Homo ewritus: The Token Gay Post, Or: It's the End of the World as We Know It (because nobody's ever gonna sleep with me again now that this is on the internet)

Keely Weiss and I met during my first trip to USC. As the group of 27 of us writers were herded across campus, I looked down at my feet the entire way. I was mostly thinking about how my mom was still dead and how I was worried that I might develop a debilitating foot fetish (unrelated).

I, in typical me fashion, spoke to no one except myself. Then Keely Weiss came up and essentially told me that we were going to be friends. I told her my mother was dead. She laughed. In the past five years, we have continued to be friends. I can go to Keely with any of the weird shit in my life and she judges me openly, which is fine, because then she tells me about the weird shit in her life and I judge her openly. A symbiotic relationship, if you will.

Yo, Keely, you can be the gross sucker ones.

Pretty much immediately after starting this blog, I pestered Keely to write a post -- ideally about lesbianism. Only two months later and I've weaseled it out of her. I hope you appreciate this as much as I do, because there are few things I love more than a Keely Weiss story. And those few other things are Drunk Keely Weiss.

She's among my dearest (drunkest) friends.

I'm especially excited for this post because we collaborated on it -- it's all her writing, genius, and stories, but I Google searched for gifs, so, you know...

Enjoy.

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The Token Gay Post, Or: It's the End of the World as We Know It

(because nobody's ever gonna sleep with me again now that this is on the internet)

Quinn actually asked me to write this post a couple weeks ago, but I had a promising Schroedinger’s Date situation on the horizon...

If you don't know what the obvious lesbian sex jokes are here, you don't deserve to know.

... and told her the post would have to wait until it no longer had any potential of damaging my romantic prospects (for reasons which will soon become evident).

I was actually planning on waiting to give it to her until I’d either (a) happily ensconced myself within the confines of a burgeoning relationship—so, like, ten years from now probably—

(Side note: One of the nicer gifs when you look up "lesbians.")

Or (b) definitively torpedoed any chance of not dying alone (i.e. very likely within the next couple months)--

But patience and healthy love lives are for losers, so at the risk of rendering myself undateable I’ve finally decided I’m ready to tackle the subject at hand:

I think I’m bad at lesbian sex.

Well, okay, semantics: I’m not a lesbian, I’m a Bisexual Who Hates Men. But, you know what, when the heteropatriarchy stops defining bisexual women’s sexualities by the gender of the person they’re sleeping with at the time then maybe I’ll stop abusing the gamut of sexual identifiers according to my ever-shifting whims and proclivities, OKAY?!

Anyway, I know that straight men are supposed to be The Enemy, and I for one am certainly not planning on showing them any mercy when we women finally rebel and establish the worldwide unified matriarchal state, but I secretly sympathize with them on at least a sexual level.

People with vaginas—in this context meaning cisgender women, i.e. statistically most women—are hard to please in bed. Like, at least all you have to do to make a man happy is force a few moans and try not to be so obvious about the fact that you’re thinking about your grocery shopping list instead of the fact that his penis is inside you.

Women, on the other hand! Oh, man!

(Actually it should probably be “Oh, woman,” right? Or “Oh, womyn!” maybe? I didn’t major in gender studies, you guys—which, come to think of it, was probably my first mistake in college, both as a woman who would someday want to date other women and as a person who majored in screenwriting, i.e. basically the only college degree even more useless than women’s studies.)

(Also, dudes, FYI, this is the part where you learn about the inner workings of lesbian sex—also known as “what every man should additionally be doing to his lady in order to make up for the fact that he’s just drilled his dick into her cervix like a jackhammer”!)

There’s clit-tickling, finger-fucking (stroke that G-spot!), clit-tickling while finger-fucking, cunnilingus, cunnilingus while finger-fucking, ass play, tribbing, scissoring (which, when done effectively rather than for the satisfaction of the male gaze, typically just winds up being another word for tribbing), nipple play, use of a dildo in a harness (i.e. a strap-on), use of a dildo not in a harness, use of a vibrator, use of a dildo AND a vibrator…

Suffice it to say that there are a lot of ways to do it wrong.

(Or, ahem, do her wrong, rather.)

But, right, here’s the thing: if you don’t practice, you can’t improve. So what does that say about someone who’s almost always in the middle of a dry spell longer than the line for the bathroom at a queer women’s dance night hosted by a facility which is normally a gay men’s bar and which therefore only has a sole single-occupancy restroom for the ladies?

It’s not like I don’t get laid. I do! Sometimes! But I only came out two years ago, and I haven’t been in a serious relationship with a woman yet, which means my sexual experiences with women pretty much consist of fitful one-night stands with people whom I then studiously avoid until we run into each other six months later at a party where they’re sitting in someone else’s lap and I’m trying not to dry-heave at the prospect of running into the latest target of my infatuation.

In other words, while extremely helpful in accruing an impressive portfolio of outlandish sex stories, not super conducive to practicing my skillz over time.

You win some, you lose some.

Now, the world is filled with bad sex-havers, so I tend not to feel too self-conscious when I find myself in an impromptu sex situation with someone I don’t expect to see again past that night (which, for the record, I’m very yes-and in my approach to sexual encounters, so this isn’t exactly an unheard-of scenario). I mean, I do the best I can, of course—when I have sex with a woman, I like to focus on her, I like to try to make her feel good—but there’s no specter of a continued relationship on the line. It’s not like my happiness, the names of my future children, and my parents’ eventual approval of my homosexual lifestyle are all riding on my sexual performance.

And here’s the other thing about gay sex that’s pretty cool: because people come out at pretty much every walk of life, there’s not a lot of pressure for you to perform fancy tricks right off the bat. I mean, speaking personally, I’m just psyched that the other person is excited to be there!

But when I meet somebody I really like, man, that’s another story entirely.

Suddenly the stuff that cut the mustard that one time I [redacted] before [REDACTED] and [SO SUPER REDACTED] feels like an embarrassment. I mean, XYZ Attractive Human—let’s call her “Cressida”, let’s just herein refer to every attractive human I’ve ever thought about dating as “Cressida” for reasons that essentially amount to an inside joke with myself—

Cressida’s been in serious relationships before! Possibly even serious relationships with girls! She’s going to expect something better than my freshman-level fumbling, right? What if my eagerness isn’t enough?

About a year ago, I dated a Cressida whom I really, really liked. As you can probably guess, it didn’t work out (for a lot of reasons, and also by the way on a TOTALLY UNRELATED note I have A LOT of feelings about dating people in open relationships in case you ever want to hear them).

What a lot of my friends were surprised to hear is that we never had sex. Not ever. Not once. And while it definitely made me feel all kinds of self-esteem-y (seriously, I’m still not sure what the reasons were there, but if you’re reading this as a person who doesn’t like sex I’d like to suggest that you TELL THE PEOPLE YOU DATE so that they don’t assume it’s a Them Problem!), I was honestly… a little bit relieved.

Because if we had eventually had sex after all that time, and if I hadn’t been up to snuff, what if they’d decided that I was a mistake?

(Except for instead of having a dead father, imagine Simba's crying because he failed to please a woman sexually.)

MY NAME IS KEELY AND I’M A NEUROTIC JEW WITH MAJOR DEPRESSION/ANXIETY/SELF-WORTH ISSUES

...

Okay, actually, you know what, I just reread the past couple paragraphs. And, uh, I changed my mind. Fuck that Cressida. I mean, that Cressida wasn’t even the Cressida I dated, just a spin-off hypothetical Cressida based on the way I imagined things might have happened with actual-Cressida if it hadn’t been for the way things actually did happen with actual-Cressida!

Do you know how many more Cressidas I still have yet to encounter? How many more Cressidas I’ll have populating my future?

Probably just one and a half, honestly. But still! THEY’LL BE GREAT!

Maybe I’m bad at lesbian sex. I don’t know. Who can say, really? (Well, I mean, I know who. I could conduct a poll if I really wanted to. But I feel like probably I’d rather live in ignorance, anyway.)

But the one thing I can promise you is that I was always psyched just to show up—from the nervous, goose-downy excitement of having lady-sex for the very first time with a linguistics fanatic I met on OkCupid in Brooklyn to my honestly-just-pretty-pumped-to-be-getting laid hunger for the sweet butch Jewish Chicago Transit worker I fucked in the woods (I told you I had some dope stories), I was always super into it. And that’s all you can really ask for in a sexual partner, right? Enthusiasm (and maybe the grace to help mitigate your embarrassment in case it actually does turn into a fiasco)?