A year ago I fell out with a friend. She was a good friend. An old friend. Someone I’d known since I was a gawky 11 year-old with a mono brow and scuffed shoes. We met for lunch and she told me some wonderful news – she was pregnant. Then she said something odd. “I’m really worried, what if she’s not normal?” “What do you mean?” I said, bemused. “What if she’s…like, a goth?” I spluttered into my water. “I think you’ll live!” “But what if she’s not a good girl?” And then the penny dropped. Because the truth spiking her words that she didn’t have the courage to say was, what if she’s gay? For her budding blue blood family, some people being gay was okay – just not her daughter. I calmly finished my drink and walked out of her life, leaving 20 years of friendship with the tip on the table. Looking back, I wish I’d tried to talk to her. Not just for the sake of our friendship – but for …
Let me tell you a story about a girl who came out. Once upon a time there was a girl living in a Kingdom far, far away. She wasn’t a princess and she certainly wasn’t the fairest in the land, but she had a wonderful family and she was happy.
I’m intrigued that thus far I haven’t been on a date with any bonafide lebians. Tinder seems to be awash with the curious, the bewildered and the confused, the kind of women who use the ‘two girls’ emoji on their profile and then collapse into paroxysms of doubt when they get a message from an actual girl.
This is the excerpt for a placeholder post.
Never have truer words been spoken about coming out than no matter how many gay mates you have, or how much you support the LGBT community, it’s different when it’s you.