatteringly, a rather beautiful girl from Honduras swooped on me as soon as I entered, bought me a full-size Corona and I proceeded to have my second lesbian kiss.  I was 30 by now.  She was lovely, she was hot, she was…far too keen.  Like an asshole, I shook her off.  I got my come-uppance as no-one else in the bar was falling all over me as I’d naively expected them to.  Still glimpsing Miss Honduras out of the corner of my eye everywhere I turned, I fled into a yellow cab thinking, ‘fuck, I could never have a relationship with a woman, they’re far too clingy’.  The Pakistani taxi driver told me he was gay and in his country that wasn’t allowed.   I fell asleep that night thinking: poor guy.  At least I’m not really gay.

I took a Pilates course last summer.  I fancied the beautiful redhead teacher.  That was a short-flickering flame, extinguished in a shrug when she mentioned her boyfriend.  Oh well.  It was only a giggle in my own head anyway.

Then the wrecking ball came.  She’s a lesbian, no doubt.  I knew before I knew, if that makes sense. I could kind of say the same about myself.

She can’t be mine, not in that way.  At least she’s in my life.

I think she was sent to introduce me to myself.

Thanks mate.

This summer I would love to take off around Europe for a month and go to as many lesbian bars as possible.  I can’t live life without living this part of me.

All straight girls feel like this, right? 😉

 

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