Previously, Mikaella Clements terrified Toast readers with If Gwyneth Paltrow Were Your Girlfriend.
Most of the time I don’t even think about it. It comes out, surprising me as much as it doesn’t surprise my audience. I’ll be rattling along, cheerfully enjoying myself and talking too much about The Iliad or Taylor Swift or how much I hate the British Problems meme, and then the conversation turns and suddenly my girlfriend, the prettiest girl in the world, is a boy.
More often than not, I don’t fake straight to protect myself. This isn’t the same as when I carefully cultivated a crush on an inaccessible boy in high school so I could point to him if anyone asked who I liked, nor is it like all the times I was firmly and fix-lippedly silent about my sexuality when my cranky grandfather explained how gay marriage would inevitably destroy the Catholic Church. I don’t even do it to prevent the double-take from others, in which I usually take a sort of savage pride.
If it sometimes falls into the category of attempting to make casual conversation a little smoother, more often it is because I’ve decided to try another life on for size. Not through any dissatisfaction with my own, but from an indefinable curiosity, a sudden urge. It always just happens — I’ll be having a normal conversation, and then, all of a sudden, I’m someone else.
At the beauty salon
I am astonished at how blithely and rapidly I will lie when I’m getting a leg and bikini wax. I’m already paying for something I’m not entirely comfortable with — no, I shouldn’t feel the need to remove all my body hair; yes, I do it anyway, and then sit and listen to fair-haired friends announce they would never wax, showing off the very faint, almost invisible down on their legs that is nothing like the angry black spikes I get only hours after shaving mine.
Something about laying down on the weird padded bench with a towel over my lap and my teeth gritted makes me begin to change, swiftly and unthinkingly, certain key aspects of myself. During a wax, I’ve been known to agree with things I have fought vehemently against: “Yes, I agree, Taylor Swift is a better role model than any pop star who wears a very short skirt. Oh, isn’t Stephen Fry darling.” Afterward, I’m never able to remember why I did it. Perhaps it was to keep conversation moving easily in a place where conversation is the only distraction from the hot wax being ripped away from tender skin. More likely, I think, it stemmed from a strange and undeniable desire to impress the women who work there; I don’t know why — perhaps they would be just as impressed if I disagreed with their views. But still I try, compulsively, to please them.
And sometimes this means that my girlfriend becomes my boyfriend. Usually I change only her gender, and keep everything else about her exactly the same. Once I even kept her name mostly the same, changing the -i ending to an -o and trying very hard to keep my face straight in the near-incomprehensible aftermath. Occasionally I have changed everything: once, to my own astonishment, I found myself talking fondly about my builder boyfriend Ben, who was the strong, silent type but who loved me terribly and was a surprisingly good cook. Afterwards, I walked out of the salon feeling as though I were walking out of a dream.
I am quite confident that if I were honest about being gay and having a girlfriend, it would not present any issue at the salon. I’m confident because I’ve done it, maybe 50% of the time. Last week I told the woman waxing my bikini line about my girlfriend, and she beamed and asked if I thought she was “the one.” I’ve never met anyone at a beauty salon who wasn’t perfectly lovely, apart from the pain I’d asked them to inflict on me. But still, I sometimes lie, watching the beautician with my lonely high-school heart and wondering if she’d like to be my friend and gossip about boys.
At a lingerie store
There is a chain of lingerie stores in the UK that straddles the line between “pricey enough to make you feel special” and “utterly unaffordable.” I have only two sets from this store, both bought for special occasions, but I go in there at least once a month to see if there’s anything nice and to use the dressing rooms. The dressing rooms are the best thing about the place. They have three light settings: day, night, and dusk. What does that mean? I can’t tell. All the light patterns seem equally random, but I am easily influenced, terribly persuaded by all advertising, and I love them with all my tiny capitalist heart. The walls are a pale pink. The doors have little golden handles. And there is a phone on the wall, which you can use to call an attendant who will tell you how the bra fits. The women working at the lingerie store have helped me find some that are more comfortable than others. They are always utterly professional and toe the line between vaguely maternal and cheekily flattering: sort of a naughty older cousin vibe in my life.
The second set I bought from this store was acquired the weekend before Valentine’s Day. “Is this just for fun, or for something special next weekend?” the woman helping me asked, leaning against the perfect dressing room door, practically grinning.
“Oh, something special,” I said vaguely — it did coincide with a planned visit for my at-the-time-long-distance girlfriend.
“He’s a lucky guy,” she said.
“Yes, he is,” I said without hesitation.
When the attendant left, I felt guilty for a moment, thinking about my girlfriend’s gleeful expression when I wear new lingerie, her perfect mix of appreciation and fashion advice when it comes to shopping for it. But I cheered up quickly in my fake dusk: if I had confessed my queerness, the attendant would probably have tried to talk me into buying a matching pair.
At a new house
This one, I am pleased to say, was not my fault. There is something about British landlords — their undeniable eccentricity, their mad wealth, their bewilderment over having tenants, as though they became landlords through no actual effort of their own. They are also absolutely incapable of understanding queerness. It doesn’t matter how often I mention my girlfriend; that inescapable space slips between the compounds, and suddenly I’m being told that oh yes, it’s lovely to have good friends.
My newest landlord, upon learning that three girls and one boy were moving into his three-bedroom house — two of whom were a couple — became almost helplessly confused. He texted me: will you and your boyfriend be moving in first and I had to reply me and my male friend will move in first, yes. my girlfriend will be here in July. There was no possible way for it to break through his brain; when at last he came around to find me and my boy friend (space intended) Jamie pottering around the place, he clearly gave up, and we gave up, too.
“Hasn’t he noticed we’re clearly moved into different bedrooms?” Jamie asked the other day, while we lounged in our unfurnished kitchen.
“I hope he thinks we’re having a fight,” I said. “Maybe I’ll start leaving you passive-aggressive notes around the place.”
Jamie started plotting the best way to stage a scene of domestic unrest.
At a bar
I’ve had the same conversation with any number of men, on the days when I bother talking to men. It doesn’t matter how far along the spectrum from avid misogynist to “so feminist they won’t identify as feminist” a man is; at some point, he’ll offer up a grin meant either maliciously or as self-acknowledged sympathy and say, “At least there’s always getting free drinks though, huh? That’s where being a girl is good.”
I could count on probably one hand how many times a guy has actually bought me a free drink; not nearly as many times, anyway, as a girl has. But yes, of course, any time the chance has seemed likely I have happily and cheerfully played straight for just as long as it takes to get the drink in my poor graduate hand. Sometimes longer, if it seems like there’ll be a chance for another one and if he’s not too incredibly boring.
Once my girlfriend and I sat opposite each other in a booth in a bar in Germany and consciously detached our hands when we noticed some men watching, though I kept her ankle between both of my feet, tapping gently at her, watching her smile back. When the men inevitably approached, we exchanged a mutual shrug and took one each for the team, embarking on a drunken and boring conversation made more boring by our limited communication abilities over the language divide, and in exchange were given some truly awful melon-flavoured shots and — success! — a couple of cool beers. At last, though, their company lost any vague appeal it once had, and the drinks were no longer worthy recompense. My girlfriend looked over at me and said, “Uh, by the way, guys, we’re together.” She gestured. I smirked.
The men actually took a step away from the booth to huddle together and whisper back and forth. Then they slid back in and said grandly, “Ah, it doesn’t matter, that’s okay.” They bought us another round, but I don’t think we finished it. It was late, and we were bored. We slipped out into the German cold, hand-in-hand.
Tags: lgbt, mikaella clements
Love this. The only time I can remember doing this recently was, indeed, getting my eyebrows waxed. The woman chattered about how nice it was that my friend and I came in for pedis together, and I didn’t want to say “actually, that’s my wife” and possibly startle the person who was putting hot wax on my face.
Hahaha, this reminds me of going to the makeup store and to get manicures the day before my wedding, with my then-future wife. The poor salesgirl at Ulta had to have the situation explained very slowly and in multiple ways, and I wouldn’t even have bothered explaining at the nail salon, but one of my bridespeople did it for me.
Sometimes explaining seems like way too much trouble–everybody is always impressed by what *good* friends we are!
I have invented a boyfriend or played the pronoun game more times than I can count. But because I’m pan, it feels really weird- simultaneously more honest (I am legitimately attracted to men!) and totally deceitful (I am the biggest queer in the state!).
Oh yes. EVERY bikini wax, if conversation even ensues, I fake it. I hate it, but she’s got her hands on my cooch and it makes me just want to keep things as comfortable as possible. As if there’s someone out there who does bikini waxes who would get gay panic or something like I was ENJOYING having hot wax ripped off of my hair.
It’s not that I pretend not to be asexual, it’s more that I’ll cheerfully take part in conversations about how good-looking Tom Hiddleston or Natalie Dormer are (look, I don’t want to have sex with them, but I have eyes) and no one ever goes there. *shrug*
(This is possibly the first queer-lifestyle article not explicitly about asexuals that I’ve ever actually identified with! I am strangely pleased, and thank you for writing it.)
Same here…it somehow feels like it would be way TMI to blurt out “I’m asexual, I get that people can be good looking but that doesn’t make me want to do anything to them or have any particular feelings that frankly from what you’re describing sound MISERABLE” so I just never do, and end up just nodding vaguely along as the conversation gets more and more incomprehensible.
Do you feel uneasy after that, though? Like you’ve Betrayed Sexual Orientation Diversity, or committed some other 1984-esque thought crime? I always do…but I have no desire to suddenly derail the conversation about $Celebrity with an announcement of what my orientation is. So faking straight ends up being the easiest choice.
EDIT: Upon reflection, it’s really more of an Invitation to a Beheading-style thought crime.
Oh yes, I always feel like I’m Letting Down the Side when something like that comes up. My favorite: The time when a patron read my palm and told me there was a man in my future! I didn’t say anything but I was definitely like “lol nope” and she was very gracious, said I didn’t have to have a relationship if I didn’t want to, so it was not as bad as it could have been. But a little voice in my head was waving an Ace Pride flag and demanding to know what I did for representation today.
Yes! I’m of two minds about it, though. On one hand, I’m Letting Down the Side. On the other, people are so wrapped up in sex=romance=aesthetic attraction=marriage, etc, that I’ve gotten some really weird comments from people who do know my sexuality. Like, I said something along the lines of, “Haha at least I’d never name my kid THAT,” and my friend said, “Well, you’re asexual, of course you’re never going to have a kid.”
Which, no. It’s one thing if I don’t want to have a kid, but asexuality is no bar to adoption, IVF, or even regular ol’ procreative sex. So sometimes I feel like I don’t want to bring it up because then people will assume no-interest-in-sex is a barrier to participating in a whole host of other things, and I find it really awkward to have to explain.
Comrades in the battle against compulsory heterosexuality!
I usually dance around it whenever it comes up. “X is not my type,” “I don’t date,” “I’m not interested,” ad infinitum. People sometimes think I am acting weird – I am acting weird on purpose – but never seem to guess that I’m not straight, let alone that I’m asexual.
on the days when I bother talking to men
You poetic, noble land-mermaid. With this line and the Gwyneth piece you have become my new favorite Toast author. <3 <3 <3
LAND-MERMAID! <3
hey thank you, this made my day xx
I think it’s been a long time since I did this, but I live in a downtown bubble where no one every bats an eye. Then I get confused when we’re travelling and get funny looks (or outright homophobia.)
My mom referred to my girlfriend as my “friend” to my cousin and I got snarky about it.
However, because I’m bi I do still have to actively come out all the time. I have this new workplace, and photos of my partner and our kid are up, and I’m just waiting for movies to come up so I can say how much I enjoyed Magic Mike, because that will make it clear, right?
…do you dislike Taylor Swift? Because if you do it means I am not alone…
This was a good read, also, sorry for my commentary digression.
You are not alone, I am here with you. I don’t get her appeal.
Beautiful.
I would love to be the sort of person who could have honest, genuine conversations with the undoubtedly lovely human beings who wax my legs or cut my hair, but after 32 years on this earth, I’m pretty sure I’m not. So far better to just smile, nod, and agree with whatever odd opinion they might feel like sharing to make the time go faster.
People have a very hard time dropping their assumptions about marriage. I can't count the number of times I recently had to explain that no, it is my mother that's the bride-to-be, not me. I'm married. But thanks for thinking I'd make a lovely bride?
Oh for sure, I mean, I'm guilty of it myself sometimes and I'm not married and don't ever intend to be. But when someone points out, "Yeah, he's marrying another guy" I'm just like "Shit, sorry for assuming! My bad". I mean, social and gender roles are absolutely engrained, no arguments here.
It's just the fact that a salesgirl needed to have the concept explained multiple times to her to be able to do her job that I find bizarre. Failure to fully comprehend the nuances of marriage equality really should impact makeup application, unless you're one of those bakery dicks who straight up doesn't want to be involved in anything tangentially related to gay people.
I think you're being a little harsh on the Ulta girl? I mean, when someone is all up in your personal space applying various cosmetics to your face, sometimes they make small talk to lessen the awkwardness. And I didn't find it at all weird that the question of why we had come in for a makeup trial would come up. "A wedding? Whose? Yours? Wait, which of yours? …Both? Is it a joint wedding? …OHHHHHHH." Maybe I worded it poorly in my original comment, but I really did just think it was a humorous social situation.
Oh, I see what you’re saying. For some reason I thought her assistance was contingent on her understanding the situation.
I had to read the first paragraph in a panic because I don’t remember passing out and writing an article for The Toast! Then I realised that I don’t currently have a girlfriend so it can’t have been me, despite all the other things having happened exactly to me. I have a boyfriend and we have bought a house together and other markers of heternormativity and it makes it so much easier for people to assume, and for me to closet myself and I hate how much easier it is to do that than to make people’s understandings of the world a bit more complex.
The other day I was explaining a movie to a gay friend of mine and I said it was ‘exactly designed for straight white women. So, I loved it. Uh… not that I’m straight??’ and she was just like ‘ok then’ and I can’t stop thinking about why did I say that she already knows I’m not straight what is my problem.
Yes! I'm of two minds about it, though. On one hand, I'm Letting Down the Side. On the other, people are so wrapped up in sex=romance=aesthetic attraction=marriage, etc, that I've gotten some really weird comments from people who do know my sexuality. Like, I said something along the lines of, "Haha at least I'd never name my kid THAT," and my friend said, "Well, you're asexual, of course you're never going to have a kid."
Which, no. It's one thing if I don't want to have a kid, but asexuality is no bar to adoption, IVF, or even regular ol' procreative sex. So sometimes I feel like I don't want to bring it up because then people will assume no-interest-in-sex is a barrier to participating in a whole host of other things, and I find it really awkward to have to explain.
hey thank you, this made my day xx
I needed to thank you for this incredible read!! I certainly appreciating each and every piece of it I have you bookmarked to look at new stuff you post.