Diary of a Crap Lesbian: the effect of boys
Some time ago, I was acquainted with the phrase ‘lezzing off’. The means of my introduction was less than savoury, so I’ll save that story for a less sober time. The point is that since first hearing this, frankly dreadful, term I don’t know how I ever managed without it. Euphemisms for what one friend of mine terms ‘lady lovin’’ are hardly rare, I defy any of you to come up with fewer than five off the top of your head, but I’m afraid I can’t say the same for our boy / girl encounters. As much as I like it, I’m certain the phrase ‘hetting off’ will never catch on. It was this issue that occupied my thoughts one morning last month, when I awoke after My First Boy Date. Yes, folks, you read that right, at the ripe old age of 21, just a fortnight before turning 22, I had my first official date with a boy.
It’s odd, this boy thing, for a start there’s the mind games. Or as it happens, there isn’t, and herein lies our first problem. I, used to lady brains, I am looking for subtext where there is only text. I take nothing at face value, and, as shocking a revelation as this may be, occasionally say things I don’t actually mean. While we haven’t yet reached the stage where I burst into tears at the offer of a cup of tea (tea, goes the thought process, tea? That lass over there is drinking a hot chocolate with whipped cream, why wasn’t I offered one of those? Well chocolate gives me spots so he must think I’m ugly! Oh no! Our relationship is over!*), the signs are pointing in that direction.
So lying in bed next to The Boy, in morning-after-night-before mode, because, yes kids, I’m that kind of girl, my mind is racing. He is sleeping, snoring, and I am wondering exactly what I’ve let myself in for. My distraction (how many euphemisms can I think of for heterosexual sex?) is, well, not very distracting, and I want the boy to wake up. This he will not do, and so I am left with my thoughts. What, I think to myself , was all the fuss about? My exclamations of ‘But you’re hairy, and have no breasts!’, were met only with a wry glance and stifled laughter. It is, in short, No Big Deal to The Boy, but why should it be? This may be brand new to me, but tales of his sluttery convince me that he’s no novice.
With the boy I morph into a rather traditional lady, obsequious and, much to his delight, subservient. I fight these urges, they are not me, but I just can’t help myself. The difference is apparently not all that evident to my friends, but I see it, and I’m not happy. Could it be that I have cultivated a new persona just for him? I don’t like that idea at all.
There is, as nothing is so simple as it should be, one other issue concerning The Boy. He has been blessed with a… how can I put it nicely? He’s been blessed with a particularly girly nickname, the origin of which I do not know nor care about since, in this instance, it suits me considerably well. You see, while most of my associates are aware that I am entangled with a new person, due to the long distance nature of said entanglement, very few have met him. This has allowed me to hide his status as one of the chromosomally y –enabled to those who I know would disapprove, or of whom I’m not comfortable informing of my sexual enlightenment. I’ve played the pronoun game incessantly, as we most of us have at some point or another. They said this, they said that, they have blond (implied E) hair. I am Chasing Amy.
As I sit here in bed, my laptop before me, for those of you that like the visual, my mind races once more. It is a month or so since our first date, a fortnight since our second. In three weeks time I shall be seeing him again. It is at this stage in any relationship (though I don’t like what that word implies, it is the most accurate to describe what I would prefer to call our ‘situation’) that I habitually drop the Mary Poppins act – I will allow my quarry to see that I am in fact not Practically Perfect In Every Way. In this case it has been clear from the get go that I am not, I have had to be brutally honest in my situation, and by this have shown myself to be flawed. This, at least, is a good thing. I can be sure that his interest is in me, rather than my unspoiled alter ego.
*An absolutely hypothetical situation that never actually happened, no sireebobby, never happened at all so don’t think it did ‘cos it didn’t, alright?