My name isn’t Zorah. My parents are way too northern for that.
This blog is about being a lesbian, and about announcing my queer status to the people in my life that don’t know: family, friends, colleagues and any other fuckers that somehow get intertwined with my life (like the kebab man that shouts “you want my cock yet blondie?” every time I walk by).
I’ve been attempting and succeeding in being a lezza for almost 10 years now, I just haven’t gotten around to telling a vast number of people about it; my Christian nan, my insanely reserved boss, my Neanderthal step dad, my numerous ex- boyfriends and the high school friends that now have children and council houses.
This blog is like yanking a dry tampon of emotions from my dark insides, leaking mess across the internet. Think of these posts as the period stained knickers I stash away in the wardrobe cause I’m too embarassed to wash them in the communal washing machine.
I’m gonna be writing about wanking over Alicia Silverstone, shoplifting sex toys and maybe offering fingering guides for girls with long nails. If you don’t wanna read about that kinda stuff then go somewhere else and enjoy being eternally frigid.
And if you’re wondering about the image, Angela and Rayanne are two of the early girls that tugged at my gay chords, making me realise I didn’t just wanna hang out and swap shoes. I didn’t fancy Jordan Catalano like everyone else, I wanted to lock him into spastic remidial English and go find Ang in the boiler room.
Fuck you Jordan Catalano.
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