BW's note: This post is from the author of the wonderful blog, Lawyers, Dykes, & Money, which you should totally check out!
. . . .
The last time I visited my 111-year-old great great aunt, I considered coming out just to see how she’d take it. On the one hand, maybe I could land some kind of spot in the Guinness Book of World Records. But, on the other, if she died shortly after my disclosure, I’d always vainly wonder if the news had killed her. I decided against it.
My decision hadn’t mattered; evidently, she had pegged me from the moment I walked in the room. Looking me up and down through the giant glasses that took over most of her face, she made a vague reference to my button-down shirt and started talking about her working knowledge of “the gays.”
Gathering courage, I asked her how she knew so much about “these gays” and she replied simply, “Come on now, I read the papers.” Even though her favored papers included the traditionally-conservative Wall Street Journal, when I asked her about her thoughts on gay marriage, she shrugged: “ehh I’m way too old to give two shits about that.”
. . .
While I don’t feel particularly masculine, I had somehow pinged the gaydar of an 111-year-old who grew up before cars were a thing, let alone out gays. To the world, I’m perceived as “Masculine of Center” (“MoC”) or maybe “Androgynous” (i.e. smack in the middle between feminine and masculine). For the purposes of this post, I’ll call myself MoC or Andro, though all kinds of labels get thrown my way (my mother, for example, has confused “baby dyke” and “soft butch,” thus coining the term “baby butch” when she refers to my “class of lesbian.”) I’m told it’s not just about my mode of dress but the way I talk, sit, walk, stand, and gesture. Basically, everything about me is gay.
Navigating the world as I do, I’ve observed that most people who meet me fall into one of two camps—those who know I’m gay right away and those who think I’m a pre-pubescent boy. Because I’m short and thin, even into my 30s, I’m still mistaken for a boy on the regular. A few years ago, when Justin Bieber popularized skinny jeans and shaggy haircuts, my plight only worsened. After threats from friends, I started to compulsively check for my photo on the website “Lesbians Who Look Like Justin Bieber.” Luckily, with Justin Bieber sort of going through puberty, and gay marriage taking the media spotlight, random strangers have begun to understand that I’m not a little boy; I’m a queer woman.
. . .
Last summer during Pride month, I found myself newly single and inspired to attend some “girl parties.” Unfortunately, I discovered that the vast majority of Pride party attendees —no matter their gender presentation—purported to prefer “femmes.” On the flip side, at any given party, the number of Feminine of Center (“FoC”) attendees tends to greatly exceed the number of Andro/MoC folks like myself. So, despite a few unfortunate rejections here and there, I enjoyed favorable odds among those seeking MoC dance partners.
Even though I find myself attracted to a range of gender presentations, I mostly met FoCs who tended to prefer MoCs like myself. Since the straight/cisgender world tends to expect a “masculine” and a “feminine” party in any given relationship (even if it’s just a one night relationship), given my small size, I often felt self-conscious about playing that default masculine role. Only confirming my fears, sometimes, in the morning, after what seemed like a good time was had by all, my FoC guest would look at me, and say: “you’re so tiny; you make me feel like a monster.”
. . .
After Pride month, I decided to return to a normal sleep cycle, give my liver a break, and try an online Tinder date. Rather than meet at a dark bar, I opted for a coffee shop in the sober light of day. Over caffeine, we covered all the basic topics: work, family, hobbies, etc. Afterwards, I walked her to the subway and we parted ways with a slightly awkward hug. That night, I got a text from her:
HER: Hey I had a really nice time over breakfast today—and I normally hate people before noon. My worry is that you work all the time and that I’m 100 feet taller than you.
ME: Well, a lot people have a problem with my height/smallness so I’d be up for friendship if that’s an issue for you. With work, I make time for fun things and people.
HER: It’s not an issue. We could see how it plays out—I’d like to hang again. I’m pretty fun.
Despite her excellent use of the em dash, we didn’t actually go out again. We made tentative plans, each reached out to “reschedule,” and neither of us followed up. The last thing I wanted to do was make another woman feel like a “monster.”
After this Tinder text exchange, I got curious. Knowing I’d likely never see most of my FoC guests again, I occasionally interviewed them about their disparaging comments regarding our size differential. (Spoiler alert: the patriarchy is to blame). Their insecurities fell into two overlapping categories:
Though I can’t say I had a huge sample size, I found that FoCs who had previously mostly dated men particularly struggled with the realization that their attraction to women didn’t neatly track their attraction to men. The perception that they needed a partner to protect them, to always play the role of big spoon, or to reach objects in high places didn’t go away when they started to date women. And sleeping with an MoC like myself who can’t change a light bulb without a serious ladder brought out all sorts of unprocessed feelings that apparently translated into: “you make me feel like a monster.”
Despite my initial offense to “monster” comments, I deeply appreciated the honesty with which most of my FoC guests shared their thoughts about their own gender identity, attraction, and body consciousness. That didn’t mean, of course, that I didn’t internalize or feel self-conscious about some of these “monster” comments.
I realized how much these exchanges had affected me when I matched with a really attractive woman on Tinder this fall—someone who worked in a similar field and seemed to share my values. Within a few minutes of chatting, I asked her to get a drink with me. She agreed.
Before diving into scheduling, I decided to take the precautionary measure of actually reading her short profile. (I had rarely read profiles in the past but a few times I matched with couples looking for a third in their long-term relationship (aka a “unicorn.”). No shade to unicorns, of course.).
Non-Profits and social causes
Drawn to intelligence and kindness
When I saw our six-inch height disparity, insecurity overwhelmed me. I neurotically began to wonder if I should disclose my height to her prior to meeting. And so, I wrote another message:
ME: One caveat since this has been an issue at least twice before: I notice you put your height. I’m like 5’1” so if the height disparity is an issue, just putting it out there. I keep meaning to add it to my profile but I haven’t been on Tinder in a month or two.
ME: Oh and I’m an ENFJ.
I checked my messages compulsively but nothing for hours.
Then, the next day, Tinder indicated that Ms. 5’7” had sent me a message. Anxiously, I opened the app but the message didn’t come through (apparently, due lack of space on my phone). Normally, I would have just given up but I decided not to let my “monster” complex stand in the way.
Torturously, I couldn’t see the message. Somehow, Tinder still allowed me to send messages (just not receive) and so I wrote just one more message to Ms. 5’7”.
ME: Tinder says you’ve sent me a message but the reason I’m never on here half the time is that I can’t read new messages. So, assuming the message wasn’t “no thanks to short people,” feel free to text me at [insert number].
A few hours later, she texted and made friendly conversation, completely ignoring my neurotic and ridiculous height commentary.
Finally, I had to ask:
ME: Are you going to tell me what your Tinder message said?
MS. 5’7”: Not going to tell you exactly what my Tinder message said but I'm sure 5'1 is a good look on you and I appreciate the extroverts in my life :)
Turns out the 5’7” INJF and I had an epic first date. In the morning, she bought be a much-needed coffee and I even thought I’d like to see her again.
Oh and Tinder finally let me see her message when I finally got a new phone:
MS. 5’7”: I don’t care about the height and I’ve liked every ENJF I’ve come across.
I’m glad I was no exception, six-inch height difference notwithstanding.
 By “queer” or “girl” party, I mean a space intended primarily for those who are not cis-male identified. This includes trans, non-binary, and gender queer folks.
 Sadly, Ms. 5’7” and I proved highly incompatible in areas other than height. But on the bright side, I’ll have the summer of 2018 to continue to research height disparities and other fascinating topics in queer lady dating.