[Guest Author : Educated Tatya]
My psychology teacher held that everyone is bi-sexual. Conditioning, upbringing, preference and an unknown biological imperative make us decide. So we are all 20, 30, 45, 85 per cent homosexual.
Don’t I know it. “I’m definitely bi-sexual,” I tell my male husband after reading a blog by a lesbian couple.
There is an allure to a same-sex relationship. So many of opposite gender fights are over not understanding the importance of little things.
Say the intimacy of making a meal together.
I daydream that deciding on a menu, shopping for ingredients and cooking together would be intimate and pleasurable activity, were I with a woman. There would be exuberant appreciation afterwards. An standing ovation even.
There is no romance in nagging and sulking in a supermarket and then hanging around the cold cuts.
I imagine it would be the same with non-sexual physical intimacy. You wouldn’t have to explain to a woman why you are entitled to a little drama for it to end in an embrace. Or why standing at the window is practically an invitation to be crept up to and embraced at the waist.
When I read about meals prepared with love-notes, kisses stolen in changing rooms and shopping dates, it leaves me wistful.
Mind you, so does the knowledge that another woman has been sleeping with Hugh Jackman for more than 12 years.
Sharing a life with a person of your own sex seems to iron out so many of the differences that come from coming from very different genders. The things you feel a little silly explaining. The need for appreciation, validation of appearance or abilities. All black tops never look the same to a woman.