SOMETIMES I WISH I WERE A LESBIAN. I’d be so much cooler. I’d have a choppy haircut, a sexy, monochromatic house, I’d only wear skinny jeans and blazers, hang out with Samantha Ronson and probably change my name to something ambiguous, like Bleu.
I’ve tried to go girl before. When I first got out of college, I poached this raspy-voiced Irish lesbian named Gemma. She was a chatterbox, with crazy blue eyes and platinum blonde hair. If I had to write a recipe for her it would be: Four cups Melissa Ethridge, two tbsp. Karen Allen, a dash of Eminem, and a sprig of Guinness. Saying the girl could sing would be a massive understatement. Gemma could wail!
“How is she white?” I said to my friend Matt as we watched my Leprechaun crush sing Radiohead’s “Creep” on stage one night in Santa Monica.
“I have to meet her,” I whispered as she bowed and walked off stage.
Blocking her path to the bar, I introduced myself awkwardly. “Hey, I’m Jenny. That was incredible.”
“Oh, it was just a wee set I threw together on the fly,” she said.
I half-understood what she meant and offered to buy her a drink. EEEEK! I’m buying a girl a drink, I thought.
Matt shot me a raised eyebrow and kept his mouth shut. Gemma and I sat at the bar talking for the next hour. I was more nervous around her than any guy I’d ever spoken to ever. This shit was harder than seducing my high school guidance counselor, and it wasn’t even going to get me out of industrial arts.
How do lesbians do it? I thought.
Do I lean over and touch her leg? Should I reference a totally fictional ex-girlfriend? If only I had a fucking thumb ring!
Before I could make any advances, the bartender told us it was last call. Gemma thanked me for the beer and offered me one of her CDs. She wrote her number across the top and told me to call her with my thoughts. I just stood there smiling like a deer in the headlights (deer totally smile) as she walked out.
If I had to write a recipe for her it would be: Four cups Melissa Ethridge, two tbsp. Karen Allen, a dash of Eminem, and a sprig of Guinness.
Once we were in the car, the hazing began.
“You wanna eat her pussy!” Matt chanted at the top of his lungs the entire drive home. I’d never eaten a pussy. I didn’t know what it would be like. Would I be able to go through with it? Would I freak the fuck out and start vomiting all over myself? Would I get half way into it and start laughing uncontrollably? I mean she was beautiful and talented and would sure as hell have a bigger impact on my image than the fucking Japanese character tattoo I got at the fair, but could I really be in a relationship with a woman? I needed to at least try, right?
That night I listened to Gemma’s CD from beginning to end. By the end of the week, I knew every word to every song. The following weekend, I finally worked up the courage to call her. I told her how moved I was by her music and that it would be cool if we could have dinner sometime. She said she was busy for the next couple days but could go out on Tuesday.
Only after I hung up the phone did I notice that Tuesday was fucking Valentine’s Day.
Jesus, lesbians do move fucking fast! Oh, my God, oh, my God, Oh, my God! What did I get myself into? I’m going out on my first lesbian date on the most expectation-ridden day of the year! I thought, pacing and hyperventilating around my apartment.
There was really only one logical thing to do: Find a cute lesbian outfit.
I went to J.Crew to cultivate my carpet muncher couture. I wanted to look like Shane from the L Word had a baby with Diane Keaton in Annie Hall. Unfortunately the best I could find was a red button-down and camel-colored corduroys that made me look more like Jane Lynch had a baby with Diane Keaton in Baby Boom (once she left the city to make applesauce in Vermont).
I made a reservation at a cute little Italian restaurant in Culver City–partially because it was cute and partially because I didn’t live anywhere near Culver City. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be seen with Gemma. It was more that I didn’t quite know how to seduce a woman and I didn’t need to run into any random riff raff who might throw me off my game.
When Gemma showed up at the restaurant, I instantly felt like a loser for trying too hard. She was uber-casual in faded jeans, a see-through camisole, and an army jacket. Fuck! Already I was being out-lesbianed. She ran up to me and kissed me on the lips, which I totally counted as getting to first base.
The hostess, picking up on our non-threatening ‘we’re hot but totally not in competition with you’ swagger, escorted us to the best table in the house. Blondes may have more fun but lesbians never get seated next to the kitchen.
Gemma drilled me on my dreams and ambitions over two bottles of red. She asked every question most guys are too stupid to ask. I felt she understood me in a way that only another woman could.
At the end of the night I excused myself to the bathroom to apply some more chapstick. After several minutes of pacing in front of the mirror wishing I had a nose ring or at least a cartilage piercing to make me seem more dangerous, I decided I was gonna go for it! I was drunk enough to say and do just about anything. I might as well try getting fingered, I concluded.
I sauntered back to the table. Gemma told me she was gonna head home.
“Should I come with you?” I asked.
“If you’d like,” She said.
Wait, what? I thought, I’m really doing this? Oh, fuck, I’m really doing this!
We took a cab back to Gemma’s and stumbled inside. She gave me the extended tour of her house, which of course ended in her bedroom.
What do I do now? I thought, panicking.
She slowly started to kiss my neck. The only thing I could think to say was, “I’ve never done this before.”
“I know,” she replied, as if I was a fucking moron to think she ever believed I knew what I was doing.
“I wish my areolas were smaller, sorry,” I stuttered as she took off my shirt.
She began rubbing herself up against me and within seconds I was a giggling fucking mess.
“I… I’m sorry. I think I may be a little too drunk.” I said.
I was scared shitless. I also knew I was doing something just to say I did it. But this was real life for Gemma, and I couldn’t bring myself to lead her down that straight girl rabbit hole.
Gemma and I ended up hanging out for about two months, doing little more than holding hands. I wanted so badly to be able to go there with her but I never did. I partially blame her for this because unlike a man, she never really tried to talk me into it. The fact that we were both waiting to be seduced eventually brought us to a stalemate.
“If I actually trusted women and had a better relationship with my mother, we really would make a great couple,” I told her as we ended things amicably on the phone, one night .
Several months later, I was on a date with a guy in Santa Monica when we walked in on Gemma playing a set at the same bar. I was humming along to the music the minute we walked in. He asked if I’d seen Gemma perform before and raved about how talented she was.
“No,” I lied, looking down at my drink.
No less than two seconds later, Gemma stopped her song. “You know those people who tell you they love you but then never want to sleep with you? This song is dedicated to Jenny…”
I looked up at my date and smiled innocently, knowing there were about a trillion Jennys in the world.
Gemma continued, “There are two Jennys here tonight. This song is dedicated to Jenny Mollen.”
After spitting my martini all over my date, I calmly suggested we cut the night short. Shooting me one of those, ‘You’re fucking batshit’ looks, he obliged.
I really don’t remember telling Gemma I loved her but that does sound like something I would have done. In retrospect, I realize that whether we were fucking or not, I was still leading her on.
The ironic thing is that now I’ve had sex with plenty of women and think it is actually the easiest thing ever. The thing that makes it complicated is when you know someone could get hurt. The truth is, I did genuinely care about Gemma. And at the end of the day I refuse to ‘experiment’ with people’s feelings.
Unless I want a guy to fix my computer or drive me to the airport.
Final Note to Women: If you haven’t gone down on a girl, you need to ASAP-tual. You will never ever again feel bad for a guy having to eat you out for more than two minutes. I’m telling you, blowjobs are so much more arduous and boring. Also, you know how you always worry that it might smell or taste bad? It doesn’t taste like anything! It’s a fucking myth that guys propagate to keep us insecure and sexually low-maintenance!
Jenny Mollen Biggs is an actress and writer living in Los Angeles with two poodle angel muffins and an asshole miniature pinscher. She also has a husband. Keep up with her at IMDB or on Twitter @jennyandteets.
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