When I meet the artist at a quiet pub near Bankside I’m immediately attracted to her. Her long, dark hair falls to just below where I imagine the curve of her breast lies under her white shirt, her hazel eyes peppered with honey in the late afternoon sun.
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.
When you’re dating women there’s a pitifully small pool to choose from. I’m not even sure it can fairly be called a pool. It’s more of a pond or a puddle or a light drizzle or an egg cup full of water. Where’s my girlfriend? I think mournfully, prodding the egg cup.
After my first few unsuccessful attempts to meet women in bars, I’m dubious as to whether it’s even possible to meet people in real life anymore or if I’ll eventually be telling my kids that “mummy met mummy on a seedy dating app.” So when my token lesbian friend invites me to a night for gay women I think – what the hell, let’s give it another whirl.
The Northerner is an absolute knockout: green eyes like springtime and warm russet locks – it’s like she’s been plucked straight from my lesbian dreams. I meet her outside the bar, slightly flustered after trotting from the tube and feel like I’ve been sucker punched in the stomach. Holy shit – it’s my future wife!
This is the excerpt for a placeholder post.