When I speak of my single life, I sound like a 50 year old man glorifying his high school football days. I get all glossy-eyed and lost in my own swollen head. I think I sound hot. Seasoned. I reminisce on when I was dating four girls at the same time. On the good dyke clubs “back in the day”. I think I am impressing the 21 year olds that landed in my circle. Like these baby dykes can learn a thing or two from this veteran clit licker. I remember how attractive I used to be with my tan and tiny clothes. I was an avid teeth bleacher. My legs (and more) were always shaved. It was a serious case of “too many girls, too little time”.
Maybe I do sound cool. I don’t know, it’s possible. Or maybe I just sound old.
Truth is, I haven’t been single in eight years. And truth is, I’m okay with it. In fact, I have been married to my wife for almost seven years and we have a baby boy. We own real estate. And a dog. We don’t get drunk and we have a bedtime. I wear comfortable clothes.
I don’t know if people are impressed with the image of the former me. I don’t know if I miss her. I don’t know if I think that if I were single today, that it would be the same as it was. Because the reality is that it would be nothing like it used to be. I sincerely laugh at my fantasy of the younger, goddess-like version of me. The thing is, I have changed. Single, married, or whatever. I’m not the same person that I once was. And it has nothing to do with whether I was a fresh little lezzie or not. It has everything to do with growing up. My priorities went from phone numbers to anniversaries, from new club music to nursery rhymes, from panties to diapers. You catch my drift.
Maybe we all like to hang on to something from our youthful counterparts. I mean, isn’t that what the media and commercialism want us to do? Look younger! Feel younger! Maybe because I’ve had so many changes in these last eight years, that it just seems recreational to embrace a memory or two. Frankly, I enjoy remembering the days where things happened a little faster, women were a little more prevalent, and I was a little shinier.
And as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing wrong with that. Okay okay, and I was a ripe little hottie. There, I said it.
A day in the life of a lesbian, who just happens to be a mom, wife, and employee.
5:00 a.m. – The alarm wails from the dresser.
5:15 a.m. – The baby fusses in the monitor.
5:20 a.m. – Diaper change.
5:30 a.m. – Let the dog out.
5:40 a.m. – Finally go pee while my wife nurses the baby.
6:00 a.m. – Down two cups of coffee, kiss the wife as she runs out the door, and prepare my lunch.
Fast forward to 8:00 a.m. where the baby is dressed, has been fed a bottle, I am dressed, sporting a very rushed makeup job, and we are driving to the sitter’s house with a packed diaper bag, extra bottles, and my brain, which is sitting on the passenger seat beside me.
It’s busy season at the office, so by 10:30 a.m., I have spoken to 15 clients, handled four scheduling discrepancies, responded to a handful of emails, and derailed my boss from a potential crisis.
12:45 p.m. – Lunch is actually more like grazing as I mull over unedited documents.
2:30 p.m. – Place a laundry list of product orders.
5:00 p.m. – Breathe a sigh of relief and get the hell out of there.
5:12 p.m. – Rush hour traffic.
The very notion of seeing my baby boy at 5:45 p.m. is literally not able to be explained. Warmth and joy, people. Warmth and joy.
6:00 p.m. – Dinner with my wife. Compare notes of our work day. Feed the baby his green beans, which he manages to get everywhere.
6:25 p.m. – Feed dog.
6:35 p.m. – Check email, Facebook, other brain-sucks.
7:00 p.m. – Baby bath time. Jammies.
8:20 p.m. – Tuck in baby boy.
8:30 p.m. – Wife and I are glued to the couch, feet up, yawning with bloodshot eyes.
8:35 p.m. Flip through the channels. Scoff at Miley. Bitch about the weather. Shut it off.
And by 9:00 p.m., I’ve dragged myself to the shower, let the dog out, and packed the diaper bag for the morning. By 9:30 p.m., my lovely wife and I are both in bed, ready to do it all over again tomorrow.
So, there you have it. A day in the life of a lesbian. I scratch my ass and pick up pennies. I love my family. I have to force myself to work out. Pretty ‘normal’ if you ask me.