Tears of Pain: My Life as a Lesbian Aesthete

I have a particular taste in women. This is considered inappropriate to say as a lesbian (sorry – Woman Loving Woman) we are supposed to be ‘Inclusive’, especially in ‘Queer Spaces’, and to ‘Love all Women who Identify as Women’ because they are all ‘Totally Valid’ and to live by and propagate loads of other moralising platitudes that no straight man has ever had to encounter merely on the basis of his attraction to the female sex. But I still have a completely discriminatory taste in women and nobody can take this away from me even if it’s for my own benefit! Which it absolutely would be.

I am basically only attracted to women who could probably be vampires. You will probably know exactly what I’m talking about and I have made several Pinterest boards about it. I desire: the inability to flinch, dark and shady connections to questionable groups (I would take, and have taken, Scientology), archaic accents and strange voices, oddly tall and slender proportions that are simultaneously the rounded proportions of a woman in a Renaissance painting, smooth, refined manners, nefarious intentions, Felliniesque pallid complexions and strong profiles. I have only ever been seriously obsessed with women either twenty years older than me or deceased altogether (in a healthy way, eg. dead actresses in films who have smooth and antiquated mannerisms, not a necrophilia way). The lesbian-vampire trope is a real thing (seen everywhere from Victorian literature to 70s horror films) – hopefully there must be some biological and social rationale for it.

I spent years vilifying fetishists on my old blog, and now I admire their conviction and persistence. There is not enough societal allowance for young lesbian women to become fetishist-aesthetes: to be able to describe what they genuinely want, collect images and videos of what they genuinely want, and then to look for this with full discrimination, to the extent that gay men arguably now can and do. We have been trained (groomed) to Love All Women. The end result: boring and underwhelming romantic lives for All Women.

This French poster for Madchen in Uniform (1931) is the direct culmination of my lesbian-aesthete-fetishist-vampire aesthetic. It’s my favourite image – the lesbian equivalent of an equally homoerotic Leyendecker painting. The smooth, handsome profile of the woman on the left (Dorothea Wieck; I collect vintage photos of her as a rebellious act and coincidentally every single one is in profile) reflects exactly what I have been talking about. Bring on a new wave of exactly this!

I have been on speaking terms with only one vampire woman in my life. This four-year-long encounter ended with me memorising half of the Lord’s Prayer in German and reciting it over and over again as I wandered up and down a flight of steps and pondered about flinging myself to my imminent death (i.e it did not end well). Another used to live on my street but I only ever saw her from a distance. There is also a gloriously deep-voiced actress in America – my only living celebrity crush! – who I would describe as vampiric, except now she is pretending to be normal and sells her own line of kitchen utensils on the Home Shopping Network. I could search ‘goth woman’ on Google Images but this would tell me nothing about the subject’s air and mannerisms, possibly the most important things. The odd pretender might filter in. The accent might be all wrong.

Another issue: there is a vampire market for young lesbians. There is no young-lesbian market for vampires. This prompts repeats of the following scenario:

‘I love you, beautiful vampire lady’, I say.

‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘By the way, this is my husband, Grog.’

Grog – a man two feet tall, resembling a threadbare gnome – waddles out of the shadows and into the cold light of day. He puts his arm protectively around the woman’s knee, because that is as high as he can reach. Grog looks more like her prematurely ageing son than her husband.

Grog has no discernible personality, decision-making system or inner life. I struggle to understand what his wife sees in him. I spend the night in bed crying.

What has the world come to? I am a seasoned connoisseur of female vampires and they themselves – in real life and the celebrity world – are seasoned experts at choosing the most underwhelming men to ever exist.

I have taken a year out of university and plan to use it to write and illustrate my rhyming lesbian-vampire-fetishist manifesto – an epic ode to the essential power of the refined, mysterious, immortal woman. Perhaps when I have tricked someone into publishing it, the world will finally wake up to this archetype, something surely and secretly rooted in the lesbian psyche, and my kind will follow the homosexual male in finally embracing the power of the fetishised aesthetic.

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