It’s so easy being heterosexual. Isn’t it? | Singles Warehouse Girlhunt

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It’s so easy being heterosexual. Isn’t it?

There is a certain way of doing things. A set of rules that these people adhere to and everyone, generally, knows where they are. There is a boy. There is a girl. The boy asks the girl out for a date. The boy courts the girl, so t’speak. Obviously in this day and age, any young lad wouldn’t be caught dead saying the word ‘courting’, but it’s nice to keep tradition alive. But the boy is expected to take the lead.

Boys aside; What happens when your have no tradition to abide by? What do we do? Who asks who? When you’re both of the same sex, there is no rule. How can there be?! It just becomes this confused, hesitant, even more embarrassing situation where neither have the balls (pun intended, oh I am witty) to ask the other. You could cut the sexual tension with an incredibly sharp metaphorical knife. Or any other sharpened sharp metaphorical object to hand. Just bloody cut this ridiculous horny haze quickly, before someone harms themselves on all of the beer bottle wrappings they are so feverishly ripping up.

Of course it’s easier, I guess, if you have an extremely forward and/or ‘boyish’ (if you’ll pardon the label) woman on your hands. You would perhaps think they would be the one to make the first move. Though when you’ve got two.. girls. Well! We just don’t know what to do with ourselves. That hetero-tradition has been drummed into us through our whole lives. Whether it be parents, movies, peers or media, it’s always there, in the background sipping it’s Earl Grey, being all conventional and conservative. There’s no guide book for us, the avant-guard collection of utter gaylords.

Then you may start wandering into that horrid wishy-washy, grey area of women, everywhere. How can you tell?! You think that pretty girl across the room is making eyes at you. You waltz that slinky bottom of yours over and proceed to have an incredibly intellectual and pleasurable conversation. For over ten minutes! ‘Wow. I’m in here.’ You smugly think to your little brain, clearly ignoring your Gaydar screaming “ABORT!ABORT!”

The moment is right. The candles are flickering. The music is slow. Your eyes are brooding. You nonchalantly flick your hair over your shoulder and say; “So, can I take you out for a drink sometime so we can talk a bit more..?”

And she looks at you as though you had just yelled; “You’re fit! Can I take you to the bog and jam my tongue down your throat like a rapist?” Or for the more respectable amongst you; “I think we should get married right now and have IVF treatment pretty much straight away to secure our baby and live happily ever after.”

However close to the knuckle you wish to be, you’re clearly trying to rub up against the wrong knuckle. There is no way back. You’ve decidedly stuck your whole foot into the ‘creepy lesbian’ crevice, and it’s inching its way up your Doc Marten laden legs. You can’t just timidly whisper “ friends” onto the end of that silly sentence and hope it’ll all work out. Oh no. The best thing to do now is pretend you have an important phone call and toddle off. Sharpish.

Damn all you kind, friendly heterosexual sirens, malevolently attracting us poor folk like moths to a flame of disappointment. I think this situation is going to be a reoccurring nightmare in the sad land of my life for some time. Will I ever learn?


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