By David Stewart

I took the card out of my handbag and had ready almost as soon as he started talking. I knew his type, I’d met them too many times before. He was making every effort to impress me – so far he’d mentioned the high paying job, the Porsche and his work-out regime. I was being chatted up and it was time to stop him dead in his tracks. The prattle about his gym routine was my opening.

“My partner loves the gym.” I said.

“Really?” He said, masking his disappointment. “What does he bench press?”

“She doesn’t really do weights, she mainly does cardio.”

And there it was. That look that guys got whenever they found out they were talking to a lesbian. A mixture of lust and wonderment as if I was the welcome mat on the doorstep of their fantasy mansion.

“Would you like to see a photo of the two of us?” I said taking out my iPhone.

“Sure,” he said trying to sound as casual and off-hand as possible.

I showed him a photo of me and Sandra. Taken at the snow. In big parkas and woolly hats. Without make up. He was visibly disappointed.

“You look let down,” I said. “Were you expecting naked pictures? Did you think I was going to show you a shot of us having sex? If a guy offers to show you a picture of his wife do you immediately assume she’s going to be nude and posing? Why is it that just because I’m attracted to women you assume every aspect of my private life is designed to provide voyeuristic pleasure to men? This is my partner, we go to the snow, watch DVD’s, care for our pet dogs, talk about our lives, argue occasionally, dream of opening a cafe together and sometimes have sex that is designed purely and exclusively to provide each other pleasure. The fact that you can’t stop picturing it in your mind makes me fantasize about seeing you bent over and degraded sexually by a man twice your bodyweight. Never forget my fantasy while you indulge in yours.”

I’m not really a lesbian, Sandra is actually my sister,  I just don’t like being chatted up by wankers at parties.

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