Top ten stupid questions people ask lesbians

If you’re a woman who fancies women, I guarantee you will have rolled your eyes at some of these idiotic queries.

 

1. Would you sleep with a man if he was really, really hot?

I can appreciate an attractive man like I can appreciate an attractive coffee table. I can look at it and say, “My, that’s one mighty fine piece of carpentry,” but I don’t want to wake up next to it and make it post-coital poached eggs.  

2. So what do you actually, you know… do ?

Well. It all begins with something we lezzers like to call the "joining of the lunar essences". We hold hands, look deeply into each other’s eyes and harness one another’s erotic energy. Next comes an elaborate tea-drinking ceremony. Between sips of Lapsang Souchong, we name our favourite pre-1927 feminist poets. If we agree on more than three, we can move onto the binding of the goddess egos.

Seriously, if you need to ask what two women do in bed you have no imagination. Or internet access, apparently.

3. Why are you all so obsessed with cats?

Because they’re great. Next question.

4. Are you all feminists?

Well, the good ones are. But, you know, all the good men, carrots and dogs are feminists too. But lesbians, like other humans, come in all shapes, sizes and political persuasions. No, we’re not inherently feminist. Some lesbians aren’t too fussed about the sisterhood. Some lesbians read Nuts un-ironically. And, as porn has taught me, some lesbians are Nazis.

And, incidentally, not all feminists are lesbians. Turns out you can shag men and still believe in gender equality. Who knew?

5. Have you listened to the new Tegan and Sara album?

Nope.

6. My boyfriend and I are thinking of having a threesome. Do you want in?

This is a question I’m asked pretty regularly by women on online dating sites. While I’m ever so flattered to be chosen as a conduit to a couple’s first taste of menage, I can think of a few things I’d rather do than titillate a bisexual girl’s boyfriend. Like drink an entire bottle of shampoo. Yeah, I’d rather do that.

7. My mate’s sister’s personal trainer is a lesbian. Do you want her number?

I don’t know. What’s she like? Do we have anything in common? Is she into stubby, hirsute Semites who spend a disproportionate amount of time Googling the symptoms of rare diseases? It’s an insulting misconception that a lesbian will automatically be interested in any other available lesbian. OK, sure, we regularly get drunk and sleep with our friends. That’s different though, gin is involved. So much gin. Lesbians love gin. Plus, our friends are hot.

8. What’s the deal with strap-ons? Are you trying to be men?

Firstly, there’s a lot more to lesbian sex than strap-ons (again, use your imagination. And/or the internet). In fact, many of my people find them ridiculous and unnecessary. I once went to a sex shop with a friend who was looking to buy her first one. She insisted on trying it on (over her jeans, of course) and, after a few minutes of fumbling with the harness, the absurdity of helping to attach a rubber cock to my mate began to sink in.

But there are, of course, gay women who love using strap-ons. And no, they’re not trying to be men, they’re having sexy fun times appropriating masculinity. There’s a big difference.

9. You call yourself a dyke - why can’t I call you that?

Right. Spend fifteen years trying to figure out who you are, while panicking about whether your friends and family will accept that person. Have entire sections of society discriminate against you and douchebags you went to school with ask you a ton of stupid questions (see this article). Discover what it feels like to be devalued and ridiculed in mainstream media and politics. Done all that? Then you can call me a dyke. Maybe.

10. Did you have to chop off your hair when you came out?

I have a bona fide Jewfro that grows outwards rather than down. Having short hair is a lot easier for me. Shocking as it may be, I didn’t chop off my resplendent mane because of lesbianism. Some women happen to look good with short hair. Deal with it.

 

Members of the group Dykes on Bikes at the gay pride parade in San Francisco. Photograph: Getty Images

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.

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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism