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March 31, 2014 | by  | in Features |
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I thought he was the love of my life

I thought he was the love of my life.

He played the piano, knew all of the lyrics to ‘Defying Gravity’, enjoyed knitting woollen scarves, and was a devout Slytherin. Add to list: his skills of baking absolutely mouth-watering vanilla cupcakes and finding the perfect LBD while op-shopping.

According to the literary trash surrounding me, he was “totes keen”. He’d invite me out for dinner, lunch, gossip sessions and the occasional caramel no-fat soy double whipped-cream gingerbread latte. Sometimes we’d even make cinnamon-and-honey facemasks together (which tbh should have been a fucking massive red flag, but whatever) and he’d always text me back. ASAP.

He was the Weasley to my Granger, the Fiyero to my Elphaba, the Kanye to my Kim and the Jay Z to my Beyoncé (all at the same time). Only problem? He had absolutely no attraction towards me… Or my gender. When I asked him if he saw us as “more than friends”, he looked into my eyes, gave me a hug, and said, “Aww honey.”

Heartbroken, he comforted me with a Glee Marathon (remember when it wasn’t shit? Neither do I) and a large punnet of American-style Cookies and Cream ice cream (fuck the dairy intolerance).

And this is where this story should end. Me and him as BFF’s. Watching Mean Girls, flatting together in Central Park West, being maid of honour and best man at our respective weddings. But alas, this was the start of a dangerous game of groundhog-day-style romantic dominoes. The Gay Zone. Homosexual after homosexual. Each one more perfect and oh so dreamier than the last!

Then I realised not only did I not have a boyfriend, I didn’t have a single straight male friend. Not even one. Not even one with a metro haircut and a collection of classy blazers. You could say that the Venn diagram of people I’m friends with and people who enjoy having sex with men is basically a circle.

Long story short, if you know any single straight men who enjoy reading Woody Allen screenplays, listening to the soundtrack of Les Misérables on repeat, binge-watching television shows, and who believe that feminism is a pretty fucking wonderful thing, send them my way. I’ve yet to find one.

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