I know a lesbian when I see one. It’s not just about relying on butch clichés because as we all know there are many genres of lesbian. Ellen & Portia, Shane & Carmen and even Tegan & Sara are all very different ladies.
But even I, a self-declared master of identifying my own kind, have the all too frequent embarrassment of gaydar-gone-wrong.
Of course there’s the lesbian or German lady dilemma — the utilitarian haircut, the sensible shoes and the “don’t fuck with me” face of a good honest dyke make German ladies hard to pick. Or is it the other way around? Am I racist or homophobic? So confused.
And then there’s the hippie earth mother type. Touchy-feely, makeup-less, dreadlocked vegans at folk festivals confuse the shit out of me. I once misread all that free love and ended up with a bruised heart. Ouch. But at least we connected on a “spiritual level”.
What about tuckshop mums? Portly, polo-shirt-wearing, practical ladies who for all I know pair off and go home to stroke their pussycats.
Don’t get me wrong — I’m not saying a wooza can’t be both. I hate stereotyping as much as the next person but has a softball player ever introduced you to her boyfriend? Have you ever seen a straight girl in a waistcoat? And what about all those policewomen with a baton in one hand and a disobedient lady handcuffed to the other? Or maybe I saw that in a porno.
Asian BFFs also throw me — those cute young girls who hold hands as a display of friendship. Even my closest friends have never felt the touch of my sticky palms. I was brought up the Australian way where mateship was declared by a punch in the arm.
Similarly, I’ve wrongly assumed handholding mums and daughters are in a cougar/cub relationship. When I see them in Kmart I think of Ashton and Demi and try not to judge.
Lesbian or librarian? Rug-muncher or rural Australian? Baby dyke or Bieber? The list goes on.
Maybe Mum’s right. I hang out with so many homos I’ve forgotten straight people exist. It seriously spins me out when she kisses my dad goodnight.
