… and with fewer beaches, and waterfalls, and accidental pregnancies. Pretty much it’s nothing like Cocktail, except for the cocktails.
So, I’ve dropped the G-Bomb in earlier posts, but, I understand that y’all don’t necessarily give me your undivided attention, and I can’t expect my readers to catch every little detail that I throw down on this bitch. (But you should know that I’m really disappointed in you for ‘skimming’ my posts, and if you don’t get my obscure blog references when we have a conversation, I go home and cry myself to sleep. Okay, fine, I don’t. I can’t even remember when I purchase a calendar filled with pictures of puppies, how can I expect you to remember something trivial like all the reasons I drink in a movie theater? I think I’ve strayed a little from my point…)
Gay. The G-Bomb means Gay. .
Good, I’m glad we got that out of the way.
Coming out is something that can happen effortlessly (ie: Oh, please, even my stapler knew you were gay), it can be awkward (ie: Oh, so, um, does this mean you want to have sex with me? Do you look at my tits when you talk to me?), or it can be painful (there’s really no funny joke to go here). Sometimes it’s any combination of the three.
Personally, I’m terrible at it. I got my initial “I like girls” talk with close family and friends out of the way at the young, tender age of 17. I lacked a lot of tact when I was coming out as a teenager. Like, for instance, the awkward MSN conversation with my sister where I wrote “I don’t like boys”, having assumed she had already put two and two together, and this would come as no surprise.
It was uncomfortable.
It was even more uncomfortable when her leading question was “How do you have sex?”
In my older age, I’ve only gotten worse. On several occasions, I have resorted to drunk-dial outing. The conversation goes a little something like this:
Me: “Were you asleep!?!?”
Friend: “It’s 3 am.”
Friend: “Can I help you with something?”
Me: “I have something to tell you.”
Me: "It’ssss just thatttt… ummmmm… I… uhhhh.”
Me: “I happen to like the company of women. Like, A LOT.”
Friend: “I know, Britt, I know.”
*(Or my most favourite response from a dear guy friend of mine: “Britt, I figured that out when I said I thought a girl was hot and you said ‘I don’t know, I feel like I could snap her like a twig’.”)
I’ve also been known to drunk-text it from a club when I’m out of town.
Pretty much, when I’m drunk, I’m all about the gay.
The problem comes when I’m sober. There’s no way for me to not be awkward when I come out because all I can think is I’m pretty much just telling you that I like the vag. This is what we are discussing right now. You’re picturing it right now, aren’t you? You totally are. Stop it.
I’m what you might classify as a “femme” lesbian. By this, I mean that I wear makeup and predominantly wear skirts and dresses. La-dee-fucking-da. I’m not a big fan of these classifications, but for the sake of this post, let’s go with it. Since I’m ‘girly’, it seems a large portion of our population thinks this means I’m straight. On more than one occasion, I’ve actually had to argue to “convince” someone I’m gay- and I’m not just talking about the men trying to get at my nether regions. (As I write this, I’m picturing of a hoard of men, running at my nether regions with torches, protesting my lesbianism as they prod me with pitchforks. As you can see, my experience with men has left a lot to the imagination.) I never thought I’d ever have to defend my gayness to someone… it seems to me like the strangest thing to dispute. It’s not really a “mother knows best” kind of topic. If I say I like surfin’ the turf, then I like surfin’ the turf. Shut your stupid fucking face.
While I do have to defend my preferences from time to time, I have learned to take the “prove it” remark with a big ol’ grain of salt. In other words, when I hear “You guys are lesbians? Prove it!”, it’s not time to school the sonofabitch on gay rights. To the more naïve twatwaddlers out there, that’s likely someone’s attempt to get you to make-out with another girl in front of them. Don’t fall for it. Or maybe you should… if she’s hot and you’ve been looking for a window. But don’t make out in front of men for their benefit. that’s just stupid.
Make out in front of me instead.
Regardless of your sexual preferences, you should never have to defend them (unless you’re into dead things or animals. Sorry bro, but the boat your on is a lonely one and has none of the colourful boas and glitter that I’ve grown accustomed to. You can defend it all you want, but I snap my fingers in your face and give you a “AW HELL NAH.”) I lost my train of thought when I started thinking about bestiality.
Ah, the ol' ‘bestiality diversion technique’. What a classic.
Got me again, old pal.