My Gay Experiment: A Lesbian Date

If having short hair and wearing comfortable clothes makes people think I'm a lesbian, then I may as well try it out.
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If having short hair and wearing comfortable clothes makes people think I'm a lesbian, then I may as well try it out.

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My gay experiment started when I was sixteen, and ended with me going on the best date of my life, with a girl. Let me start from the beginning, when I was sixteen, my mother took me to the hairdressers to get my hair cut for my prom. Seeing as she paid for the haircut and left me there, I decided to go short, like really short. I did it so that my religious, slightly homophobic mother would think that I was gay. It didn’t work on her but since then; I have kept my hair short because long hair requires time and effort.

Before the drastic haircut, my friends often teased me about my sexuality, claiming that I was gay. I believe this was due to the fact that I was a tom-boy and that I wasn’t a whore, but the haircut didn’t help to fight off the false rumours. I often shrugged off their remarks about my sexuality, what did I care? I knew who and what I was, and that was all that mattered.

But still I find it so ridiculous in this day and age that people still make such rash decisions about people, especially females, based on the way they look. Granted I know I sound like a hypocrite seeing as I initially cut my hair so that I would look like a lesbian, but I was sixteen, I was an idiot then.

The way I see it, in a world where heterosexual men can get facials, and manicures, and waxes, and wear pink, and use eyeliner guyliner, without anyone questioning their sexuality, I as a 21st century female should be able to walk down the street, with my Grace Jones-esque haircut, wearing my limited edition patent leather converse, my skinny jeans and my nerdy hoodie underneath my leather jacket without being labelled as a lesbian.

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I get it, people use fashion to express who they are, some use it to express their sexuality. I use fashion to express my love of being comfortable. When it comes to fashion (and other aspects of my life, but let’s save that for another article), I like keeping things casual. Is this a crime to heterosexuality?

Listen, I’m all for the ‘some people are gay, get over it’ campaign, but I didn’t sign up for the ‘you have short hair, and you are a female, and you don’t dress like a slut, therefore you must be gay’ campaign. I am a woman dammit! I have needs, needs that I require a man to fix. No discrimination to all the ladies who love ladies out there, but I know what I like and what I like is dick!

In my entire adult dating life, I’ve been asked out by more girls than I have by guys. On the one hand, it makes me feel good that at least someone is attracted to me; on the other hand, it would be nice if the attraction was mutual. I’m not a minger! Okay so I’m no Samantha Brick, but who is?!

So I agreed to go on a date with a girl, just to see if perhaps everyone was right about me, besides, the girl was hot, think Jennifer Love Hewitt circa ‘Heartbreakers’ but taller and with shorter hair.

We went for drinks at a Wetherspoons. She wore a white low cut top, and a short black high waisted skirt with flats. I wore my very tight, very cleavage revealing little black dress, (not so casual I know, but I was on a date, I had to bring it!)

After she paid for a few drinks I said, “that’s very gentlemanly of you,” and then feeling like an idiot, I began to spout out some feminist monologue about how women can do anything that men can do, and how misogynist modern society still is, because even in this day and age, it still teaches us that paying for drinks is ‘gentlemanly’, when in fact it is just a generous and polite thing to do.

She laughed, and then she cupped my hands in hers. She told me that everything was okay, and that I shouldn’t be nervous.

There was something in her voice that was so Sean Connery as Bond; smooth and sexy and intoxicating. Like if Connery was a really hot brunette, with devilish hazel eyes, in his early twenties with a cracking rack, he would be her.

The date went great after that. It was probably the best date I’d ever been on. We talked about politics, and music, and films, and books, whilst sharing a bottle of rioja.

By the end of the date, I genuinely began to entertain the idea of being with a woman, I began to fantasise about what it would be like to be with her. Sat across from her in a quiet corner of the crowded pub, I thought too myself, what would it be like to kiss her, and fuck her? I got a little excited just thinking about it.

Despite the great conversation and the alcohol and my obvious curiosity, I wasn’t gay, and I think that she sensed this when I flinched as she tried to kiss me. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to kiss her, or because I hadn’t kissed a girl before, what girl hasn’t gotten drunk and made-out with her equally drunk straight girlfriend? I flinched because I knew that if we kissed, it would mean something to her, and I cared about her enough to not want to string her along.

After the flinched she said, “You’re not into this are you?”

I told her that I wasn’t gay and apologised for messing her about; she seemed fine with it. She joked saying that she was always up for letting girls experiment with her. She was so sweet, I mean this girl was genuinely my dream guy, but in a really hot girl’s body.

She was funny, intellectual, she got my inappropriate jokes, she seemed interested in what I was saying, and when she perved at my breast, I didn’t feel like a whore.

After the date, we hugged and parted ways promising to stay in touch. I haven’t heard from her since that night but the date made me realise that if I couldn’t be gay with someone as hot and amazing as her, I clearly was either insane, or straight.