Hi, my name is Jisoo and I am a femme lesbian. There are worst things to be, really, so I'm not complaining, but I am however, ranting about it. So welcome to my blog. The struggles of being a femme lesbian. (And a certain kitten who likes singing Teenage Dirtbag.) No.1: If you talk to a guy, once he finds out you're gay he acts like you've been leading him on and you’re automatically a . You're at a party, minding your own damned business, drinking punch while exchanging innocent looks with the queen of beers sitting at the back. Well, as innocent as drunken stares and lazy smirks can get. She has her signature leather jacket on and a pair of black skinny jeans. You know you’re damned, because she’s standing ten feet away from you, but you can tell exactly each shade of brown that her fascinating eyes have. You’re absolutely, shamelessly staring at her and she’s staring right back, as if you’re ripping each other’s clothes apart, but would that stop drunk guys from walking up to you? No, not really. “You look like you want to murder her,” he whispers in your ear, his hand sneaking on your waist and hanging there loosely. “Actually, she’s very pretty,” you reply while trying to get off of his grip, your attention still stuck on the girl. “But you’re prettier,” he chuckles and he’s now closer, lips almost brushing your neck as he talks. “Yeah, and very gay,” you reply rolling your eyes, trying your best to push him away. “Tease,” he chuckles again and right now you’re absolutely furious, kicking and punching his chest. Once you’re free and annoyed, you make your way out of that place, heels clicking loudly, but not loud enough to cover the boy’s voice calling you a to his friends. It’s alright though, you’re used to that, but what you’re not used at is the feeling of her skin on yours and her candy voice tickling your eardrums and breaking the strings of your heart. “You alright?” she asks. “I’m alright,” you answer, your eyes wide in shock as your brain processes who was talking to you. You lower your head, cheeks flushed red and that’s not because of the rose blush you were wearing that night. God, you pray your make up isn’t as terrible as the way you’re feeling. “Your boyfriend’s a ,” she chuckles and a thousand words stumble out of your mouth, but you doubt you made any sense, because she didn’t seem to care about what you were saying. Instead, you feel her put her leather jacket over your bare shoulders. Its smells like light perfume and vanilla. “He’s not my boyfriend,” you manage to mumble out. “That’s great then,” she smiles, tangling her hand in her wavy hair, throwing it back. Your world stops, and oh boy, you forget to breathe and your heart forgets to beat and it all causes your entire rationality to stumble down as she starts walking away, lazily dragging her combat boots. There she goes away from you Kim Jisoo. Good ing job! No.2: “You know this is a gay bar right?” I’d need more than ten fingers to count how many times I’ve heard this line. Honestly, I didn’t walk inside out of my own stupidity and I certainly didn’t come here as the ‘straight girl friend of that gay dude’. I don’t even know how or why did I end up being hit on by straight boys in a gay bar. Is this a weird kink heterouals have? God, this is more confusing than sixth grade when I kissed a girl. “So, is bi-curiosity kicking in?” someone asks and you certainly have to count to ten while doing a breathing exercise to avoid punching that perfect jawline of the girl standing in front of you. “Excuse me?” you finally reply with a smile, getting up from your seat and spilling your drink all over her flannel shirt, accidentally of course. She yells in frustration, but you’ve already disappeared into the crowd, finally finding the restroom and entering inside, away from the noise. Your knuckles are probably white from gripping too tightly on the sink as you try to calm down your nerves. “It’s alright, Jisoo,” you whisper to yourself as you get your lipstick out. “You’re used to this.” “Red doesn’t look good on you,” someone says and you don’t need to turn around because she’s already chuckling and your heart is breaking your ribs from beating too hard. “It’s not red,” you reply with an annoyed voice in which a tingle of excitement that you were trying to hide was heard. “It’s rouge.” “Alright then,” she chuckles again as she makes her way towards you, leaning in and trapping your frame between the sink and her body. Her hair is falling on one side and her lips are dangerously close to your neck. You don’t dare to move, but you keep stealing glances of her through the mirror. She still smells like perfume and vanilla, but it’s a different scent, a tad more bitter than the last time you saw her. You think that maybe she likes to change between her fragrances and that is absolutely nerve wrecking. You hate it, because now you’re anticipating every meeting you’d ever have with her and dreaming about her scent. You wait for something to happen, crave for something to happen, but she just stands there, her skin barely touching yours, the air you two share turning toxic. “I had a dream about you,” she mumbles and you wonder if she actually talked or if it was your imagination. “You never gave my jacket back,” she then chuckled and you snapped out of your thoughts. “I’m so sorry,” you start stumbling on your words again. You do that a lot with her, as if you’re totally out of your mind. “It’s alright,” she interrupts you while holding back her laughter. “Keep it. You look gorgeous in leather.” “Thank you,” you say, mostly to yourself, because she had a