When I first meet people, one of my biggest fears is that they think I’m gay. Not that anything is wrong with being gay; I’m just not trying to scare away potential datable guys.
I’m flirty with everybody and use humor as an icebreaker. No one has flat out asked me if I like girls, but once when meeting a lesbian, she asked if I played softball in high school. As the most uncoordinated individual who sucks at all sports was thinking, “I see what you did there…”
When discussing the topic of this column with a friend, she recalled when I started a conversation with guys at a bar with “want to hear something awkward?” I was wearing a vintage-looking shirt that read “Batman fan club,” jeans, and barely any makeup. I told them about my friend who met up with some Jamaican guy she met online at the bar that night, and how his friends from Africa with thick accents were undressing me with their eyes. I had a guy interested (for the night) and made some friends.
My voice has been described as somewhat deep and raspy (but I don’t think it’s the sexy raspy like in movies) and my accent as “redneck surfer.” I’ve been told I’m intimidating and I talk like a “bro.”
Why does all of this matter? Well, I have a ton of guy friends, I relate to sick humor and I’m not afraid to look silly. This, however, reflects on my dating life. A guy friend told me if he had the courage to like me, I would be his No. 1.
Cool. So, I sit on the backburner to the girly girls that giggle at the jokes instead of making them, the damsels in distress that play dumb in conversations. I’m the “chill” girl that rides the roller coaster of my homeboys dating the life-sucking females.
Then I ask myself, “Do people actually prefer drama?”
Do they secretly love the passion of fighting and the reward of making up? I can’t count how many times I’ve gone through the motions of dating a guy, only to have him decide to rekindle things with an ex. I, being the “laid-back” one, go back to being “just friends.”
When I’m out with male friends, they don’t think to hold the door for me, it’s assumed I’m paying for my drinks and I’ll hold my own when standing near the mosh pit. How does one “hang” without losing all respectable femininity?
shannonkelly@mail.usf.edu
