I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else
I have nothing else to say at this moment, but because of the information already divulged, today is looking slightly (and I do use the term loosely) more rosy, despite being so tired I can barely see the screen.
Well the following blabber is an article I had published recently. It was published under the heading of 'real life' for some reason (i may well su) but as you read on you it will become clear that it's certainly not based on my real life... I mean me a bisexual? I don't think so
"Life Sucks When You Can't Get Back in the Closet"
Imagine how hard it is to get your sorry ass out of the closet and immerse yourself in a fully-fledged, steel toe-capped lesbian lifestyle when your mother has stuffed the aforementioned closet with clothes that make you look like a Sindy doll. Picture, if you will, the labouriousness of travelling by public transport to other cities to buy mens’ magazines, all for a glimpse of Britney Spears’ cleavage. Imagine, too, how it would feel to tell your Christian parents and your ‘fingers-are-for-nail-varnish’ friends that you’d rather play with beavers than even think about what boys keep in their boxers. These events, and others, caused me to have a very traumatic coming out experience.
Now imagine what it would be like to realise that, all these years, you’ve been fooling not only yourself but also your parents, your friends and all those lesbos who’ve had a sniff of your rug. Picture it dawning on you one day that you aren’t actually a lesbian but, dare I say it, a bisexual! The journey out of the closet might have been a long and treacherous one, but the journey back in is like getting those pesky period stains off your favourite pants, it just ain’t going to happen.
I had decided to join the pink crew when I realised I wanted to get in my ageing piano teacher’s pants. Off I went to the library to educate myself on the requirements of being queer. (A bit of advice for other baby dykes: do not read any books concerning the ‘history of lesbian hair’. I was the proud owner of a mullet for almost two years after reading that one. I was single for those two years.)
Anyway, I set about becoming the biggest lesbian this place has seen since old kd. It was an overnight transformation, from a girl who wore clothes that sported decorative lace patches to a butch, mulleted, near-man. I told the world and anyone else who would listen that I was a man-hating feminist lesbian bitch. I sported a different lesbian badge every day and had ‘Lesbe Friends’ T-shirts made up so that there could be no dispute about my sexual orientation. I was proud to be gay and I told myself that my desire to tame my cousin John’s trouser-snake was just a phase that I would grow out of. Little did I know that, one day, I would wake up to the fact that I was one of those indecisive, attention-seeking people that I, and seemingly the whole gay community, loathed so much. I tried so hard to be gay, dismissing bisexuals as wannabes and greedy-arses, that I never foresaw the possibility that I would come to identify myself as one.
Well, it wasn’t exactly likely, not with THAT hair and clothes. I was so butch that even lesbians were intimidated by me and so manly that the only men I stood even a whimper of chance with were gay men, and then only because they were under the illusion that I, too, peed standing up.
I knew another overnight transformation, this time into a goddess, would be laughable, so I had to change the testosterone-fuelled aspects of my appearance gradually. The first thing to go was my infamous prepubescent boy bowl cut. Then I ventured into the world of girls’ shops and discovered that pink really was my colour. I wound up with a matching make-up set, which I still can’t apply right.
Changing my image was the easy bit. I began to edge closer to my closet, and was just about to turn the handle to sneak back in, when wham! I confided in my best lezzer mate, Kerri. First there was disbelief, then there was anger and then came the tears. ‘But why?’ she kept bawling at me, ‘It’s not right. You don’t look like one of them.
Does that mean we’ll have to go to straight bars?’ Straight bars! Oh my god! That hadn’t even occurred to me. How would I cope with that? I hadn’t been in a straight bar since I’d been thrown out of one for being in the ladies’ toilet!
I decided on a new guise, that of a femme lesbian who secretly shags men. But that was never going to be an option. Kerri put the word on the scene about my new-found men-lovin’ status, and it clearly had such comedy effect that the news travelled everywhere. Ex-girlfriends who I hadn’t seen in ages popped up with offers of sex to cure my wicked ways. Most of these I took up, not in an effort to remain part of the exclusive muff-diving posse, but because I really wanted a shag and I imagined that I wouldn’t be getting my first experience of hetty betty sex for quite some time.
If facing the ridicule and finger-pointing from my so-called friends was hard, I knew it was going to be even harder confessing to my mother. Can there be a good way to tell your mother that the years of grief you imposed on her, not to mention her utter devastation at losing all hope of grandchildren, had all been unnecessary? I thought the best way to tell her would be cautiously, one step at a time. She’d been off the Prozac for only a matter of months, and any little nudge would be likely to send her straight back into ‘Why did God curse me with a bent child?’ mode.
I tried to be careful. I planned it. I was going to take her out to her favourite tearooms (tea and fruit scones make everything better). Then I’d ask her opinion on my new appearance. (She had been pretending not to notice, but I could see her smiling under her scowls when she looked at me now.) And then I’d ease it in. (God, I’m even talking like a heterosexual now, all these innuendoes.) I’d explain that while I might meet a Paula, there was an equal chance I’d meet a Paul, and that there might, after all, be a wedding one day.
But, of course, the way my mother found out was nothing like that at all. One Saturday night, I ventured to a straight bar on my own, which, I soon realised, real girls don’t do. And apparently it’s not a good look for a real girl, either, to be propping up the bar with a pint of lager in one hand and a whiskey chaser in the other. However, I did in fact meet a Paul, who was rather cute. I decided he was the man to conquer my unconquered territory and take me places I’d never been before. Well, he took me to the kebab shop, which was somewhere I had never been before. And then he took me to my house, somewhere I had definitely been before.
This wasn’t quite the location I’d had in mind for my first night of rampant man-sex. I live with my parents. I’m sure you can guess what’s coming next. Paul was so drunk and incapable we vowed to wait until morning, once his breath was fresher than his vomit.
Morning came and so did Paul. Quite unexpectedly, I might add, particularly to an ex-lesbian. I gave an almighty shriek when it spattered against my chin, one loud enough to summon my mother, who, it turned out, thought it was a call for ‘spider rescue’. Hearing her bounding up the stairs, I only had time to shove Paul under the duvet and dive on top of him, forgetting that I was starkers. In she ran. For a moment, I thought I was going to have to put my recent one-day first aid course to use. She reeled back with the shock, not at the sight of the human-shaped lump in my bed, but at the sight of me naked.
Any disgust she might have expressed about me being in bed with a woman was halted on her lips by the plainly visible hairy butt-cheek peeking out from under the duvet. After firing off a volley of unanswerable questions, she yanked the duvet cover off the bed and bellowed, ‘DonÕt you know she’s a lesbian?!’ Great. The only time my mother has ever uttered those words, her first indication of near-acceptance, and I’m about to confess that I’m a ball girl.
Needless to say, a rather angry Paul left my house soon after, throwing back over his shoulder, ‘That explains it.’ And that put the kaibosh on any fantasies I had about being found to be a fantastic lay.
In a few years, I may get my painted big toe back in the closet, but it’s going to be far from easy. Lesbians think I just need a good dildo-shagging to ‘sort me out’ and if I thought that would work, I’d do it in a second. I really wouldn’t have chosen to go through all the mockery and the embarrassment of being called a shite lay that I’ve endured during my ‘coming-in’ experience if I hadn’t thought I had to, believe me.
Kate Bush (cos I'm immaturely amused by her surname)
My newly decorated bedroom
Puffy eyed tiredness
Stikin' wifies on el bus
People who use the letter V. in place of the word 'very'
Not being in London/at London work
Not seein American chick
3/11/2002 09:31:00 AM
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