Member-only story
Every time a straight girl tells me “I wish I was a lesbian,” I want to light myself on fire.
Picture it. Walk with me for a second.
You enter into your favorite local bar looking good as hell, but you know the only heads you want to turn — spicy & stylish alpha bitches — are heavily fixated on the D. The hot girl talks to you, but she only wants to be your best friend. Her nonthreatening and attentive best friend. Receiver of sexy selfies, listener of stories. Meanwhile, you attract unwanted attention from straight men, pudgy and greasy moths to your emotionally distant flame.
The only place you can go out and feel desired is a lesbian party. There is a reason lesbian bars no longer exist. Women aren’t taught to approach each other. We’re taught to cross our arms and judge. You worry about the shape of your eyebrows now? The stage of your roots? You haven’t felt fully judged until you’ve been in a room full of scowling women who want to fuck each other.
For years, your friends, family members, and medical professionals will doubt your continued homosexual confessions. They will tell you that you “haven’t met the right man.” Sex with women is fine. That’s allowed. You can be “experimental,” a titillating object of the male gaze. You can be fluid. But you want to partner with a woman? No no. You must be mistaken. You tend to believe…
