I love women. I love their titties, their soft hair. I love being railed by women, railing women, blushing kisses, being tied up by women, tying up women and, most of all, coming multiple times in one night.
But what I do not love is the wack-ass dance that WLW (women-loving women, for all you unenlightened out there) do when they’re too awkward to make the first move. Instead of being direct, many queer women I’ve encountered are just so fucking passive when it comes shooting their shot.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been guilty of this phenomenon too. I’ve thought to myself, “Am I being predatory when I look over and make eye contact with that cute girl?” In middle school locker rooms, I’ve panicked after accidentally catching a glimpse of a girl’s back while she changed. And most stereotypically, I could not for the life of me figure out if a girl liked me — even after we’d hooked up multiple times, held hands, walked each other to class and told each other, “I love you.”
Spoiler alert: She liked me.
I was terrified of being overly gay, that one day my parents would figure it out. That at Sunday school, I’d sit too close to a girl and the pastor would shame me in front of the whole room. So I repressed myself, tried to make myself boy-crazy, blocked out any thoughts of women like I was a buff rugby goalie.
After 10 years of miserably overanalyzing every interaction I had with a woman, I finally got fed up. What was the point of living in constant fear of myself? Why go to Pride if I was still constantly shaming myself for loving women? By overthinking my every move, I was policing myself — doing my oppressors’ job for them.
So I said fuck it. Fuck that shitty little voice in the back of my head whispering: “You’re being a predator. You’re disgusting, a pervert, sinful, for even looking at other women. You’ll never be loved.” Fuck the people from whom I internalized those lessons. I refuse to live my life terrified and repressed. I am queer, I am proud, and I will not let myself be shamed for it.
I still hear that nasty homophobic inner voice from time to time, but I can ignore it much better now. I can make the first move confidently, smile and actually walk over to talk to pretty girls. It’s not as scary as I once thought — especially because I know someone’s probably going to end up coming so many times they scream that night, as long as I actually start the conversation.
But I also want to be wooed every once in a while. I want someone to walk up to me confidently and smile at me like I’m a goddess, ask me to dance, take me home. I don’t want to do all the work starting flings. Where are the girls who can take charge? I haven’t met any in a while. So I’m gonna be the change that I want to see in the world and give all you lovely queers some tips for how to make the first move.
I say this literally every day — ask any of my friends, they’ll confirm it — but the key to having game is to be confident. The best revenge against the crushing pressure of heteronormativity, your mother’s voice shrill and disappointed in your head, the anxiety that sweats out your palms, is to ignore them and stay true to your queerest self.
The only other thing you need is a friend to hype you up. Ask them to cheer you on! Run in place, scream in panic at each other, do that iconic vocal warmup scene from “High School Musical” together like you’re a queer version of Ryan and Sharpay. (Let’s be honest — the original version of them is queer already.) Ask for pointers or just genuine encouragement, and absorb their love and positivity into your heart. Let that shit warm you up like Janelle Monáe warms up my vagina every time I listen to Dirty Computer.
After that, all you have to do is take a couple steps across the room, or send that first text, or even just do that bottom thing where you grab their hands and say, “Wow, your fingers are so long!” Don’t worry if you mess up or the other person isn’t interested, because there are plenty of clits in the sea. (And genitalia of all kinds — TERFs are not welcome here.) You’ll hit your stride with time — practice makes pussies wet.
As long as you’re respectful of boundaries, shooting your shot is not following the homophobic creepy lesbian stereotype. You are beautiful, handsome, suave, charming. Throw on a smile and throw up a prayer to Kehlani, and walk over to that person who caught your eye. If you don’t, no one goes home with you. You’ll just get home and scream-cry to your roommate about the pretty girl across the room who looked your way once.
And if you see me at Pride, walk over and say hi — maybe you’ll get an exclusive interview.
Until next week, I’m thotfully yours.