No More Eggplant

Have you ever kissed someone who wasn’t really that into you? It feels awful. You can smell it on them. You can feel their lack of enthusiasm on your lips and skin.

In bed there’s nowhere to hide how you feel about someone. Good, bad or ugly. Your love, apathy, possessiveness, whatever it is, it descends on your partner like a perfumed cloud, making itself known.

I’m an independent, confident woman. And in my experience “independent” and “lesbian” look suspiciously similar. I’ve been approached by women for a long time. Or by the boyfriends of bi women, insistent that I’m the perfect unicorn. From a young age my mother encouraged me to explore whatever those experiences might hold for me, insisting that I would have a great time.

And I’ve dutifully kissed a few women over the years, mostly during games of spin the bottle or at the insistence of some very attractive boyfriend, mere inches away.

And I’m struck by the same feeling every time.

That I’m doing, working, trying. It’s not coming easily or naturally. I’m not reacting with someone. We aren’t musicians playing off each other, listening to each other. I’m acting upon. I’m pen in hand and she is the paper.

I’m that jerk who made me feel unbeautiful, unspecial, unsexy. Merely by not being interested in me and going through the motions anyway.

And all this is coupled with the feeling I get every time someone convinces me to try eggplant again.

Oh right, I don’t like eggplant because it still tastes and feels like eggplant.

It’s not that I’ll never enjoy an eggplant. But maybe I shouldn’t try any until I’m really excited about one.