Kirsten Leah

By Kirsten Leah

“I forced myself into a box to fit the cliché, basically. And unlike most clichés relating to lesbian-kind, the butch-femme binary is one that I absolutely detest. I guess it goes even further than that; I hate the idea of anyone having to dress to someone else’s preconceived standards.“

“You get your eyebrows threaded?!”

This exclamation from my colleague was preceded by a conversation in which we lamented the little things that lockdown had snatched away from us. I don’t know what she expected me to say, but being doomed for the foreseeable to wander around with two untamed straggly slugs on my forehead seemed quite the imposition.

I’d heard this surprise from people before: when I turned up at a friend’s wedding in a dress and heels; When, shopping with an ex partner, I insisted on buying the Real Techniques makeup brushes instead of any old cheap thing (seriously, they are the best). I suppose people get surprised when I do something a bit girly because a) I’m gay and b) I’m not overtly feminine all the time. I’m just as happy shopping in the mens’ section as the womens’. But because I – and many other women like me – fall into this awkward little in-betweeny space, it throws people off.

I’m sure that the ‘you must be either a butch or a femme’ rule was forced upon lesbians rather than created by them. It makes things simpler, and more acceptably hetero, to be able to look at a couple and know who is the ‘man’ and who is the ‘woman’. And it is such a known trope that I fell into it myself when I first came out. Knowing that I wasn’t pretty enough to be the girly type, I cut my hair short and dressed in baggy jeans and hoodies and unflattering t-shirts approximately 700 sizes too big for me. I claimed that I felt unnatural and uncomfortable in dresses and that I couldn’t walk in heels to save my life.

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I forced myself into a box to fit the cliché, basically. And unlike most clichés relating to lesbian-kind, the butch-femme binary is one that I absolutely detest. I guess it goes even further than that; I hate the idea of anyone having to dress to someone else’s preconceived standards. What we wear is important – though not in a Vogue-esque ‘what’s in this season’ way. It’s important because what we choose to get dressed in can say so much. It’s one of the tools that we have to show people who we are. And suppressing or altering that because you’re ‘supposed’ to be the butch one? Fuck that.

So if you too are an awkward in-betweeny, embrace it. Wear those false eyelashes. Wear your battered Docs. Highlight and contour to your heart’s content. Shave your head. Paint your nails. Shop in the men’s section. Follow your 7-step skincare routine. You don’t have to be either-or when there are so many shades in between.

Kirsten is 28, gay, enjoys watching nerdy sci-fi films, embarrassing herself at open-mic nights, and strapping wheels to her feet and hitting people. Apparently, she also likes oversharing with people on the internet too.

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By Kirsten Leah

“U-hauling is up there with plaid shirts and undercuts as one of the oldest lesbian tropes in the book. As someone who’s done it with no less than four different partners, I put my hands up and admit to being an absolute card-carrying cliché.”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that two lesbians who have been consistently shagging for three weeks will very soon feel the urge to move in together.

U-hauling is up there with plaid shirts and undercuts as one of the oldest lesbian tropes in the book. As someone who’s done it with no less than four different partners, I put my hands up and admit to being an absolute card-carrying cliché. What can I say? I easily swing into a comfortable routine with my partner. I get swept up in the rush of closeness and excitement. And, honestly, as a millennial, there are few things more appealing than having someone to split the bills with.

And why not? Your girlfriend’s at yours pretty much every night anyway. You’ve already fallen into the routine of date night dinners and drinks, stumbling back home together, and her waking you up the next day with a black coffee and a cheeky bit of morning sex. Rinse and repeat.

Needless to say, my prematurely living with partners ended in disaster three times. My first U-haul was when I was seventeen (as with a lot of deplorably bad habits, I started young). I moved to the Isle of Wight, of all the godforsaken places, to live with my first ‘serious’ girlfriend. We lived in a shitty flat, working shitty jobs to get by. It lasted less than three months. Swept up in each other, and feeling that this was what adults did, we dove in headfirst without considering what the reality would be. Anyone with half a brain could – and did – tell us it was never going to work, we were falling into the same ole trap that had consumed many lesbian relationships before ours. They were right. Obviously. The heady new relationship rush quickly subsided into bitchy bickering, both of us deeply unsatisfied with our lot. By the time we called it quits, we didn’t even like each other anymore.

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Having to move back to my mum’s house with my tail between my legs wasn’t, however, enough to stop me making the same mistake again. And then again. Third time was definitely not lucky in my case.

So I decided that I’d never rush into living with someone again. By this point I had bought my flat. I had to make a fresh start on all this. A new leaf had to be turned. I did up the flat and made space in it for me, and only me. I was dating, but nothing serious. I didn’t even want to commit to another relationship at that point, let alone move someone in after a month of knowing them. The ironic thing about my unfortunate U-hauling habit is that I actually love my own space. I relished it, at that time, and happily planned out the years I’d spend living alone, learning to love myself and my space and my freedom, casually dating but never taking it to that next stage.

I met someone three months later.

We kept it casual at first. That lasted a couple of months. And then we were in that wonderful familiar spiral of drunken date nights, decadent lay-ins, cozy rainy days spent on the sofa binging Netflix, and wow, babe, has it really been three weeks since you last went home?

I had a little word with myself. Told myself I couldn’t make the same mistake again, that this was something that felt a little too good to fuck up by rushing in. I was too old for this teenage shit.

(Even though this time it felt right. Even though, despite my flat being my own jealously guarded dominion, she somehow slotted into it just fine.)

And then 2020 happened. It’s been a funny old year, hasn’t it?

Sometime in March, the deputy chief medical officer of England stated the following:

“If you are two individuals, two halves of the couple, living in separate households then ideally they should stay in those households. The alternative might be that, for quite a significant period going forward, they should test the strength of their relationship and decide whether they should permanently be resident in another household.”

So there we had it – actual government advice for the entire country to try their hands at a lesbian U-haul. Could anyone have seen that coming? Not a fuck. And needless to say, she moved in a couple of days later. Here we go again.

Part of my mind was tensed up and waiting for the inevitable failure of the relationship. Past experience made me wary. But … it just didn’t come. Her changing the address on her driving licence wasn’t the death knell I assumed it would be. I changed my council tax status from single occupancy to full fat and we didn’t automatically turn on each other. We even went furniture shopping together, the peak of all domesticity, and things continued to tick along nicely.

Celebrating Female Desire. Artwork by Paola Rossi

There were small bones of contention, obviously. She likes listening to Town 102 in the morning. We have wildly different views on the art pieces we want decorating the walls. I’d rather die than use a jar of Dolmio, whereas the idea of cooking everything from scratch sends her round the bend. And if these things sound petty and wildly inconsequential, that’s because they are. Even though we plunged into the dreaded U-haul (government-advised as it was), it didn’t end our relationship. It deepened it. It strengthened it. It moved us on to a whole other stage of togetherness.

Maybe us lesbians have got it right. Despite how wrong it can and does go when we haul ass to move in with each other after the third date, there’s always the chance it’ll work out. Why waste time if the right relationship is there, waiting, and you’ve found a person you wouldn’t mind waking up with every morning? Life’s too short to spend years dithering just because ‘the rules’ say it’s too soon. And if it doesn’t work out, you can always try again. And again.

Me and my fourth U-haul have been together for ten months now. We’re still living together – in fact, we’re engaged already.

I never learn.

Read all of Kirsten’s Confessions of a Lesbian Cliche posts

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