Hi, my name is Becca. And I’m gay. Like really fucking gay.
I’m the, I think Justin Bieber’s new record is a fuck album, kind of gay. The, I once put a bra on a pillow to practice making out, kind of gay. The, I’ll teach your boyfriend how to go down on you by letting him watch, kind of gay.
But, more importantly, I’m the: no better than any straight man out there, kind of gay.
According to my friends, I’m a serial ghoster, a professional at the Irish goodbye. And they’re not wrong. I don’t advocate for my dating strategy, and I probably wouldn’t want it done to me, but I think it’s important to acknowledge the root behind why I think I do this.
It’s a power move. I spent so much of high school and college seeing girls come home crying because some guy didn’t dick them down, and I never understood why. So, I don’t know, now I do it too? Humans are pretty fucked up.
I came out in the fall of 2016 and right before I went on my first out-and-proud date, my best friend told me, “Don’t get taken, call me if you need me.” And thus, the seed was planted.
I made it maybe 45 minutes into this date before I realized that I wasn’t attracted to this girl, so I texted the previously agreed upon emoji to my friend; she called me and I hightailed it the fuck out of there.
Over the years, I’ve learned to cut out the middle-man. I no longer need to fake an emergency. I don’t need anyone to call me so I can bow out gracefully. It’s hard enough out here for a gold star lesbian (look it up) being courted by bi-curious, millennial/Gen Z wannabes who aren’t going to do more for me than a coin-operated vibrating bed.
If I don’t want to be somewhere, I just get up and walk right the fuck out. So enjoy what might become a series of transgression confessionals, or maybe the one time I’m going to admit some down and dirty dates I left on the fly.
This was my very first date after I broke my ankle a couple years ago. I’d been hobbling around on a knee scooter for months, which isn’t the sexiest look, but clearly I was owning it since this chick drove all the way across town to pick me up.
We went to see the movie Love, Simon (because what are two millennial lesbians going to do other than go see the new hot gay cinema about queer youth).
There’s a moment in the movie where Simon exchanges very queer eye contact (my memoir) with another boy, searching for who’s sending him secret emails.
The girl I was with looked over at me, uncomfortably deep into my eyes actually, and said, “I would be remiss if I didn’t do this,” (remiss!?) and then slowly interlocked her sweaty ass fingers with mine.
After extricating my hand, I pretended to have to go to the bathroom, hopped on my scoot scoot, and stood silently in the rain waiting for my Lyft to arrive and take me home.
The One That Got Away??
I love a competitive bitch.
Melts my heart, drops my pants. I’m into it. I just don’t think you should waste a perfectly good Gin and Tonic by throwing the glass at a Fruit Ninja game because you felt “attacked” by the watermelons on screen.
I ran off right before security made it to us.
If she had kept her shit together through the glitching video game at Dave and Busters, I probably would have driven her home in my U-Haul, but it’s been about a year now and I’m still too scared to unblock her on Instagram.
The ‘Good Years’
It pains me to admit this, but the girl in this story gave the best head I’ve had in my life.
We emerged from a weekend-long FuckaThon–previously only coming up for air to feed her cat (oh no) and binge watch The L Word: Generation Q (I wish I was kidding)–to go do a photoshoot I’d booked. She asked if she could tag along, and at the time I truly saw no issue.
On the way there I popped a tire, and ended up kerplunking my way into the parking lot at the closest Discount Tire.
“A two hour wait,” they said. “You’ll be out of here in no time,” they said.
I called to reschedule my shoot and went to cuddle up next to my lady in the waiting room. The last thing I remember is that she wanted to tell me a funny story.
I turned to face her, made incredibly queer eye contact (omg, a theme) and settled in for the story. For the first 30 seconds, I was absolutely mesmerized, and then it hit me.
What the fuck is this girl’s name? What in the world is she talking about? How long have we been here? Where did I meet her? What day is it? How long has she been talking? Am I supposed to be nodding my head? Quick! Make some sort of movement so she thinks you give a shit.
I cannot tell you how excited I was when the manager finally called my name to review payment for the tire replacement.
I leaned in to kiss her, for no other reason than to get her to shut up, and told her I’d be right back.
I grabbed the keys from the car guy, side-swiped him a $20 and got the hell out of there.
In my head, I imagine her looking longingly out the window as I tore out of the parking lot.
And I wish, I wish with all my heart that I could have seen her face when she realized that the phone number I gave her was actually my brother’s.
I wish my stories stopped here, but they really fucking don’t, so it’s totally okay if you hate me.
If you’re wondering… I hate me too.
Photography by Rebecca Anne
Model: Sarah Rogowskey