I have no idea what I’m doing, whether I should leave the house when my isolation is up, is there enough social lubricant to keep my mouth wet, or will the dry small talk soak up all hydration? 

Starting again in the city that left me once mendable is commendable, I mean for one I came back to a father with cancer so the backstory is compatible with channel 4 programming at least, also comes with a local therapist, now that is handy. I guess the main focus of the story I want to talk or release from my mind is my queerness, a thing hidden like pandoras box or porn on a browser. Since I came out at the age of 22 in the same city it feels only now essential that I eat pussy. I say it’s not to prove anything but when you’ve wanted to die and the lack of one experience keeps urging you to live you kinda have to, also if the therapist describes it as ‘healing’ that helps too. I wanted to go down on anyone with a vulva at this point. I’m 25 its time to act on desires and hold the internalised homophobia at the poorly constructed door.

So like any mature adult during a global pandemic I got tipsy off a remaining red wine bottle that I had bought with my partner Conor the night before and went to a house party notorious for non-binary and sexy folks. I turned up an hour late in a tiny black dress and patterned tights feeling like Grimes but looking like a shit cosplayer, I walked into the front room and said out loud ‘Oh god, everyone’s fit’ as I avoided platform boots and fishnets into the tiny flak. Like a wolf’s den with chokers and corsets at every peripheral. I ordered more wine an hour in, I drank continuously until I realised I had missed an opportunity of a threesome going on in one of the bedrooms whilst agreeing with a mutual friend of the host ‘I didn’t know it was going to be that type of party. I knew then that tonight was the night, and started to sweat. I messaged Conor explaining I was opting in on the gay experience, an option I never thought I would ever bargain with a partner on; especially on a Monday, work night. 

I went for it.

It wasn’t long before I was getting a lap dance in the living room from a feminine force. I looked like one of those giddy teenage boys from the 90s near Pamela Anderson, my knickers and my face screamed rookie and I fought every expression that took over my facial muscles. All the red wine seeped into my glazed eyes, the beautiful woman took me away into a bedroom explaining that I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to, I wanted to have an epiphony, I wanted to have the Gay TM Experience, the L word franchise. I secretly never wanted to go back to men because in my mind that’s easier than healing the trauma left by them. But alas, I am a pillow princess after all, how much battling could one do with a disposition, the position being my back, I was passive on all accounts. I didn’t lick pussy that night but got wined and dined, finger licking good style for about 3 hours. 

The next morning I was battered and bruised, hungover, and felt the rise of shame I got the woman’s phone number and left as soon as my legs gained consciousness. I felt awful ringing Conor up and blubbering, my queerness had cost me my safety before and triggered something deeper. He accepted me for me and reassured me everything was fine between us, I felt so much relief on the hot ride home on the 80A. I felt rough into the early evening and rough after pole, I felt rough the next day and the day after that. Until I got a text. The text was from my housemate explaining they had tested positive for COVID, I took a test, it came back negative.

The shame spiral is so interwoven subconsciously I knew something had changed in my body, I was weak and tired. I thought maybe it’s depression? I was wrong two days after my gay evening I test positive for Covid on a lateral flow test, I was then isolated in my room for 10 days. 10 days to think about what I had done, a dyke cinderella punished for going to the ball, my therapist held no sympathy and laughed when I told her about my encounters of the gay kind and how god set me up for a hate crime. 

The truth is I wouldn’t have expected any less than the situation having a sense of humour after all I mean only me and my traumatised mind would see this as a comedic gold mine. The sexual experience was as mundane as a joke, a human experience reduced to a laugh and smile that lingers.