What’s your type?
People always ask me that and my response is always the same: I like femme girls. She can be tall, short or middle of the road; blond, brunette, red-head or blue-head; fair, tanned, dark or Boots’ finest; she can be a skinny little slip of a thing or a happy tumble of curves. But (insert grunt here) I like a woman to be a woman *swings club over shoulder and heads into cave*.
I’ve been to nights specifically for femme women who like femme women. I don’t care if you’ve got a banging bod, a brilliant sense of humour or the kindest of hearts; I want a proper woman with long hair, a short skirt and a frilly bra – cos that’s what society says a woman is, innit.
And then I match with Blue Eyes: gorgeous – yes – but definitely not a classically femme woman with her short hair and boyish style. Fuck it, I think and ask her out for a drink.
We arrange to meet at a cool alfresco bar in North London and immediately hit it off. The air bubbles and spits with the force of our banter – Putin, crushes, ‘feminazis’, weddings, labels and Trump are all covered in one long, breathless rush that leaves me dizzy. We talk like we’ve known each other for years, bickering and chiding with affection and good humour.
It’s all going so well that I can’t help taking my foot and stuffing it into my big mouth.
“So” I say taking a long pull on my cig “how come you have short hair?”
“Well how come you have long hair?” she bristles. “Because that’s how women are supposed to look? People always ask me that and it’s so annoying.”
“Yep, um, sorry. Stupid question” I say, my tail curling between my legs.
She gets up to go to the ladies and I’m worried that I’ve buggered this all up, because I like her and I fancy her and I’m starting to realise that maybe I’m a bit…well…clueless about this stuff; that maybe I’ve been so blinded by my ‘type’ that I can’t see the woman for the trees.
She heads back, a little unsteady on her feet and smiles to the brim, plonking herself down so close to me that I can feel the warmth of her thigh through my tights.
Not buggered it up completely then, I think giddily.
“So would you, er, like to do something again sometime?” I ask nervously.
“Yeah awesome” she says leaning in and planting a whisper of a kiss on my lips so gentle it makes my tummy flop.
It’s only later as I’m walking home in a daze that it occurs to me I know virtually nothing about her; that amongst all the laughter and kisses and babble we never once needed to stopper a lull with a fallback question.
The next day we text furiously all day and as I’m walking to the supermarket a man stops and smiles at me:
I hadn’t noticed I was beaming from ear to ear.