the confession

i'm not a lesbian. 

i've been called "boy crazy" by several people. since i turned sixteen i haven't been without a boyfriend for more than a month, and i've sought male attention as a priority. i work in a bridal shop and i've always talked about getting married. i think the notebook is a great film, and i've watched a fair amount of male porn. i've written and sent countless letters to lovers and i've made a few playlists for boys who deserved them.

when i was thirteen i had my first kiss with Bella Styles in little plumley park. when my dad asked me my details for the government census, he asked my sexuality and i told him i was bisexual. to which he responded, "oh, okay". i focused my attention on the male folk. if you're reading this, you can probably name at least one boyfriend of mine. you may have even met one of them. or all of them, if your name is Rosie. i've been public with love, with men. i like people knowing the adoration i have for another person, especially if they're important. i think most people can relate to that. 

i could easily call Bella an "ex-girlfriend", and i have done in the past, certainly- we spent much time together and when she asked me as a small girl if i would be hers, i said yes. of course, i then promptly panicked and broke it off relatively soon after. she doesn't count it, she's had girlfriends now in the same sense that i've had boyfriends. i hold onto it though, to remind myself that that small part of me is there. and i'm capable of it. of course, when in school i would tell the other kids about it or be open with her it was met with a cruel resistance. to them, to many of them, it was a grotesque and unnatural thing. even now, (and do correct me if i'm overthinking this) the feeling that you're perverse for it still ruminates amongst those afraid of it.

let me be clear, again, i'm not a lesbian.

but i have loved as many women as i have men. it's not that i find it easy to fall in love, it's just that i've found a lot of people who were easy to fall in love with. does that make sense?

within female friendships, there is a beautiful kind of closeness that often emanates. often i find myself in awe of many of the women around me, and yearning for a closer type of love. to braid hair, to hold a hand, to hold. i hate that i need to clarify this for anyone reading who doesn't understand; i mean this platonically. to preserve a physical familiarity with a polite kiss upon one's forehead shows a friendship. there is difference.

this topic of conversation i have not breached often on the blog- perhaps once, maybe twice, in four years of writing. i have been open before, i know i have, but this ultimately leaves a vast vulnerability that i've been uncomfortable approaching. god, where do i start.

alright, let me try-

in a forthcoming blog post that has yet to be published (keep eyes pealed, reader dear) i discuss what it means to be a "genius". i'm sure you, as you read that word, come up with several misguided notions of Einstein, Darwin, Shakespeare- the classics. what you may consider as an afterthought, however, is the genius that has before entered your sphere in this life and given you a rare glimpse of what it truly means to be one.

this girl was one of those people.

i've previously posted some poetry on this here blog, and if you look hard enough there's a citrus themed one for the woman in question that details a summer afternoon and a youthful exchange. naturally, she dominated many thoughts through my adolescence as she was easily one of the brightest and most intellectually stimulating people i'd come across. she was a writer, you see, and she would sometimes find me in the music rooms i frequented in school to read me her latest piece. my recollection of them now is hazy, but i know it was excellent work. one i know was named "turbulence" which i found apt considering our relationship. 

at one time i could've considered her my closest friend, but it's been years now since that time. still, when i write now i think of her and her words often, and try and live up to the incredibly high standard that she never knew she'd set for me. she was one of my biggest inspirations, and i can remember her handwriting as though it were on the page in front of of me, the way her fingers held the pens i now exclusively write with and the tri-coloured annotations of poems in a battered notebook. 

i'll give you an idea of her character; the ceiling of her bedroom was plastered with glow in the dark stars. her hair a glorious red, her eyes fresh and large, and the tone of her voice is one that i haven't found replicated in another as of yet. she was a ferocious girl, and she was forthright with her opinions which was a marvel for somebody of her age. i couldn't work out whether i loved her or hated her- she was the most fantastic, vivacious, beautiful, bright, charismatic woman i had found and i envied her for it. and worse, i loved her desperately. i'm sure she knew this, i was weakened in her presence, but cowardice and embarrassment had a large role that i let act out.

interestingly enough, a few weeks after my sixteenth birthday and i was hauled up with her in her bed writing my first ever blog post. i do wonder how she is now. i think of her often. we drifted swiftly after she set me up with my first proper boyfriend. and you all know how that went (and if you don't, you can guess).

a few of my dear readers will know of this next girl, and if you ever knew me in my days as the superlative Head Girl of my secondary school, then you would've seen she and i in a musical duet. i'm sure she won't mind my saying this here and saying it now, as a long time has passed and we remain good friends, but my goodness me i have never in my life been so genuinely mortified with myself than this time period. rejection is not something i have endured often (not to sound incredibly cocky and twatty, i realise how that comes across), being a young woman with a relatively tolerable face, it's pretty easy to corner a bloke and convince him you're the shit for one night (he's easy, he's a guy). so when i essentially got over myself and thought sod this! i'll tell her how i feel! and she, completely reasonably, just did not feel the same, i wanted to shoot myself in the face.

anyway, i was enamoured with her in a similar way to the first girl. she was a complete character, and anyone who's met her will know that she could double as a woodland fairy or nymph or sprite or whatever and could probably sprout wings and fly off at any given moment. not only that, but she had (has) one of the purest and kindest souls. in hindsight, my brash and unapologetic nature could never have tamed enough to fulfill the life of peace she somehow seems to have following her, and i'm glad that she very kindly put me down like a dog with a buggered leg.

there is only one more. and she haunts me. i sleep more often than i ought to because in dreams is where i catch glimpses of her receding shadow. i doubt that she and i will speak again, and i doubt there will ever be a time where we are together at all. i trawl through old videos and photographs to remind myself of her laughter, and i find reasons to bring her up in conversation. i've written about her before, here, and i'm sure i will continue to in brief passing musings. 

the thing is, we were so ridiculously close it didn't matter to me- to either of us- if we were hated by everyone, or if somebody ignored us, or if we weren't invited. it didn't matter to us if somebody was tedious or dull or incredibly unaware. we knew what we were and we knew what we had. and when we lay down on that harbour and listened to the slow waves of the docks bounding back and forth, twining our fingers and with our temples pressed firmly together, we looked at the stars and we promised to love each other forever and my darling i don't care if you don't but i will.

hey now, look, i'm completely taken by the man i'm with- he, i think, is the best person alive and helpfully the most gorgeous (and funny) too. and we laugh for hours and we sing and we dance and we love. he's the one, mark my words. but when it gets dark, and the six margaritas sitting on me turn into the waves of the harbourside, there is a stillness and a quiet that comes with my lapping tears. and tom holds me and he says "you really loved her didn't you?" and i sob and i sob and i cry.

don't pity me, dearest reader, for i have wonderful friends who i cherish and a loving family and the best partner a girl could ask for. 

like i say, i'm not a lesbian.

sincerely, the caravan girl.