By Tom Logan, 38-year-old air conditioning fitter and staunch queer ally
AS a millennial, I abhor injustice. Nothing is more important to me than supporting the struggles of historically oppressed groups, most of all sexy lesbians.
I watch a great deal of LGBT positive content when my wife’s in bed and am delighted to see ladies of the Sapphic persuasion able to flaunt their love openly in the gym, soapy car washes or ice-cream parlours.
Yet, when I have gone to gay bars and Pride marches to show my support, I have met with hostility. I understand that. Heterosexual men have a lot of ground to make up. I, single-handedly, do all I can.
I understand when you ask me to stop staring, or filming, or offering to supply my staunch aid in person back at your place. I wouldn’t have to get involved. I could do DIY or sort out the settings on your telly, which as you’re not technically minded are probably on factory basic.
But, irrespective of my powerful desire to smash the patriarchy on a hands-on basis, I’m shunned and ignored which I find rude for a supposedly inclusive movement.
And that’s not the only disappointment. Where are the long-haired, large-bottomed gymnasts with matching thongs and soft jazz playing in the background? Are they at a different parade?
Or are they still back at the training centre, too absorbed in lovingly massaging each other on the pommel horse? Because I’m not sure Lesbos is sending its best.
My wishes for two-to-one tuition about the movement see me roundly urged to ‘go f**k myself’. I’ve learnt nothing. Aside from one nice lady who recommended physio exercises after a misunderstanding that saw me thrown out of a bar and kicked in the testicles.
I remain proud, however, of my small part in the struggle. I would gladly pay more tax to support projects encouraging young women to explore their sexuality and would even help set up, perhaps by constructing the ring or supplying oil.
