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Dumb things straight guys say to lesbians

Immersing yourself in the queer scene does rather make for a creature of habit. For some of us, it means that we become incapable of conducting ourselves normally in straight clubs, mainly because we have no idea what on earth is going on anymore. To put it bluntly, we’ve seen more polite mating rituals on David Attenborough shows than down in Leicester Square on a Friday night.

Some might say you’ve become a little too involved in the scene if approximately 95% of your friends and acquaintances are gay, bisexual or at least a little bit fruity. But that’s the reality for some of us; it goes with the territory when you run a magazine for girls who like other girls. Snuggled safely in our queer cocoons, we know that people usually take it as a given that you are a not a straight person when you are in a gay club. It can therefore a bit of a shock to the system to end up in a straight venue, that requires you to explain why the (sometimes horrified) gentleman at the bar can’t have your number, but rather you wouldn’t mind the digits of his (sometimes also horrified) female friend.

Recent personal experiences in busy straight venues have served to highlight that I have become either completely socially inept when talking to boys, or things have gotten a lot more sexually charged over the past few years. On a recent trip out of gaytown, I couldn’t chat to a girl for love nor money; yet I could not stop having “the conversation” with blokes, none of whom I really wanted to talk to in the first place; (like Taio Cruz, I came to dance). I have lady friends who can go to these clubs and take home an apparently straight girl within about eighty seconds of being there. I am not one of those women. I have no game. I was off sick on the day they gave out game, apparently. So I just dance with (gay) abandon and inwardly wonder why my asocial nature is so attractive to the sleazier members of the opposite sex. It wouldn’t have been so bad, if the guys I had met had taken a simple, “no thank you” as an answer, instead of me having to come out, explain why I liked women, and politely decline the almost inevitable offer of a threesome or him “watching” me with another girl.   And I’m serious.

Now let’s get this out now; I like nice men.  I get on very well with them; work happily with male colleagues and empathise with them over what baffling creatures women can be.  I have however started to find it difficult to know whether some are talking to me because they’re just nice, whether they’re chatting me up, or whether they can like…smell lesbian.  Either way I always wonder if/when is a good time to drop the L word so the horrible ones might drop the pretense of genuine interest in where you bought your T-Shirt from.

Is it egotistical to want to let them know you’re gay/taken/not interested from the start?  Because I’ve been stung by not telling people I’m into girls, and similarly, I know those who have approached the situation differently, and been slammed.

For example: I have had interesting conversations with blokes and then charmingly been called a cock-tease when I’ve been asked on a date and declined on the grounds of lesbianity; in a sort of you-could-have-told-me-before-I-wasted-fifteen-minutes-on-a-girl-that-won’t-put-out, way.  Silly me, I thought one could converse without sexual intent.

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I’ve been (kindly, oddly and misguidedly) told that “It’s okay,” that I am gay;

“Oh, thanks, but I’m here with my girlfriend.”

“Oh, you’re a lesbian?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s okay.  Some people are really funny about gays but I think it’s alright you know.  You’re not hurting anyone.”Umm

And what about the chap who, when you reveal your relationship status “too early” says, “Umm, alright, I was just talking to you, not chatting you up.”  That’s awkward.

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But top of the absolute douche list would be the guy with the golden penis; the one that can convert you from your heathen and misguided ways.  That spectacular, magical man, with whom one night will cure you of your burning desire for nights in with a Wentworth box set and the cat.  The stand-up chap who thinks he’s doing you a favour by offering you the use of his man parts that you’re so obviously missing on those long nights you spend in bed with your girlfriend.  I mean, “What do you even do, anyway?”

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Until these guys just fucking stop it, I don’t even want to put myself in that situation anymore. Thank god it’s become socially acceptable to decline nights out in favour of Netflix.