Tag: too pretty to be a lesbian

Too Pretty To Be a Lesbian

“But you’re too pretty to be a lesbian.” I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard that ridiculous and infuriating objection from both men and women, and I wouldn’t want to try. What’s even worse is when they follow that up with, “You’re kidding, right, Amy?”

Yes, I’m pretty. I’ll admit it. But why does that mean I’m not a lesbian? Is there some sort of cut-off point? I’m petite, but I’m not flat. I have well-defined curves all over, I’m just small and thin. I have a delicate, young-looking sort of face. I have almost-curly brown hair to my shoulders and hazel eyes. My lips are a little pouty. I’ve taken taekwondo so my arms and legs are muscle-toned. My hips roll nicely when I walk. And, yes, I look pretty damned cute in my braces.

Where in there did I pass the, “Sorry, Amy, you’re not a lesbian anymore,” point?

“Well, you mean you’re bi, right?” some will follow-up.

No, I’m not bi. I don’t hate men, but I can’t get emotionally attached to them the same way, and I’m not attracted to them. Yes, I’ve seen a penis before. Yes, it was erect. No, it didn’t stir some hidden desire inside me.

“Oh, so you’re a virgin.”

No! I’m not a virgin. I am sexually active and in a committed relationship with a wonderful woman my own age.

I will admit, though, that I’m not particularly proud of how I lost my virginity. It was a couple years ago, around the time of my 18th birthday. At the time I was dating Angie, a cheerleader for the high school basketball team. We were seniors and had been dating for a couple of years at that point, but Angie especially was committed to waiting for sex until we could be life partners.

Well, the, “You can’t be a lesbian” stuff was laid on pretty thick in high school. There was plenty of room in people’s imagination for lurid fantasies about cheerleader locker-room lesbo orgies, but the idea of a cheerleader in a committed, basically chaste lesbian relationship was not something anyone in our school could handle. In their minds, Angie and I were just close friends who liked to make believe about being lovers.

A couple weeks after I turned 18, I decided I’d had enough. I still loved Angie, but I needed the world to accept that I was a lesbian, and there was only one way I could think to do it.

I approached a girl named Danielle, a 19 year-old high school senior with an air of exotic maturity about her, as well as a reputation as, well, a dyke and a slut. It was rumored that the only reason she’d finally made it to her senior year at 19 was a dalliance with the female assistant vice principal. I didn’t know if that was true, but her reputation counted for everything.

Danielle was sitting by herself on a bench outside of school waiting for her ride when I approached her. She was attractive, but rebel enough in her look that she didn’t have to put up with people dismissing her lesbianism. She was a gorgeous native Alaskan with creamy porcelain skin of an almost caramel hue, shiny black hair, flinty brown eyes, and an incredible figure. But she also had three nose-rings and a tattoo of a marijuana leaf on the back of her right hand. In Fairbanks that meant she was allowed to be a lesbian.

“Hi, Danielle,” I said, wishing my voice weren’t so sweet and perky.

She looked at me and nodded silently. She knew well enough who I was, but she didn’t really have anything to talk about with me, as far as she knew or cared.

“I need your help,” I told her simply, wishing I’d dressed sexier.

She looked at me questioningly, but still didn’t speak.

No reason to not just say it, I decided. “I need you to take my virginity and I need the world to know about it.”

She narrowed her pretty eyes. “How romantic.”

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Danielle, I’m sorry. I know this is rude, but I’m sick of no one believing I’m a lesbian. I love Angie, but I need to prove myself.”

“What, you want me to take your ass with a dildo in the gym while a bunch of people watch?”

I blushed even deeper. “Fuck you,” I finally said.

“No, fuck you,” she returned, getting up to walk you. “You’re too insensitive to be a lesbian.”

That burned, and I reeled for days. Then, on Angie’s 18th birthday, I had myself a plan.

My mom was going to be out of town on Friday night, so Angie and I made special plans for me to cook her dinner at my house. I told her to be prepared to spend the night, and while she was hesitant, I insisted that she at least be prepared to stay, even if she changed her mind later. She agreed, and the rest of the week, our hearts were aflutter and our stomachs full of butterflies.

And my spirit was still full of anger and pride. It’s almost painful to remember, but so intent was I on proving myself that I set up two hidden webcams in my house. One in the living room attached to my laptop and the other in my mom’s bedroom, attached to her computer. I even signed up an on-line site where I could post the videos, and used my own full name in screen name. I wanted there to be no doubt.

When Friday evening rolled around, I was excited and nervous all at once. I dressed in a pleated denim skirt with a light blue peasant blouse. Angie had seen my nipples once before and had been captivated by them, so I wore no bra under the lightweight top, which was loose enough that only shadows hinted at the sweet tidbits by which she was enthralled.

When Angie arrived I nearly regretted my plan, because she was such the picture of innocent beauty, but I did want to make love to her badly, and I told myself the video was inconsequential to that. A side benefit. The real point was that we would express our feelings for one another with intimate physical connection.

Angie was not your stereotypical high school cheerleader. That’s not to say she wasn’t gorgeous; she was, by anyone’s standards. But her beauty was more mature. She wasn’t heroine chic and she didn’t walk around showing off her tummy to everyone. She was a normal girl who just happened to be absolutely beautiful. Her face was round, with shining green eyes and softly turned lips, all framed by dark brown curls which hung to her chin. Her skin tanned easily, and was already olive-complected by late April. She was just about six-foot tall. Her figure was in the same proportions as mine, but the extra 10 inches translated to magnificent curves. I was especially enchanted with her thighs, of all things. I loved her in her cheer skit because it showed of her thighs so well. (more…)