The angel on The Cheeky Charmer’s shoulder has the loudest voice in this one 😇
BY THE CHEEKY CHARMER, IMAGE BY KETUT SUBIYANTO
I’ve done it. I put my big girl pants on, pulled them up nice and high (Simon Cowell style – no I’m not alleging he wears lady pants but cool if he does) and told Saskia I don’t want to be exclusive. I nearly gave myself an ulcer with the stomach-churning anxiety involved and no, I hadn’t been on the mini cheddars again (see previous posts).
This conversation always ties me in knots. Which is why I avoid it. But it’s sensible and mature and fits with the modern dating thing. However, given queer women’s tendencies to emotionally invest very quickly (myself included) it feels like an impossible task.
With past experiences it’s like I’ve signed a contract in blood, on the first couple of dates, saying I’m in a committed, long-term relationship. If we’ve had sex, an addendum’s been added promising my soul. So, when I’ve broached the “I want to date right now” (as in meet other people before buying a house and having 17 kids) conversation with women before, they’ve looked at me like I’ve slapped a puppy. And responded with, “You mean you want to sleep around?”
Which is not it at all. I just don’t want it taken as read that we’re girlfriend and girlfriend after a handful of dates. Why is there no grey area with queer women goddammit? You’ve either all in with a U-Haul or labelled a massive player! I suspect we’d save ourselves a heavy dose of lesbian drama if we dated like straight people. We wouldn’t have the “She’s perfect, she completes me, she’s the love of my life, help! We’re not remotely compatible, holy fuck she’s insane but I can’t leave because we’ve lesbian-bonded and I’ll be thoroughly miserable even though staying makes me want to eat my own eyeballs” * thing <and breathe>.
*Sorry for the eyeballs thing.
When you last checked in with The Cheeky Charmer, Saskia the Supermodel had invited me to hers for dinner. To head this off at the pass, I’ve suggested a coffee date instead. After our wild as fuck make out and sexting sessions, I took a breath, gave myself a few short sobering slaps and reassessed the situation.
I have no doubt we’d have wild as hell, bed-breaking sex. And that is VERY appealing (as long as it’s not my bed). My shoulder devil’s** playing porn directly into my neural cavity (complete with dodgy 70’s soundtrack) reminding me what I’ll miss if I pussy out (the devil’s words). But the angel’s taken over the ship. Albeit with reluctance from the actual ship (aka me).
We’ve had two dates and it’s clear she wants the exclusive thing. I can’t sleep with her knowing we want different things. So, I’m honest, in a blathering, Hugh Grant, Four Weddings And A Funeral kind of way. I brace for impact, awaiting the inevitable slapped puppy look.
And… she’s cool. Doesn’t shout at me, doesn’t do the puppy thing. She thanks me for being honest and says we should just be friends (without benefits – the devil double checks in the hope some of the bed-breaking sex will still be on the table… the floor, the stairs or a water feature complete with bamboo Buddha. Yes, that’s very specific and no, I don’t think it’s physically possible).
The conversation ends on good terms. She books me in for a neutral friend’s “date”, which is alarmingly fast but my inner people pleaser feels the need to agree. And yes, I’m as dubious about how a “neutral friends” date will work out as you are.
Pray for me…
**A cartoon angel and devil perch on the Cheeky Charmer’s shoulders fighting the eternal battle against bad decisions.
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