Bisexuals vs Things which are Actually Embarrassing

ImageI’ll be the first to admin a slew of embarrassing things I’m fond of; I think One Direction songs are pretty darn catchy (So much so that I once tried to form an all-pastry chef cover band called One Confection. No one joined), I knit when I’m stressed, I almost exclusively clean my house to the Blackout album by Britney Spears (and I do it in heels, because I can), and I own a number of volumes of Carmen Electra’s Strip Tease, and one time I fell of a chair trying to do a number.

I openly admit to these things, even though I’m probably lame for doing them. But I do something else, something which I never thought to be particularly embarrassing, that, evidently, a large group of people are weary of – sometimes, I date bisexuals.

I’m not the patron saint of bisexual dating, because I used to be one the above people, and I’m here to apologize for being that way once upon a time.

Today I was catching up on an episode of Glee, and an interaction took place between Santana & Dani, in which Santana told her that her last relationship ended simply by saying “well, she was a bisexual.” No discussion afterwards, no eyebrows raised; that was the reason given.

If you are dating an openly bisexual person, and the relationship goes south, don’t say something like that. Don’t imply that their sexuality, which for the sake of this argument is one that both parties are aware of, ended the relationship. If a person leaves you for another person, well, that can be a heartbreaking situation, but if you say it’s because they’re bisexual, I immediately believe that you were the person in the wrong. If a bisexual person leaves you for a person of the opposite sex, I think that’s a perfectly natural thing. Don’t call them something terrible because of it.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that we all need to be bigger people when we open our mouths, whether we’re hurting or not. And, furthermore, try to understand the person that you’re with, if you don’t, it’ll never work – no matter who or what they are, and you’ll learn the hard way like me.

I once dated someone, a very lovely, adorable, wildly attractive person a long time ago. When we started getting together, she was with a lovely, albeit awkward, sports-minded (and not the sports I most enjoy, namely polo, cycling, and badminton) gentleman who she eventually left for me. We had a fantastic time together, and I’m both pleased and disheartened to say I’ve grown so much since them, because while I tend to think of myself as a generally rather accepting person, I was not when it ended with them. You see, when she left her boyfriend, I convinced myself that I’d not only beaten him, but all men – at that particular period in time, I suppose I had. But when it ended, I was one of the people that turned around and said things about them being a bisexual, and I thought that was okay, because everyone laughed, or nodded, or what have you. The same people that helped me after that relationship ended up shaping the way I spoke about bisexual people, and I spoke that way until I was corrected during an unfortunate circumstance.

Since then, I’ve dated, fallen in love with, and seen a number of bisexual people, and I can safely say I don’t particularly care about the gender of who they’re with now. I can say this because I’m sure they’re not going in to the relationship with this other person because of me, possibly the exact opposite, actually. “I’m dating you because once I dated Lauren!” is not an interaction I imagine people have often, or ever, with their new love interest, because who I am, and my sexuality, has absolutely no bearing on theirs.

Now, let’s bring this back to the apology portion I mentioned above. I am sorry. I’m sorry for every time I made you out to be only your sexuality. I’m sorry for whipping my head around when someone yells “faggot” or “dyke” or “tranny”, but not when someone says something derogatory about bisexuals. And I’m sorry for not always being an ally in the past. I hope you’ll read this and accept my apology, even if you don’t sympathize with my actions, reactions, and inactions above. And if you’re reading this, and we were together and I said or did something to hurt you, I am deeply sorry.

Just an update – banana fight!

 

banana

I am a banana (fighter)!

Tonight I had my first ever banana fight.

What is a banana fight, you ask? Well, it’s pretty self explanitory on my end… Jesse and I were in the kitchen earlier tonight, err, when it was still night (I think), and I made the subtle “banana blow job signal” and a fight ensued when she told me, probably unintentionally to banana jizz in her eye. A full on banana fight ensued in my kitchen, and, after said fight, I now cannot move half my face in a societally acceptable way because I have banana residue all over it.

That has been my night.

How’s your night been?

In sickness and in health

No, this isn’t a marriage post, it’s an illness post. When my father came down to see me, a point was brought up: I have what you might call a silver-spoon immune system. Any idea what that means? Let me explain.

While I may not have grown up putting on the Ritz, see below photo, I grew up staying at the Ritz. And unfortunately, my immune system has been lounging in one of those terribly comfortable bathrobes, ordering room service all this time.

Yeah, I was a pedophile magnet. What can I say?

Yeah, I was a pedophile magnet. What can I say?

Also, in looking at this picture, it would seem I also invented the Snuggie. Moving on from my infomercial potential (the other picture I was going to put up involved me with what looks like an early version of the Magic Bullet, what the hell!), I was informed this weekend that I have this elusive “silver spoon immune system,” meaning, or so I was told, that I can’t survive anything because when I was a child, I was hidden from all possibly infectious, um, things. Which was traumatic at the time because I didn’t get any of the prizes I wanted for playing “count the roadkill” on road trips; I really wanted that DIY Davy Crockett hat.

Total panty dropper.

Total panty dropper.

Road kill chic aside, this silver spoon immune system really got me going. I mean, I know I wasn’t exactly running through the woods, drinking from swamps and rolling around in ivy of the poisonous variety, but does that make me a horrible person? No, it makes me a sick person. It makes my mother a horrible person, obviously.

Let your kids play with worms in the garden. Little Jimmy’s eating grass? Great! That’s what I say.

But to say I have no immune system because I have an overly cautious mother seems a little extreme. It’s not like I’m the world’s most careful person, but then again, I’m not exactly rolling around in poison ivy trying to relive my stolen childhood either; I’m here, searching music videos with dancing bears and 80s hits. By the way, 80s hits are the new Cold FX, just sayin’.

That’s my rant. And I’m posting about sickness because I’m, well, sick. I have a lovely thing called bronchitis, also known as doom (which apparently is now called 2012; thanks, ancient Mayans). So from one sick (in a cough, cough way) person to another (in a perverted, I read gay blogs way. Shame on you!), go roll yourself in some poison ivy, eat unfamiliar ¬†berries, and take candy from strangers… it’s good for you.

Rant: where’s the butch love?

Is it sad that I’m less drunk at two thirty than I was during my last post? Probably. Do I embrace this fact? Seemingly, as I have decided to lead into this post with such a statement.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, as per usual, seeing as I am the gay blogosphere version of Miss Cleo (if you have her Twitter, hit me up).

What else could Lauren possibly be covering? And at such an indecent hour?

First, I’d like to lead off with the fact that, currently, no hour is a decent hour. Secondly, I’m covering butch. It seems odd to me that I have yet to address this subset of the lesbian community, and after a brief conversation? Confrontation? I feel the need to bring it up.

Why is it that we have such a love/hate for the butch women in our lives?

Keeping with the two sentence paragraph method which seems to be working so well for me, I will let you in on the back story behind this post; 24 style-ish.

10:30- I embark to this wondrous place known as Grumpy’s. Now, if you don’t live in Montreal, or even if you do and have yet to witness the wonder, I will fill you in. On Bishop St, south of Saint Catherines Ouest (which is French for far from St Laurent), there lies a little bar, of which I am a satisfied and frequent customer. I met up with Jesse, Brian, and Hayley at said bar and proceeded to drink far too much.

10:31-2:00- Still drinking far too much, though at the latter end of this time constraint, Jesse, Brian & I left.

2:01-present- The walk home. With my hair at the current length, this could be easily confused with the walk of shame. Which, for all intensive purposes, was shameful, but not the walk. During the walk in question, Brian and I got into somewhat of a conversation about butch women, in which I was told to never date one. Why?

(Creepy 24 end of episode music here – as I have nothing else to fall under the timeline)

Why can’t I date a butch woman? Be seen with a butch woman? Be with, for any amount of time, a butch woman? This I don’t fully understand. I understand someone not being attracted to the aesthetic of butch. That I can comprehend. But barring someone from being with someone who falls under the butch label, or any label, pending you choose to fall under one, is a little ridiculous.

What I have learned from women is that they will surprise you. Yes, I used to be a type whore. And yes, I still have my convictions, but not dating someone who has poor taste in shoes is the same as not dating someone who looks and acts a certain way.

I was angry when I first wrote this, like Tyra Banks when someone talks back; that kind of angry. Because I like the occasional butch, and I like to occasional femme. Really, I like the occasional woman. What’s so wrong with that?

That’s my rant. Sarcasm will resurface at a later date, possibly tomorrow, who knows?