Nerves

Sitting on my own in a bar waiting for #gf2 and my sister to show up. It’s our first meeting together. The first time any of my family have met a female partner of mine. Not been this nervous for a while. 

Who will come first? Where should I get them to sit? Should I sit between them or next to one and not the other? Should I touch #gf2 when my sister is here? Should I not? What if my sister arrives first, should I kiss #gf2 when she arrives, in front of my sister? Will that be weird? 

I have no rule book for this. I feel incredibly awkward . 

My sister arrives. She gives me a big hug. We have ten minutes to talk. #Gf2 arrives. She looks nervous too. We don’t know where to put ourselves. We kiss on the cheek. My sister moves up so #gf2 can sit beside me.

We drink wine. Lots. Quickly. We all talk more than we should. The nerves I expect. It’s all convivial. My sister goes off to meet her friends, as planned.

#Gf2 and I get very drunk. 

Another step onwards. 

Lil x

Fishing in the lesbian internet dating goldfish bowl

I have done more internet dating than anybody should ever have to in their whole life.

I’ve gone with serious profiles (forget it), poems as profiles (lots of interest but rarely suitable) and funny but slightly obscure profiles (if they don’t get it, well, reality is we won’t get on anyway).

Suffice to say none of these has been staggeringly successful . In fact the most successful was much more of a cut to the chase quick meet off a site which  might as well have been called fancyashag.com, which ended up lasting a year. I’ve met them all- all fellas, all shapes and sizes, with increasing desperation at the futility of it all. 

The thing about internet dating is that it’s so throwaway. Quick look. No? Flick. Next. No. Flick. You don’t know them. They’re not people, just commodities to browse like an estate agents window .   There are hundreds, thousands more . Meet one in the flesh and your fate is decided  in the first two minutes. Not perfect? Hundreds more to try. Flick. Flick. Flick. 

Embarking on internet dating lesbian style,  it’s a different game. Profiles number in the hundreds not the thousands, and only a handful realistically in the running. It became abundantly clear that you  can’t afford to chuck people away for spurious reasons  – there just aren’t enough of them.

The question  was how to approach it. First off, the crucial matter of photos. I settle eventually on me looking intrepid half way up a mountain, me looking cultured  at historic sites of interest, and me in a dress looking quite hot actually if you don’t mind me saying so, just so you know yes I sometimes wear a dress. Right. Well that took about four hours longer than it was supposed to. 

Then the words. First try- too flippant. Next one, too wordy. Keep it short, keep it witty I thought. Pique their interest. Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly – come, come, my pretty. 

Finally, five versions later, unleashed upon the world I winked,  smiled and fairly regularly hid.

In the big heterosexual internet pond there is always another. Flick flick flick. In the small lesbian goldfish bowl, even in one of the biggest and most diverse cities on the planet, you can’t afford to be throwing any of the decent ones back in. 

It worked. I think I hooked a good one. I can’t remember who winked first but we’ve  reeled each other in nicely. Enough fishing analogies? Perhaps. 

I take it back, internet. Not as futile as I thought.

Lil x

Coming out – the end of the beginning

They say coming out is a lifelong process. Unless you have  I’m a lesbian tattooed on your forehead (and maybe even if you do) then people assume you’re straight.  At a women’s professional networking event I went to not too long ago – not a gay  thing- someone asked me what my husband did for a living . I nearly choked on my carrot stick. On so many levels, just staggering. 

I’m not quite sure what the best approach is. If I’m with people I don’t know that well and we get into conversation about partners, do I just casually use the “she” pronoun and carry on nonchalantly? Or do I blur the edges round a gender inclusive “partner” or do I upfront it and say by the way my partner’s a woman, just for the avoidance of  confusion?  

For the last nine months I’ve been letting my friends and colleagues in on where things stand. All have been great, barring two who chose to tell me they couldn’t quite cope with the idea of oral sex with women, whilst wrinkling their faces up. For the record,  not helpful. 

A few maybe didn’t believe me, but if that’s what they thought, they weren’t so rude as to tell me.  Most said not to label myself and to do whatever I want- whether it involves men, women or whatever combination of the two. Two asked if it was because I can’t get a man. Again ,thanks for that. If you’re wondering,  no, it really doesn’t work like that. 

So here in the heaving diverse metropolis of London my friends all know. My family, hundreds of miles away, have  remained out of the loop, aided by studious silence on my part on social media on this particular topic. My friends, I suspect, are waiting with sparkly rainbow statuses at the ready for the moment I choose to make my lesbian facebook debut. 

At a family event in August I felt it acutely. Everyone else there with partners, all heterosexual. Me as the token hopeless middle aged single person who can’t get it sorted. 

At the same time as I was realising what a secret I was keeping from them, I was also feeling the weight of trepidation of telling them. It’s one things telling mates  in London who would barely bat an eyelid before moving on to did you see that chocolate soufflé on Bake-Off last night, and quite another to tell these people who’ve known me all my life, well before any of this was something any of us could talk about or admit in public let alone be proud or happy about. 

And one thing to have a relationship with a woman and change my mind,  with friends who wouldn’t give a shit,  but another thing to tell my family I’m a lesbian and then say oh no I’m not. The thought of being the amusing family anecdote about dotty cousin having a lesbian mid life crisis appals me.

So I had to be sure, but the longer I go on, the more I feel I’m lying to them, and the more I worry that they might be offended that I told everyone else before them.  So last night, after working myself up to it for about a week, I told my big sister by phone. Face to face would have been preferable but not practical. Deep breath…

Of course she was great about it. Of course she had wondered. Of course she just wants me to be happy. She asked politely about gf#2,  her name and what she does, how long I’ve been seeing her. I said I’d known for a while. I said I worried about telling some of our family. She said it’ll be fine and if not it’s their problem not yours. 

And then we talked about Bake-Off. 

Not the end of coming out. Not the beginning of the end. But, perhaps, the end of the beginning.

Lil x 

Now is good enough for me

Before too long it’ll be a year since the penny dropped. That moment at four in the morning, when I thought:  you know, I wonder what would happen if I were just open to the idea that I might be attracted to women.

And once I opened that door, there it was. It had been waiting for me all this time.

To start with I questioned myself. It was undeniably there, but I didn’t entirely trust myself. What if I was making a mistake? What if I was clutching at explanations for my abject crapness at relationships with men?

Nine months on there is no more doubt. To be honest I no longer think I’m really very bi. Never say never, and I can only speak for how I feel now, but I really have no inclination to ever sleep with a man again. I mean, why would you?

Six weeks into seeing the lovely gf#2 I am smitten. I love spending time with her. She makes me laugh. The other night we lived the cliche. We did what all those millions of internet dating clones cite as their ideal night in – Chinese takeaway, bottle of wine, and curling up on the sofa with a crap movie. We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

After so many years on my own, it’s a precious gift. I want to wrap her in tissue paper and bring her out gently to wonder at her. I want to show her proudly to all my friends so they can admire my treasure.

Maybe I should have known earlier but I don’t care. Now is good enough for me.

Lil x

For Catherine who will never know

The summer of 1992. I was twenty years old, three quarters through my degree, and having the time of my life. University for me was a release – an escape from the small townness of my childhood and the suffocation of everybody knowing everyone. This is sounding worryingly like the start of Dirty Dancing.

I got a placement at a Girl Scout camp in the US and spent a blissful three months amongst the trees, stars and twinky bars. And the blossom of American youth of course. I learnt a lot of songs about squirrels and developed an unhealthy preoccupation with Dairy Queen.

I fitted in. I made good friends. The closest were just like me. A bit geeky, conventional enough to be working at a Girl Scout camp but with enough between their ears to have views, and to be prepared stand up for them.

We all had camp names. A neat trick to get us to buy into the immersion of the experience with your own identity temporarily erased. We had a Conchita, a Gonzo, a Caboose – if you didn’t choose one quick enough you got one chosen for you. Mine was Andy. Interestingly I chose something masculine and perhaps a little anonymous. I’m sure my therapist would make something of that. Hers was Bob.

We hung out a bit that summer – she was funny, clever, savvy and a bit cooler than me. Not your typical American if there is such a thing.  We kept in touch. A year or so later she travelled in Europe and came to visit. I was delighted to see her. She told me then she was gay – to be fair a Girl Scout camp in 1992 USA was not a place to be out so she’d kept it to herself up till then. I’d known gay women but never anyone close to me. She was different.

I was intrigued. I found myself flirting with her. I wanted her to kiss me. She must have been wondering what the hell I was doing.  I must have seemed ridiculous. I was shocked with myself and packaged it to the back of my brain – written off as the kind of curiosity surely everyone has. But I never forgot.

And here I am 20 years later. She had a partner so nothing ever would have happened I’m sure. I’d never have had the nerve to kiss her that night. But I wonder what would have happened if I had.

It was all long ago. I have no idea where she is, what she’s doing or if she even remembers me. I started writing this blog thinking, Catherine, you’ll never know what you mean to me.

But now I’m thinking well, why not? I wonder if I can find her.

Lilx

Until we can kiss goodbye on the tube, we haven’t won

You can think you understand, but it’s only when it affects you directly that you really start to get your head round what it is to be in the minority. Perhaps because I am still cosily in my half in half out world, nobody yet has been overtly homophobic to me, although one friend did screw her face up when I mentioned that I would recommend having sex with women and she should try it. But apart from that everyone had been intrigued, supportive, and in the main, happy for me.

But that doesn’t make it plain sailing. It’s the little things that if you’re not queer you have probably never noticed that hurt.

One day, I will count the heterosexual cultural references I come across every hour of every day. The advertising boards, the magazine articles, TV, film, the assumptions that if you’re with someone, you’re with a “he”. Just the standard day on day representation of relationships that you come across without even really noticing – until you realise they don’t represent you.

They make me an out-group. In themselves they don’t invalidate me – it’s the almost complete absence of representations of same-sex relationships and even more so lesbian relationships that does. It means I’m not mainstream, not “normal”. We’re hidden away in places where we don’t offend or bother anyone else – and not to be celebrated, cherished or aspired to, or even to be sold anything to in the wider world.

You may think in this enlightened day and age it’s OK now. We have equal rights, right? Gay marriage and all that? Well no, it’s still really not OK.

I’m a tactile person. If I’m with someone I like to touch them. Holding their hand, a hand on their leg as you sit next to each other on the bus, a brush of their shoulder as you get up from your seat in the pub. For me it’s part of being close, having a special connection and part of telling the world we’re an item. And sure, yes, you can do these things but you can’t do it without an ongoing low level radar – is this OK? Is it safe? Is anyone looking? Will this cause a problem? The self consciousness that means you have to choose to do it. The moment is slightly less automatic, slightly less spontaneous, slightly less carefree.

I miss it.

What straight people take for granted – a simple kiss on the lips as you part on the tube – is no longer something I can do. Or maybe sometimes I can, but I can’t take it for granted. It’s no longer an expression of private intimacy between two people. It’s putting ourselves out there and at risk. For those who say there is no place for a gay rights movement these days, think again.

One day, it will be normal. One day I won’t have to look round and check it’s OK first. One day I will do it thoughtlessly , carelessly and take it for granted, and just assume it as my right. Like I used to. One day.

Those of you who love the wonderful Panti Bliss can see her here saying this oh so much more stylishly than me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIhsv18lrqY

Lilx

Retaking that plunge

I’ve had few weeks to feel sorry for myself after the untimely demise of my relationship with GF#1.  I give credit where it’s due – given I’d never as much as laid hands, lips or anything else on another woman, taking me on was a big ask. I’m thankful that she gave me that much.  She thought I’d change my mind and run away. I was indignant – life’s far too complicated to be doing something of this magnitude just on a whim. And in the end it was her that changed her mind. 

 It’s time for tentatively getting back in the swimming pool as it were. There’s nothing else for it really. So although I’m still a little tender round the edges, let’s think about the positives:

1. There had to be a first one, and a first time.  It’s a life changing experience and I am through it and out the other end more or less intact. For that alone, go me. 

2. I made the leap from thinking I was attracted to women, to knowing that yes, the whole thing works for me in practice too. Phew. Pretty critical to know, as you might expect, and the one apparently does not necessarily always  follow from the other.

3. I’ve got the awkward first times out of the way. Popping your proverbial the first time around is stressful enough. Can you imagine how nerve-wracking it is to do it all over again? At 43? With a woman?  Talk about performance anxiety. But now it’s done. Tick.

4. Being in a relationship with a woman doesn’t feel weird. Once you get over yourself, you stop thinking anything about their gender and just get on with enjoying being with them. 

5. Going out with a woman means you have all the benefits of hanging out with a female friend but getting to sleep with them too. I’m trying, but I really can’t think of anything not to like about that

6. And now I have history to talk about. No more fudging the gender of a previous partner to be able to bring an anecdote to the conversation, wincing inwardly whilst referring to exes as “erm…they” rather than “him.” 

So, GF#1, you’ve got a special place in my life, which you can claim as your very own forever. But the big lesbian world of women goes on with so much I’ve not even come close to discovering yet. There’s an excitement in discovering this fantastic new sweet shop. You wouldn’t want to only ever try the sherbet lemons. 

I will sort out my dating profile. I will trawl the internet for networking, drinking and general flirting  events. I will go and be bright, sparkly and interesting in a dark subterranean bar full of perky twenty somethings. I will. I honestly will. 

I’m procrastinating wildly. All 13 new episodes of Orange is the New Black now duly devoured, house tidied, garden pristine, old friends all caught up with, late nights at work because there’s every reason to find things to be busy with. Even the monumental ironing pile has taken a hit.

 Being dumped by a woman hurts every bit  as much as being dumped by a man. My fragile self confidence is a little dented. But no amount of shirt ironing or garden weeding will take me the next step along the way.

Time to climb all the way up to that high board again and hurl myself off.  I think I might hold on to my water wings for a little bit yet though, just to be on the safe side. 

Lilx

Why men are like biscuits

They come in all shapes and sizes – some round , some square, some with cream in them, some with raisins in, some chocolatey or oaty. But they’re all crunchy and well, biscuity. What they’re not is a wafer or a cake.

I’ve eaten biscuits all my life. One of the first things you give a baby, once they’re onto solids, is a biscuit. We’re brought up to like biscuits. Everyone likes biscuits. What do you have with your tea? A biscuit. Someone organised a meeting? Have a biscuit. Biscuits are a social norm.

Now, I’ve got nothing against biscuits but they’ve never really done it for me. I remember once at a playschool outing the sense of indignation when the staff and adult helpers all got a fancy cake and us, the 4 year olds, got a biscuit. Not just a biscuit – a bloody plain digestive. The ignominy of it. I ate it quietly and dutifully. No point in protesting. The inescapable inequalities of life started to dawn upon my infant self.

One day, not so long ago , I came to the realisation that I don’t much like biscuits actually. I just don’t like the crunchiness. And you know what, that’s OK. I don’t have to like them. I could just not have them. I could have something else instead. A jaffa cake maybe, or a slice of battenburg.

I still occasionally have a biscuit if it’s there, and dunk it in my coffee to make it soggy as that takes away the crunchiness. I’m even quite partial to a cookie – you know the ones that are chewy rather than crunchy, but I’m not entirely sure they count as biscuits.

But generally I prefer cake. Or a caramel wafer. Victoria sponge anyone?

Lilx

Lesbian Lesson No 1: Be careful who you tell you’re bi

Forgive my naivety, but I mistakenly thought we were all equal under the arch of the rainbow. Oh no. Wrong.

You see, some people know from day one that they’re gay. I’m not one of those. But I think sexuality is brilliantly more multifaceted than a one dimensional axis of straight to gay with everyone else as a somewhere-in-between.

Quite where I put myself in this matrix of dimensions I have no idea. it’s emerging as I embrace it and the more I surround my senses with the gorgeousness that is the female form, the more I love it.

As I’m not yet in the definitely never again camp (although I don’t know why I’d start sleeping with men now for God’s sake – I wasn’t sleeping with them before) I figured the right definition would be bi, strictly speaking.  Foolishly I thought that my new world would embrace my lack of binary definition. Not a bit of it.

Early on it became clear that if you call yourself bi  then you’re a bit of a second class citizen – ironic in a community which has fought for its rights for so long.

Somehow if you call yourself bi you haven’t really committed- you’re a bloody fence-sitter  (yes I was actually called that and only half as a joke) and not quite the real deal. You haven’t really applied yourself to the cause, always holding the option to take the “easy” way out. And don’t even think of describing yourself as bi on a dating site.

So as far as I can gather: straight men will think they can have a threesome with you, lesbian women will think you’ll go off with a bloke, and bi women would rather have a lesbian. On the first, just you talking about it makes my flesh creep. On the second if I’m with you then I’m with you, not anyone else. On the third well it’s up to you but that makes you just as bad as everyone else.

So listen up folks. No matter where I end up in terms of a self definition, a label never describes the complexity of a person.  This journey is hard enough without us finding ways to make outcasts of each other.

Lilx

Beginning and belonging

Back in the land of singledom, after four months of my first relationship with a woman, there’s a bit of a chance to reflect.

It’s with huge relief that I can report that, yes after my first foray into the mysterious world of lesbianism, I am definitely still on the big pink bus. I worried that I had got it wrong. For years I thought this might just be curiosity, or as some people have indelicately put it “because I can’t get a man” (thanks for that). Well if so then it hasn’t worn off yet. 

More than that, I am downright damn well thrilled about it. My new found sexuality feels like a beautiful, pure, fresh new thing to be nurtured and cherished, unlike my painful 20 year struggle to negotiate the world of heterosexuality.

What a privilege –  to be given a chance to find a new way to be –  whilst not starting from nothing, and with my own version of baggage. It’s not about a choice of course. The more I think about it, the more of an imperative it is. But how many people get a chance to take a fundamental look at themselves and their lives, and take the leap to start again?

I get that it wont be easy. It isn’t easy now. For the last 6 months since my road to Damascus moment, I’ve been living it day to day just as it comes to me and it sometimes feels a little unreal. Now and again it dawns on me quite what a big deal this is and quite how much it is taking out of me. As my fabulous psychotherapist says, psychologically speaking, it’s enormous. But there’s no going back. No way.

I’m lucky. It’s a great time to be gay. The positive vote in Ireland the other week was hugely emotional for me. What it said to me, at this vulnerable time of my life, is that in a country not very different from the one I live in, people said it’s OK. Not just young metrosexuals, not just middle class university right-on types. Nearly two thirds of a country, even with its Catholic history, said you know what it’s fine, you’re one of us. Get on with it, and good luck to you.

The impact on me is huge. It makes me feel that this isn’t so scary after all. It tells me that however big a deal this is for me right now, it’s not such a big deal for everyone else. I can celebrate a chance that many people don’t get, and certainly many who trod this path before me before me never had, and make the bloody most of it.

So I’m sad my first relationship is over, and I still don’t quite understand why.  But it marked my first milestone. And happily,  it was only just the beginning.

Lil x