The girls were usually leggy and swaggy and tall and olive-skinned, forever clad in destroyed black skinny jeans, with a head full of acid-blonde-hair falling into faded-blue-eyes and a face defined by cheekbones so sharp they could kill a man.
I would imagine what our relationship would look like: We would be power babes who slayed in our enviable careers by day and hung out in dimly-lit whiskey bars with a bevy of celebrity dykes by night.
We would be fiercely in love and no other entity could ever stand a chance at disrupting our unbreakable bond. The sex! The sex would be kinky and wild and passionate and hot, seven-nights-per-week and we would never, ever have to “work on the sex” like straight people allegedly did. “Sex is work,” I would hear my mother coach her heterosexual cohorts, over steaming cups of tea. I would roll my eyes as I eavesdropped from the next room. Nah, my lesbian sexual connections will be so intoxicating, they will never burn out. My partner’s and I will be living in a blissed-out state, side-by-side, until dyke do us part, baby.
In my early 20s, when I finally fell onto the unforgiving pavement of my first lesbian relationship, I realized it doesn’t work “like that.” I clutched onto my glittery, unrealistic, pre-teen fantasy like it was the last glass of Champagne to ever grace this cruel, cold world.