Hello. My name is Lucy*. You answered my advert in the personal columns”. I have come to dread this opening gambit. What it means in reality is that I’m about to embark on an awkward phone conversation with a lesbian with whom I’m wildly incompatible.
At 45, I have had two long term relationships and would rather like another. Working alone means that she is unlikely to be a colleague. I have a fabulous bunch of close gay women friends, every single one of whom is in a partnership that has spanned over a decade and stands a good chance of lasting until one partner dies. Having known them for years, I also know their other lesbian friends. If chemistry was going to spark with any of them, it would have done so by now. So the logical step was surely to widen my horizons?
What I didn’t predict was that the search would be as tricky as climbing K2 in stilettos. Obviously the lucky dip is far smaller. You can’t just wander up to an attractive woman sitting alone in a café and enquire as to her sexuality. Twenty years ago, Time Out was the mecca for lesbians seeking a partner. You hid behind a box number, then sat back and waited for the hundreds of written responses that would drop through your letterbox for four weeks. But the internet changed all that. Hugely popular sites such as match.com can take credit for many a successful coupling, but they cater predominantly for heterosexuals.
The very idea of online dating brought every lesbian I mentioned it to out in hives. “You’ll never find a decent partner. It’s for weirdos,” they snorted from their vantage point of cosy coupledom. An exploratory click on Gaydar Girls and Pink Sofa revealed thousands of gay women. Surely one of them loved Tate Modern, Mike Leigh films and Question Time, didn’t look like a trucker and considered monogamy desirable rather than a daily struggle?
My pioneer spirit kicked in and I knocked out what, if I say so myself, was a pretty snappy profile. Cue an avalanche of winks and smiles. My request that we speak on the phone rather than message for months elicited several sudden disappearances. When it comes to profile whoppers, heterosexuals do not have the monopoly. Gay women also forget to mention that they live with someone or that the picture was taken 12 years ago and time hasn’t been kind. Occupations, interests and self-descriptions are tweaked radically so that a video hire shop assistant has a “career in senior management”. For “exciting job in travel”, read motorbike courier. “My freedom is important to me” can be a polite euphemism for “I’m sleeping with several other women”.
Lesbian dating sites offer a wealth of opportunities for those seeking virtual and clubbing buddies or occasional booty calls, but are, in my experience, the wrong medium for a 40-something woman who is more interested in ultimately sharing a Waitrose trolley.
There are just too many commitmentphobes, gals only seeking pals, players and newly smashed hearts. Cases of “still in love with my ex” syndrome abound. Lesbians are notorious for ending a partnership on the Friday and setting out to find a new one on the Monday.
This phenomenon can lead to a minefield of exes with profiles on the same site. “She loved her pug more than me and had two affairs” hissed one woman malevolently. I had reason to be grateful for this snippet when a particularly witty correspondent unlocked her photo to reveal herself relaxing on a sofa shared with a snoozing pug.
I spoke to a total of 15 women after several weeks of online banter suggested that we might have common ground. My nicotine habit understandably meant that, for some, our first conversation was also our last. The fashionista messaged through a curt “No thanks” after I sent her a photo, which prompted serious wardrobe anxiety.
Another cut our call short because I sounded “too middle class”. The apparent extrovert with a fine line in bon mots turned out to be a lonely agoraphobic who asked me to meet her in her own home. The sozzled, prolific 2am texter, the one who pinged through a snap of her breasts and the woman who shouted at me for asking if I could call back later because a friend had dropped in unexpectedly were jettisoned. As were two women who were still living with their exes.
Undaunted, I popped a personal advert in a serious newspaper. Foolishly, I thought I’d been pretty specific: professional gay female of above average intelligence and appearance who is passionate about the arts and cooking seeking similar who does not have children, is comfortable with her sexuality and serious about finding a lasting relationship.
Respondent number one, Joanne, left a charming message in elegantly husky tones, but my bubble of optimism bursts rapidly as she reveals herself to be a bisexual mother of two under-10s. “Not really sure what I want. Men are handy when it comes to DIY but they’re so untidy. Women make less mess but they get SO jealous”. Joanne fesses up to same-sex flings, but nobody in her inner circle knows this and its imperative that they never do. Her sons would freak.
Um, so how did she envisage operating? “I’ve got a spare room,” she volunteers, airily. Um, how many middle-aged lesbians who have been out for two decades does she imagine would be happy to spend their weekends retiring solo to her loft conversion? An awkward pause. “I think what I’m really looking for is a lodger,” she confessed. Um, how many home-owning gay women did she think might be sorely tempted to rent her attic?
The promising-sounding respondent number two was a stunning professional female of above average intelligence, but had only just acknowledged her latent lesbianism at 54 after a long, unhappy marriage. Oh puhleeze. Five decades of life to muster up the courage to admit which gender you want to climb under the duvet with?
Dinner had rocked along nicely until, face flushed with Merlot, she blurted this out. Clearly keen to make up for lost time, she confided that she had yet to sleep with a woman and began stroking my hand with a worrying degree of urgency.
Any advice as to how to tell her 87-year-old mother? My expression must have hinted at my overwhelming desire to push my chair back and flee. Whatever it revealed prompted Francesca to down two large glasses in 15 minutes flat and unsteadily proffer John Lewis vouchers for her share of the bill. “This is a gastropub. They won’t take them here,” I said.
Then came the vegan non-driver wanting to meet similar who had omitted to mention this non-negotiable requirement during our initial phone chat. We met for breakfast. I parked outside and ordered bacon and egg. She looked appalled. I bolted my clearly offensive plate of animal product as quickly as possibly while she wolfed her mushrooms. The bill couldn’t come soon enough for either of us.
Next up was the eminent scientist who was cheery company but looked and blinked like a benevolent owl. By now I could only see two ways forward. A rest from blind dating or slash my wrists.
Three months later, I was introduced to a newly spliced lesbian couple at a party. A compliment on their matching Tiffany wedding rings led them to enquire as to my own marital status. I told them that I was single and a lively discussion about the perils of blind dating ensued.
“You and our friend Kate would get on really well. You should meet her,” they advised. Kate was duly rung and agreed that I could have her number. Their description of her was glowing. An arty, foodie civil engineer who was bound to be snapped up soon.
The next morning I dialled Kate expectantly. Five minutes later I was feeling slightly thrown. This “arty” woman had never been to an exhibition and the last film she saw was Forrest Gump. By her own admission, her culinary prowess didn’t stretch beyond microwave meals for one. Perhaps she’d come alive if I turned the subject round to her career?
“So you’re a civil engineer?” I ventured. “No, I do work on the roads though.” “Doing what?” I asked. “I tarmac them.” She worked nights as there was less traffic. She sounded a sweetheart, but I just couldn’t envisage a yellow fluorescent jacket hanging in the hall and a nocturnal trail of black, sticky boot prints.
What has surprised me is how many lesbians are only looking for a short-term fling. Gay women are not averse to commitment, as the number of existing civil partnerships demonstrates. Could it be that all the good ones are spoken for?
Age may well be a factor. By mid life, most of us have accumulated baggage. Sometimes it fits neatly into a weekend case, but others are towing juggernauts of complications. We’ve been hurt so we are warier. We know what suits us and what we can and can’t tolerate. While we are mature enough to know that Ms Perfect doesn’t exist, Ms Huge Compromise just feels too wearisome.
The hankering for someone to enhance our pretty comfortable lives can be strong sometimes, but that youthful hang-the-consequences mindset that can propel one into gloriously unsuitable trysts has long gone.
Should my career in journalism ever grind to a halt, I have another potentially lucrative venture in mind: an introduction service for baby-boomer gay women who want long rather than short haul.
*All names have been changed
At 45, I have had two long term relationships and would rather like another. Working alone means that she is unlikely to be a colleague. I have a fabulous bunch of close gay women friends, every single one of whom is in a partnership that has spanned over a decade and stands a good chance of lasting until one partner dies. Having known them for years, I also know their other lesbian friends. If chemistry was going to spark with any of them, it would have done so by now. So the logical step was surely to widen my horizons?
What I didn’t predict was that the search would be as tricky as climbing K2 in stilettos. Obviously the lucky dip is far smaller. You can’t just wander up to an attractive woman sitting alone in a café and enquire as to her sexuality. Twenty years ago, Time Out was the mecca for lesbians seeking a partner. You hid behind a box number, then sat back and waited for the hundreds of written responses that would drop through your letterbox for four weeks. But the internet changed all that. Hugely popular sites such as match.com can take credit for many a successful coupling, but they cater predominantly for heterosexuals.
The very idea of online dating brought every lesbian I mentioned it to out in hives. “You’ll never find a decent partner. It’s for weirdos,” they snorted from their vantage point of cosy coupledom. An exploratory click on Gaydar Girls and Pink Sofa revealed thousands of gay women. Surely one of them loved Tate Modern, Mike Leigh films and Question Time, didn’t look like a trucker and considered monogamy desirable rather than a daily struggle?
Related Links
Lesbian dating sites offer a wealth of opportunities for those seeking virtual and clubbing buddies or occasional booty calls, but are, in my experience, the wrong medium for a 40-something woman who is more interested in ultimately sharing a Waitrose trolley.
There are just too many commitmentphobes, gals only seeking pals, players and newly smashed hearts. Cases of “still in love with my ex” syndrome abound. Lesbians are notorious for ending a partnership on the Friday and setting out to find a new one on the Monday.
This phenomenon can lead to a minefield of exes with profiles on the same site. “She loved her pug more than me and had two affairs” hissed one woman malevolently. I had reason to be grateful for this snippet when a particularly witty correspondent unlocked her photo to reveal herself relaxing on a sofa shared with a snoozing pug.
I spoke to a total of 15 women after several weeks of online banter suggested that we might have common ground. My nicotine habit understandably meant that, for some, our first conversation was also our last. The fashionista messaged through a curt “No thanks” after I sent her a photo, which prompted serious wardrobe anxiety.
Another cut our call short because I sounded “too middle class”. The apparent extrovert with a fine line in bon mots turned out to be a lonely agoraphobic who asked me to meet her in her own home. The sozzled, prolific 2am texter, the one who pinged through a snap of her breasts and the woman who shouted at me for asking if I could call back later because a friend had dropped in unexpectedly were jettisoned. As were two women who were still living with their exes.
Undaunted, I popped a personal advert in a serious newspaper. Foolishly, I thought I’d been pretty specific: professional gay female of above average intelligence and appearance who is passionate about the arts and cooking seeking similar who does not have children, is comfortable with her sexuality and serious about finding a lasting relationship.
Respondent number one, Joanne, left a charming message in elegantly husky tones, but my bubble of optimism bursts rapidly as she reveals herself to be a bisexual mother of two under-10s. “Not really sure what I want. Men are handy when it comes to DIY but they’re so untidy. Women make less mess but they get SO jealous”. Joanne fesses up to same-sex flings, but nobody in her inner circle knows this and its imperative that they never do. Her sons would freak.
Um, so how did she envisage operating? “I’ve got a spare room,” she volunteers, airily. Um, how many middle-aged lesbians who have been out for two decades does she imagine would be happy to spend their weekends retiring solo to her loft conversion? An awkward pause. “I think what I’m really looking for is a lodger,” she confessed. Um, how many home-owning gay women did she think might be sorely tempted to rent her attic?
The promising-sounding respondent number two was a stunning professional female of above average intelligence, but had only just acknowledged her latent lesbianism at 54 after a long, unhappy marriage. Oh puhleeze. Five decades of life to muster up the courage to admit which gender you want to climb under the duvet with?
Dinner had rocked along nicely until, face flushed with Merlot, she blurted this out. Clearly keen to make up for lost time, she confided that she had yet to sleep with a woman and began stroking my hand with a worrying degree of urgency.
Any advice as to how to tell her 87-year-old mother? My expression must have hinted at my overwhelming desire to push my chair back and flee. Whatever it revealed prompted Francesca to down two large glasses in 15 minutes flat and unsteadily proffer John Lewis vouchers for her share of the bill. “This is a gastropub. They won’t take them here,” I said.
Then came the vegan non-driver wanting to meet similar who had omitted to mention this non-negotiable requirement during our initial phone chat. We met for breakfast. I parked outside and ordered bacon and egg. She looked appalled. I bolted my clearly offensive plate of animal product as quickly as possibly while she wolfed her mushrooms. The bill couldn’t come soon enough for either of us.
Next up was the eminent scientist who was cheery company but looked and blinked like a benevolent owl. By now I could only see two ways forward. A rest from blind dating or slash my wrists.
Three months later, I was introduced to a newly spliced lesbian couple at a party. A compliment on their matching Tiffany wedding rings led them to enquire as to my own marital status. I told them that I was single and a lively discussion about the perils of blind dating ensued.
“You and our friend Kate would get on really well. You should meet her,” they advised. Kate was duly rung and agreed that I could have her number. Their description of her was glowing. An arty, foodie civil engineer who was bound to be snapped up soon.
The next morning I dialled Kate expectantly. Five minutes later I was feeling slightly thrown. This “arty” woman had never been to an exhibition and the last film she saw was Forrest Gump. By her own admission, her culinary prowess didn’t stretch beyond microwave meals for one. Perhaps she’d come alive if I turned the subject round to her career?
“So you’re a civil engineer?” I ventured. “No, I do work on the roads though.” “Doing what?” I asked. “I tarmac them.” She worked nights as there was less traffic. She sounded a sweetheart, but I just couldn’t envisage a yellow fluorescent jacket hanging in the hall and a nocturnal trail of black, sticky boot prints.
What has surprised me is how many lesbians are only looking for a short-term fling. Gay women are not averse to commitment, as the number of existing civil partnerships demonstrates. Could it be that all the good ones are spoken for?
Age may well be a factor. By mid life, most of us have accumulated baggage. Sometimes it fits neatly into a weekend case, but others are towing juggernauts of complications. We’ve been hurt so we are warier. We know what suits us and what we can and can’t tolerate. While we are mature enough to know that Ms Perfect doesn’t exist, Ms Huge Compromise just feels too wearisome.
The hankering for someone to enhance our pretty comfortable lives can be strong sometimes, but that youthful hang-the-consequences mindset that can propel one into gloriously unsuitable trysts has long gone.
Should my career in journalism ever grind to a halt, I have another potentially lucrative venture in mind: an introduction service for baby-boomer gay women who want long rather than short haul.
*All names have been changed