The other night I saw two women having a drink. They were sat outside at a picnic table, with fairy lights hanging from the trees above them. One of them – the one I could see – had a smile so broad I thought her cheeks would crack. Later they shared a kiss – one, two, five, a dozen – before slipping out hand in hand. I saw this and I was so envious. Not about the kiss – kisses are easy. It’s the love. I miss loving someone. I’m so full of love it leaks out of my toes and my ears. What a waste, to see it swilling down the drain like dirty bathwater. Seeing women together makes me ache and yearn and pine so hard I have to look away, like I’ve seen something terrible.
In the olden days, there was a stat people used to quote about how men think about sex every 7 seconds. Men were animals, apparently, held to ransom by their desperate, yearning, aching ballsacks. Women were often left out of such studies as people thought women were incapable of enjoying sex because it’s “icky” and it “messes up one’s hair”. Thankfully, times have changed. In ground-breaking research commissioned exclusively for Girl Meets Girl, I can reveal exactly how often women think about sex. Behold, a single day in the mind of a woman:
Insecurities are horrible things, aren’t they? Giggling, pointing, snide, gossipy, cruel things. They’re the mean girl in your head, sniggering that you’re weird or unwanted or unattractive. They weave themselves into your thoughts, slowly thickening like a room filling with smoke. They start small and bloom on your brain, an ugly rash speckling every brunch or date or dinner with this feeling that you’re not quite right.
Last month I threw away my bullet. Poof. Gone. There was nothing wrong with it. It hadn’t worn out or wound down or fizzled up on the insides like an old radio. It still hit the spot, made me squirm and writhe and gasp and sing like a canary all over the bed sheets. I just made a decision it was time to end it and I ended it. Plop. In the bin. Another useless bit of plastic swimming in a dump somewhere. I know. I KNOW. Someone fetch an ambulance or a fire engine or a detective to find this poor woman’s marbles. What’s wrong with me? Vibrators are awesome. They’re a single woman’s best friend. They’re the slightly seedier version of getting a cat. Me, my vibe and my pussy: We’re one big, happy, creepy family.
And it’s over. 10 days. 15 messages. I’m not even sure I can use the word over – did it ever really begin? It was all going well until I suggested meeting up. We’d ticked off friends and homes and passions with no major upsets. We’d had a cheeky flirt – just a flash of thigh, a spot of conversational cleavage – to up the anticipation. We’d swapped our real names, which in the world of anonymous internet dating is, well, keen. Then I ask about meeting up and she goes as squirmy as fish in a bucket.
I think I’ve realised why people get married so young. I always wondered what the big rush was. What’s your hurry honey? Forever can wait another year or two. Strap on a backpack and hit the road. See the world. Make love with the wrong people. Make friends with the right people. Mess up. Learn. Fill your head with memories that will nourish you in the decades to come.
I often forget how lucky I am to live in a city like London, surrounded by people who are open-minded. Other people talk sometimes about the pressure from friends and families to settle down and I find it all a bit bemusing: But, why do they care? It strikes me that it must be hard not to internalise that pressure, to suck it all up like a mouthful of slime. Worry. Fear – it’s catching. Quick! Everyone shack up before the music stops! (Tip: the music doesn’t stop until you die, kids.)