The Huddle: Living lesbian stereotypes



Ruth Callendar: I’m a cat lady. I can’t help it. I can’t walk into pet shops if there’s anything cute and furry in the window, I cry at the RSPCA ads every single time and the only reason my menagerie is limited to two, is the knowledge my housemates would kill me if I brought any morehome.

But even though there’s just the two, I’m particularly gay about them. My housemate Sarah calls them my “fur babies” and she’s right. For two abandoned shelter moggies, they’ve had a lot of love. One emigrated from New Zealand with me; his plane ticket was three times the price of my own and he didn’t even get an appropriately tiny overly packaged meal or a movie selection. The other is a neurotic ginger with asthma, to whom I diligently administer his inhaler to on a twice daily basis.

My girlfriend pretends, but she’s not remotely a cat person. I see her eyes start to glaze and I think “Oh no, how many times have I mentioned Leonard and Harry today? What if I’m totally that crazy cat lesbian?” But then Harry wanders in, all soft and orange, purring loudly and wheezing like a pack-a-day smoker, and I turn to her and say dramatically, “Baby, I’m a gay lady: love me, love my cats."

Trish Bendix: I took a lot of women’s studies classes, I’m still friends with my ex, I own a pug (seriously — it’s a new lesbian stereotype, I’m telling you) and I fall into the butch/femme existence with my partner, but not on purpose!

Also, I have two cats, by default.

OK guys, your turn: fess up!

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