Dear Straight Girls, I Don't Want To F*ck You...Ever
It was a hot summer's night in Midtown Manhattan. I loathe Midtown Manhattan. I was at my friend Claire's* 30th birthday party feeling sorely displaced among this group of perfectly blow-dried uptown banker bitches.
I had spent most of the evening at a sh*t restaurant with sh*t service. The kind where the aloof waitstaff treats you like you just stumbled into their living room and DEMANDED they serve you drinks rather than like a civilized customer who just paid $25 for a plate of soggy "truffle" fries.
But still, it was a trendy five-star restaurant. I had scored us the reservation through a successful new friend who I'm already wildly intimated by.
"Men f*cking suck! I hate men!" Lisa, a 34-year-old investment banker, screeched to no one in particular while shoving a handful of fries into her mouth. I watched in horror as oil from the greasy fries trickled down her chin and onto her expensive-looking silk top.
"Dating in this city is a BITCH. I'm one bad date away from joining eHarmony," Sofia* replied, her deep voice sounding both flat and husky (and maybe a little tossed from the whiskey).
"I hate it. Every guy always ghosts me," Carly* said, taking a large gulp of her beer. She released a deep-rooted, guttural, LOUD belch, right there at the dinner table.
My whole body winced. I wanted to hide among the beaten-up Balenciaga handbags under the dinner table. There goes that successful new friend contact.
"Ima go lezzzzbian!" Carly slurred, her thick beer voice stretching out the "Z" sound in "lesbian" for dramatic effect.
She puckered up her haphazardly painted red lips and "sexily" winked at me with her mascaraed lashes. Her lashes looked like the spiders I have recurring nightmares about.
I pretended to ignore her over-the-top "seductive" glance, but I was giving her the biggest internal eye-roll of my life.
First of all, I don't f*ck with straight girls...ever.
And second of all, our girl, Carly, needed to check herself real bad. Her lipstick had smeared across her oily face, and there was an intense stench of garlic radiating from her pores. She could have been lesbian icon Ruby Rose, and I would still have turned down that hot, disastrous, train-wreck mess.
Two hours later, we were on the dance floor of a tiny West Village haunt. I was relieved to be back in my native territory. The bottle of wine and two shots of Fireball I had poured down my throat finally kicked in, and somehow, I'd forged a connection (albeit a drunken connection, but a connection nonetheless) with my nutty little hetero girl crew.
I was in my leather pants and five-inch black Jeffrey Campbell Mary Janes, minding my own business and dancing to Tove Lo's "Stay High" ("I gotta get hiiiigh, alll the tiiiime" is a really emotionally charged line when you're lit), when Ms. Carly stumbled right up to me, breathing her stale cigarette breath down my back.
"I like youuuu," she slurred into my left ear, snaking her sweaty arm around my waist.
I ignored her. Girl, I'm dancing out years of repressed issues to Tove Lo. Don't kill my vibe.
Pretty soon, Ms. Carly became impossible to ignore. I turned around to take a slug of my champagne, and suddenly, she was grinding her skinny-jeaned crotch onto my leg, aggressively thrusting her hips into mine and pressing her smeared lipstick lips against my bare neck.
"Let's go home together," she breathed into my ear. Her breath was so heavy from whiskey and beer that I could feel it sitting inside my ear.
"Um, no. I'm sorry, Carly," I replied, channeling my inner lesbian diplomat. My head was swishing from the combination of Fireball shots and white wine. "I'm really not interested. Plus, you're straight."
"Sooooo? Don't you think I'm pretty? I mean, I'm a PRETTY girl, right? What's wrong with that? I want to try it, and I think I like you. I saw you looking at ME. Plus you said you thought my shoes were sexyyyy. Whyyyyyyy noooot, Zara?!"
Carly peered up at me, her eyes rich with desperation. I peered back at her. There were actual tears in her eyes. She looked like a vulnerable little girl who was just told her puppy has to be sent back to the pet shop. She was clearly spiraling.
F*cking hell. Here we go again. I've had straight girls inexplicably kiss me goodbye on the lips after a boozy dinner. I mean, come on, do you kiss your friends on the lips? Especially ones you've only met a handful of times? No.
I've had hetero girls blush, their perfectly exfoliated faces turning a deep shade of red when I've complimented them on their crop tops. Girls, this dyke loves clothes. I'm not complimenting you on your body. I'm complimenting you on that $600 Alice and Olivia dress that I'm currently coveting.
I've had straight girls become astronomically offended and deeply hurt to the point of tears when I tell them they aren't my type. Give a straight girl a martini, and she will always ask you if you're "her type."
"But I'm hot," she will squeal, suggestively running an acrylic-nailed finger through her highlighted hair. Girl, lez be honest: YOU HAVE ACRYLIC NAILS. OUCH.
Oh, and guess what: You are hot. Beautiful even. But you're straight.
Once I know you're straight, my sexual curtains are drawn, and I can no longer see you in a sexual way. Think of those blackout curtains they have in fancy hotels, the ones that don't allow even the brightest sunshine to seep through. I am the curtains, and you are the sun.
Don't get me wrong, I love having straight female friends. I've got a ton of hetero sisters-in-crime whom I adore! You are my greatest confidants. You are whom I come to when I want to discuss my passion for nail art, winged eyeliner and Kate Moss -- topics that most (not all, but most) of my lesbian friends aren't remotely interested in!
But come on: Would you want to f*ck a guy who exclusively f*cks other dudes but wants to take a drunken stab at sex with a woman just to see what it feels like? Breaking news: I'm not a lab rat. I'm a gay woman who isn't interested in being your experiment.
I'm only interested in being with my own kind. I'm not speaking for all lesbians (some members of my team like to be the "teacher" and get off on the "straight girl" challenge, which is fine babes), but rest assured, my sweet straight friends, I'm not remotely interested in being any girl's first time.
One is not born knowing how to have mind-blowing Sapphic sex. That sh*t is advanced, and is only garnered from hands-on experience. I spend enough of my life playing the "teacher" role, and I don't need to do that sh*t in the bedroom, you hear? In fact, I want to be taught a thing or f*cking two (experienced lesbians, take note).
I think all women are gorgeous creatures (except maybe Kim Davis and Sarah Palin because they are so ugly inside that it cuts through the surface of their skin). But that doesn't mean all women are my sexual type. I'm attracted to an energy. An energy only a queer woman can possess.
So straight girls, while I might compliment you on your designer jeans, say things like "You look HOT today," or touch your arm when you're telling me a riveting story, rest assured, I'm not flirting with you.
I love you. But I will never f*ck you. Ever.
*Name has been changed