Forgive my ignorance, but what’s the deal with the whole lesbian vs bisexual thing we’ve got going on? I’ve felt it, the fear and the resentment and the wilful misunderstanding simmering beneath the surface. Sometimes it bursts out on Twitter or Facebook like an angry boil and the trolls crawl out from under their bridges with spikes. How did we get here and why? It’s even touched my own relationships. Several of the women I’ve dated have been bisexual. When I talk about being gay, almost every one of them has rushed to clarify their sexual status: “Um, actually I’m bisexual. Is that okay?” Well, of course it is – why wouldn’t it be? I don’t care how a woman identifies – gay, lesbian, bi, queer, trans, label-less, otter. You want to go and start building little houses in streams? Go for it. I got your back, beautiful. As long as you love me.
Unrequited love. It sounds so…dramatic doesn’t it? Like something from a novel or a film: “l’ll never love again!” she cried breathlessly. Unrequited love is champagne tears and silk gloves and morose diamonds in the moonlight. It’s mourning and yearning and summers in Paris in the arms of another lover. It’s sending away breakfast and picking at dinner and waiting for the hopeful ding of the postman’s bell. It’s an affliction of youth: a brief, sweet, bitter wail of despair, strong in its turn but swift to abate.
Is everyone gay now? Has it finally been made official? I only ask because every day it feels like a new woman trots out of the closet: “Oh yahs, yahs, I’m definitely on the spectrum, babes.”
That’s it, I’m done. It’s over. Finito. So long, fair well, aufwiedersehen, adieu. I’m throwing in the towel, packing my bags and booking a one way ticket to the single life. I’m shutting my legs and my heart, boarding them up and sticking on a closed for business sign. No doubt I’ll be a bloody Starbucks soon.
I’m meant to be meeting E17 girl for another date. Sadly, the day before we’re due to meet, her grandmother passes away. I leave her a voice note telling her how sorry I am and that I’m here if she needs to talk. A couple of days later I send her a text saying that I’m sending good thoughts.
When I first started using dating apps they held so much promise. The prospect of finding love, sex and everything in-between seemed infinite in a world with a never-ending supply of fresh suitors. I started to think that many of the relationships forged in the pre-internet dating era where doomed to fail. How could you possibly find ‘the One’ bumbling around at work or in the pub? It seemed positively medieval.
Beyond the odd turn at charades I’m not the kind of woman who enjoys games. Blowing hot one minute, cold the next; never knowing if you’re coming or going; always watching your back, sizing up your opponent, plotting your next move. It’s exhausting – and insulting. At best, a woman who’s playing games with you is trying to gain the upper hand. At worst she’s just not that into you, stringing you along like an old boot until she can toss you out and splurge on something new.