Maame(76)

The difference is, it’s hard enough competing with just women, now I’ve got to compete with men, too. What if he wants manlike qualities, like testosterone-fueled strength? What if he likes specific sexual-related things that I can’t perform properly because I don’t have a penis?

Google: What’s it like dating someone bisexual?

I click onto a chat room and the starting question is: Should I go official with a bisexual man or am I asking for trouble?

LucyS: As long as he’s monogamous why does it matter if he’s bi? Let’s be real. We’re all a little bi.

ReginaP: My honest opinion is that he’s on the road to gay so your a beard hun.

JennyFlen: Go for it! I’m dating someone who identifies as pansexual and it’s been great. I used to think does he really want me or is he waiting until he finds the right man blah blah blah but I wish I hadn’t wasted all that time. He’s my soulmate. People are going to talk but just follow your heart.

TinaDewer: I agree with every1 here because I’ve had mixed experiences. It helped 2 talk 2 some1 who is bisexual.

I pick up my phone and call Shu.

“Shu, why are you a lesbian and not bisexual?”

“Hello, Maddie,” she says. “How are you? I’m fine, thanks. It’s a lovely day outside.”

I might be in my garden again, but Shu must be close to an active road because I can hear streams of pedestrian traffic, snippets of different conversations and the beeping horns of impatient drivers.

“Sorry, Shu. You’re right,” I say. “Let me start again. How are you, and do you miss men at all?”

She laughs. “You’re fucking weird, but there’s usually a reason for it, so let’s make this quick. No, I don’t miss men—they’re still fucking everywhere. I’m a lesbian because women are more sexually attractive.”

“Do you find me attractive?”

“No.”

I frown. “Don’t you want to take a minute to think about it?”

“No need. You’re not my type.”

“Because you don’t think I’m pretty? I knew it.”

“Because you start a phone call by asking why people are lesbians,” she counters. “Where is this coming from?”

“Just curious.”

“Look, I’m a lesbian because women are better, okay?” she says. “We’re incredible but we’re the only ones willing to admit it. I honestly think people should give me money and presents because I’m able to bleed for five days every month, from my vagina, and— What are you looking at?”

I look around my garden. “Shu, who are you yelling at?”

“Some guy on the street. Staring like he’s never heard the words ‘bleed’ and ‘vagina’ before.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Outside work.”

“So, the middle of Liverpool Street?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Anyway, we bleed for five days every month and don’t die. Statistically, we outlive men, too. Do you know how much blood I’ve lost since puberty? I’m on my period today and went for a run this morning. A run, when my uterus is ripping itself to pieces. Then I came into work. Maddie, if a man came into work with blood running down his leg or out of his dick, the boss would say ‘A&E or home? Which do you want?’ I’m fucking superhuman.”

“It’s hard to argue with that, Shu.”

“Plus, we look and smell better.”

Who does Alex think smells better? Or is it like having cake and eating it too (a phrase I’ve never understood because what else would you do with cake?) and he gets to be with nice-smelling women and handy-with-tools men?

If you were a real feminist, you’d be good with tools, too.

Or are these all stereotypes and not only am I not a feminist, I’m sexist?

“Were you ever bi, then?” I ask. “Was there maybe an intersection, a space of time, right before you became a full-time lesbian?”

“I kind of went right there, to be honest. Being bi just wasn’t my vibe, no shade. Love who you want and all of that. What is this, a research project? Mads, are you bi?”

“We’re all a little bi, Shu.”

“Fuck off.”

“Okay, I’m not. Women are nicer to look at, but I don’t think I’d want to deal with two vaginas when one requires such maintenance as it is, you know?”

“No,” she says. “Your time’s up. Bye, Mads.”

She ends the call.



* * *



On Saturday I spend two hours getting ready before accepting that jeans (the second pair I tried on since the first don’t fit me anymore) and a red jumper are as good as it’s going to get.

When I arrive at the Scandinavian-style coffee shop that smells of warm butter, sugar, and cinnamon, Alex is at a table by the window. He stands when he sees me and smiles. Thankfully, he looks like he took his profile picture this morning. Exactly as advertised. His brown hair is swept back and he has on Converse, jeans, and a plain white tee.

“Hello, Maddie. Glad you could make it,” he says—deep and friendly with the slightest American lilt.

We sit and on his table is a pot of tea, two cups, a Danish pastry for him and a brownie for me.