About my crush on a short-haired blonde, and why it was a disaster

Besides her being pretty awful after all.

I’m not saying she sucks because I’m bitter that we’re not a thing.

I’m saying I can’t get behind someone who uses isolated personal SUBJECTIVE experiences to justify telling me that reverse racism is a thing.

Now that that’s out of the way and you no longer think of me as the lesbian version of a “nice guy,” let’s go.

I was brought up thinking I was straight, I spent middle school fabricating crushes on boys. I even kissed one. He was frigid, two years older, and homophobic, but I sneaked out of my house one late winter night for his sorry ass, and all in all, it was pretty damn cool.

I wish I’d done that with a girl who looks at me like I look at Lava cakes.


At the end of ninth grade I found myself smack in the middle of a hurricane-kinda-full-blown crush on this strange little glitch of a strong-minded pansexual writer and graphic artist that had a world’s worth of words about every book I’d never read and every movie I’d never seen, and she made them seem like experiences I couldn’t bear to miss.

I talk about her with similar words and images every time. She is and was a lot of other things, good and bad, but due to certain beliefs (see beginning of article), I’m having a hard time coming up with anything else and I don’t wanna try for fear that I will trick my intimacy-deprived brain into thinking we should crush on her again.

No, sir, you shall not.

Before my 18th birthday, she said we should all watch “Bridge to Terabithia” before we turn the corner. I didn’t. I watched it two days after. I cried, and I wondered if it would have been any different, had I watched it at age ten or fourteen, or at least 72 hours before I did.

I told her that I liked her early on and found myself strangely comfortable being violently non-straight. A couple of girls in my class aren’t either, apparently, so the vibe was pretty positive.

I’ve written the next two paragraphs and the sentence between them countless times. I’ll write them again:

She appreciated my guts and miraculously kept trusting me with secrets (while exploiting the fact that she knew I’d bend over backwards and do a cartwheel on glass shards rather than upset her at all, but what did I care? Someone valued me!).

Oh, and she had a crush on a boy.

(They're together and he is horrible, but when I said I'd kill him in his sleep for a rape joke, she said she'd kill herself if he died, so I had to quit ever addressing either of them after that)

Anyway, here comes me trying to build barriers and boundaries, because sometimes an unrequited crush takes a bigger toll on the receiver of said affection. And I tend to go overboard—not in the “demanding to be loved back” way, but in the “What ELSE can I do for you?” way, and I can understand how that is suffocating.

Here’s the thing.

I was raised female.

I was raised shy and reserved.

I was deprived of the tiny instruction manual that comes with strong emotions that most straight kids get. It’s called social experience and it didn't come in the mail for me because all of my crushes on girls were smothered with “Oh, you two are such good friends!” (This is made worse by “It’s cool that you’e queer as long as you don’t hit on me,” because now apparently I can have neither friends nor crushes? Like honestly, are we so limited that the gender of your platonic friends has to be different from the gender of your romantic interests, just so that everyone can be absolutely sure who’s hitting on whom?)

I never managed to make myself understand any limitations or interact with her without occasionally feeling like “the creepy lesbian,” and that’s an issue solely with the way my sexuality is perceived, not an issue with me, because she’s pan but she’s with a boy, so if she makes double entendres at other girls, nobody gives a hoot.

Anyway, I think the situation ended up being vaguely uncomfortable for everyone involved, and it made me feel yucky as a whole person, like there was something wrong with me and me alone, the way I could not understand boundaries and personal space and the word “No,” despite my best attempts to constantly reinforce that if she wanted me to quit doing something, all she had to do was say it.

I’m not your predatory lesbian stereotype! I’m a human being, I can understand complex emotions, I care about people, I’m a good listener, I have a life outside of my sexual orientation, I can learn how to not make you uncomfortable. All I want is to be allowed to interact with you. Please.

That kinda went through my head at some point. And it reminds me of why we say we’re not like other girls. We’ve noticed people hate our gender, people hate the girls we could have been if we had only we had worn just a little bit more lipstick. And we want them to give us a chance as people before they label us.

(Yes, I’m genderqueer, but I have the female experience and will for the rest of my life, so.)

And it’s not like I’ve learned anything for this. As much as I like to fantasize about getting a girlfriend and doing cute shit? Never gonna happen, because I can’t talk to anyone, let alone girls at this point, without being afraid I’m suffocating them and popping their personal space bubble.


Very nearly a waste of energy and life experience, save maybe for the fact that it caused me to write this.

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