We’re Full, Try Grindr

No, you cannot join in.
No, not even if you “just want to watch.”
Not even if your girlfriend’s “curious” and you think my existence is a challenge and your masculinity is the referee.

This is not a game.
This is not a kink.
This is not a Netflix original starring two girls and a plot twist.

See, a lesbian is a mythical creature.
Not because we’re rare, but because straight people refuse to believe in us.
We are Santa Claus with a septum ring,
the Tooth Fairy with a carabiner keychain,
the Easter Bunny but she ghosted you after three dates and a u-haul.

We’re not doing this for you.
We’re doing this in spite of you.
And that’s hotter, isn’t it?

You say:
“Can I watch?”

We say:
“Can you disappear?”

You say:
“So who’s the man in the relationship?”

We say:
“We both are. Just kidding. Neither. That’s the point. Keep up.”

You say:
“But you haven’t tried me yet.”

We say:
“I haven’t tried arson either, but I hear it’s transformative.”

You call it a phase?
Baby, this phase has better hair than you.
This phase can parallel park and build IKEA furniture and make girls cry in good ways.
This phase gets invited to brunch.

You?
Get blocked.

You think I’m here to make your life sexier?
Nah.
I’m here to make it awkward.
To kiss your girlfriend in her dreams.
To steal your sister’s flannel.
To gay up the group chat with unhinged astrology takes and mutual aid links.

You made me the punchline.
So now I’m the poet.
The predator in the punchbowl.
The dyke in the disaster.
The lesbian in the library casting spells with glitter pens and reclaiming every inch of space you once made unsafe.

I’m not an accessory to your desire.
Not a prop in your daydream.
Not a checkpoint on your sexual scavenger hunt.

I’m the ending you don’t get.
The invite you don’t receive.
The party that happens after you leave.

No, you still can’t join in.
Go home.
We already changed the locks.