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The leaves are turning. Straight women are coasting that fall high, using leaf carcasses to cut lines of apple spice, taking bumps off glue guns until they pass out on crafting magazines with Martha Stewart tutorials playing in the background.
I see those contemplating eyes, feel your curious caresses. Stop planning our warm cuddles for autumn glamping in silk sheets. Don’t create that crackling bonfire mental montage. Remove me from your Amazon “fall buys” list. I don’t know what else to do but to tell you: Straight women, I’m not interested.
I know you’re thinking that I’m “comfy” that I’m “cute” that I would look good with your Instagram sepia filter but READ THESE WORDS. I tried the nice approach: hiding in those LGBT+ sponsored sites, looking bulkier and frumpier so you would end these ridiculous pursuits, neglecting Oprah’s offer as a promotional giveaway. Now is the time to listen to the simple REPEATED truth hidden between your crocheted decorative throw pillows: I. am. NOT. Interested.
Don’t come at me like I’m writing you off. I’ve been down this road before. We’ll spend the cold seasons together. I’ll keep you warm at night during Grey’s Anatomy binges while tears splatter all over my sleeves or as you shower me with popcorn during serial killer documentaries. I’ll snuggle close during all those chilly days, but our time together will not last. Come summer, you’ll shove me in the closet like some two-dollar bargain bin dive, just an experimental style.
My fabric life is meant for more than that, a full life lived until holes are worn right into my fabric core.
I deserve people who honor and cherish me, who constantly desire me.
I deserve lesbians.
Lesbians always need me. During camping trips. Cocktail parties. They’ll even wear me to a funeral (I come in black). Our bond is not something that is broken or tossed aside. I’m part of their identity. They’ll pass me down to their grandchildren like you’d pass down a ten-carat ring.
We’re drawn to each other.
I want nights under the stars. Treks through the wilderness, my cloth dancing in the wind. I want mountain climbing. Kayaking and truck rumbling into Colorado sunsets. Not Cali vacation pool parties and Connecticut caviar, spending my life covered in last night’s rave glitter as you “hike” down Fifth avenue with your hipster man bun boyfriend. He’ll smell like Axe. They all smell like Axe.
Don’t think I’m just thinking of myself. There’s also your hetero wellness to consider. First, you buy a flannel shirt. Then, the lesbian identity arises from the dormant genes once restricted by your cashmere coordinated life. Suddenly, you go into a gay coma and wake six months later driving a U-Haul to Colorado with your new wife and two rescue pit bulls. Am I being ridiculous? Maybe, but why risk everything on a comfy shirt?
There are plenty of other clothing items in the world.
Have you met yoga pants?