Freak-show

It was in the first lesbian bar i ever went to that i realised i am the lead performer in a freak-show.

A myriad of colours danced over my sequined shirt

sending ribbons of light flitting across the room.

Dozens of bodies congregated in the centre of the dance floor,

in an unintended collaborative performance of celebration.

My hand clutched at the soft material of my girlfriends sweatshirt as we swayed simultaneously to the music,

smiles lifting the corners of our mouth up to our eyes.

We were blissfully unaware of the men sat poised at every corner,

mouths watering as her lips crashed against mine.

They did not see our love as we did,

tender and soft.

They saw it as an opportunity,

a chance of finding their way into not one 

but two girls pants.

They did not view us as lovers,

more as performers,

as though our acts of intimacy were a show just for them.

They saw only how our teeth clashed and our drunken bodies stuck together with sweat

but not how her eyes lit when, 

for a second, 

my hand brushed her hair from her face.

They did not hear the way our hearts beat in sync

or feel how her body moulded to fit mine.

Heavy feet stalked over,

a beer-breathed man from one of the surrounding tables clearly sensed an opening.

His rough and unwelcome hands squeezed my hips,

breaking our rhythm.

I jerked away,

cursing and stumbling back towards my girlfriend.

I put a distance between the man's stagnant aroma and the perfume that floated between me and her

and he clearly felt threatened by my lack of interest.

 'f*g'

he spat as he stomped away,

as though he expected anything else of two girls kissing in a lesbian club.

It was then i understood why so many like me choose to hide.

We are monkey's in a circus,

surrounded by gawking children and adults who just don't understand.

Our love is not desired unless it is shared with a man

and even then,

it must be fake.