Although your friendship is so dear to me, you really fucking pissed me off yesterday morning. Not just with the words you spoke, but also your ignorance behind them. If I had dressed in my cargo shorts and HRC t-shirt you would have never uttered such bullshit. But, I was wearing a causal cotton dress and wedges. Little did I know I was prime to be picked on.
This conversation is how we both started our day. Over coffee and sticky pecan rolls. I agreed to crawl out of bed at an ungodly hour and meet you for breakfast. You smelled of cheap vodka and pussy still after spending all night with some random lady you had met at the bar. I came to hear you brag about your kinky adventures, not to be bitch slapped with stereotypes.
“You know she looked like a lesbian.” You
“And, amuse me please, does a lesbian look like?” Me
“Lean muscular build, short spiky hair, and threads right out of American Eagles men’s section. Just a regular looking lesbian.” You
“Well, if that is the case then I must not be a “real lesbian” because I look nothing like that.” Me
“You could work a little harder on fitting in, just being honest.” You
I have curves and long hair. My nails are painted. I wear dresses from small independent stores that cater only to plus size woman. And, I am really fucking gay. Like super-duper fucking gay. As gay as they get, with a cherry on top. Even in lacy undergarments, fancy dresses, ridiculously tall heels, Adele-inspired eyeliner, and pouty glossy lips I am still really … truly … incredibly … fucking … gay.
Fuck you. Fuck the box you are trying to put me in. Fuck stereotypes.