Confessions of a Former Lesbian
D*ck her down good enough and rebuild her from first principles
By Elite Mid Capital · November 4, 2026 · 11 min read
“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy.”
- Margaret Atwood
There are only three things that can make a woman lick another woman’s pussy: money, alcohol, or a seething hatred of men.
Lesbianism in its current form is dying, and for good reason. For decades women like myself have deluded ourselves into thinking we are capable of romantically loving one another. In hating men, we reveal that men are our fundamental obsession. As misandry goes out of fashion, so too goes the cult of lesbianism, a cult I narrowly escaped.
There were once over 200 lesbian bars in the country, now there are about 36. Bars like The Last Ditch are closing left and right citing financial concerns and declining attendance. Like women themselves, these bars don’t know what they want.
I used to be a lesbian. I fully believed the lie. The first tits I ever sucked belonged to a goth Argentinian girl who was the spitting image of Jennifer Tilly. She likened us to Corky and Violet in Bound. She hated men and preferred masculine women because you didn’t have to deal with them being toxic, smelling bad, or not understanding women’s political struggles. But she never truly embraced me as a woman, shoehorning me into the male role of provider, initiator, and validator of her existence. If I was tired, she was less affectionate. If I didn’t make plans, we never went out. My feelings became her feelings. I couldn’t tell the difference between her and my own reflection. I couldn’t be a man.
Our evenings consisted of boba tea dates, RuPaul’s Drag Race with her lesbian cabal, ripping her bong (which she lovingly named Juanita), and “fucking.” Except the fucking consisted of me eating her out and then servicing her with a strap-on. I got nothing. And I was sick of having to do everything for this dumb bitch. And to be completely honest, I sucked at slinging dick. My plastic appendage had no knowledge of how soft the inside of her pussy was. And because female bodies were not designed for thrusting, I’d be exhausted a few minutes in. When I finally broke it off with her, she completely chimped out, raging at me harder than any boyfriend ever had.
The truth is, I wasn’t drawn to her, just repelled by my male ex. We had been in a long-term relationship when he informed me that he had BPD and thus needed carte blanche to “experiment” with his sexuality.
“Hi baby, I thought you would enjoy this for your birthday since I know you would want me to be happy experimenting with my sexuality.”
I opened our Telegram chat to see a sex tape. A sex tape of him 69-ing and getting fucked by his best friend.
“I’m happy for you,” I typed through tears.
I vowed, like many lesbians, to swear off men. The subsequent cope Olympics lasted for months during the drawn-out breakup. I became convinced not that I was unlovable, but that men are incapable of love. Not only that, they were gross, selfish, and retarded. At least women smelled good!
And girls do smell good. They are also kind, caring, and considerably more emotionally intelligent. Girls will draw you little pictures with pressed flowers glued on. Go to an antiques market and buy two little glass elephant figurines and say, “it us!” and you each take one home. They’ll write poems about your tough exterior and gooey soul. It feels like intimacy, but it’s never quite enough.
Look at any Midweek Mids’ Instagram comments—her girlfriends are demonstrably all head over heels for her.
“You’re so hot”
“Jaw dropping”
“In love with you”
“GORGGGGG”
“So sexy, pretty, beautiful”
“Baddie af!!!”
They perform “love” for women. All women think other women are just so, so beautiful, but a certain few of them conflate that with sexual attraction. It’s not exactly a difficult line to cross for them, since they can get sloppy drunk and make out whenever they want. Just to give the boys a show, and to say, “Fuck you, you can’t have her! I beat you to it!” Attraction between women is performative and male-centered.
To make matters even more confusing, the visible signals of lesbianism have been absorbed by straight girls trying to make themselves intentionally uglier. A septum piercing doesn’t tell you if she eats pussy anymore. Doc Martens have been culturally appropriated by alternative TikTok fashion. Carabiners less so. I wore one on my left belt loop that I found in my dad’s toolbox so it would be appropriately broken in.
At the peak of my lesbianism, I remember going to frat parties (enemy territory) to pussy hunt and leaving feeling like an incel. I discovered hypergamy from the reverse end. I was performing masculinity by trying to take women away from men. But I was simply a man-hater trying to lure more recruits.
This is also why bars like the Last Ditch are closing down: because lesbians don’t actually want to pursue other lesbians, they want to “turn” a straight girl whose situationship isn’t giving her the time of day. So the lesbian patronage gets absorbed into gay bars that actually make money, because men know how to properly run businesses.
Even the steamiest of my lesbian encounters felt like an act. One night, at a relatively straight bar, a Filipina bombshell approached me, her perfume cutting through the thick humidity. She was direct, confident, all the things I had wanted my ex-boyfriends to be.
“Take me home. I want you,” she said.
Her acrylic nails lightly scratched my head while she undid the top button of my vest to kiss my neck. Plush lips met mine on the dance floor as a flock of men atop a nearby table hollered in fascination. Her dress snagged on my carabiner, tugging it in the right direction. Creating a spectacle was addictive, but it’s a freakshow. She made me drive her home and blocked my phone number as soon as she shut the car door.
Anna was the last woman I slept with, and the first who beat my ass. She was a 4’11” Chinese girl who had been adopted by a rich white family. We met up for ramen. When the bill came, we had a broke lesbian Mexican standoff, which can go on excruciatingly long given that there’s no established standard for who should pay. I was shitting bricks with $15 in my checking account when the waitress came over and noticed no one had picked up the tab. Anna relented.
“You’re putting your card down too, right?” she asked me.
Even as a wolf-cut butch, I was still a woman plagued by indecisiveness. I followed suit. My last $15.
For a while, we’d waste away our lives at her apartment smoking weed. Always her place, never mine, because then she’d sleep over and not leave because she was unemployed with no car.
“I hope you know that I don’t want a relationship out of this because I can’t deal with the emotional labor of dating someone right now,” I told her.
“Good. Me neither,” she lied.
Anna had these keloid scars on her chest and back. It was hard to notice them otherwise since she only wore muscle tanks and cargo pants with chains and, of course, a carabiner. Trying to pass as a strong man in a petite frame. When she stretched, her shirt would lift and her cybersigil tattoo, spanning her stomach to her thigh, peeked through. Anna never asked me for anything. Never had any complaints or opinions. All she cared about was her “art.” She drew a bust of me in white paint marker on the wall of the queer-friendly dive bar. Drew portraits of me in her sketchbook. On paper, I was reduced to bare skin, tousled hair, pierced nipples, tits, and a small waist. Depictions that R. Crumb would have found objectifying.
I still kept my eye on men, but was only sleeping with her. I would show up high or ready to smoke, shoot the shit, and let her make a move because this time she was the more masculine one. Before long, she began to complain that I never initiated sex. What do you mean? I came over to get fucked, not to fuck. I thought you were the man in the dynamic?
“It’s your turn today,” Anna would say, throwing a neon green dildo at my head.
I’d comply maliciously. In the words of Paris Hilton, “If someone ever asks you to do something for them, do it really bad so you never have to do it again.” I strapped up and gave her the weakest dick of my life. I didn’t want her to ask for it again because I hated doing it and felt nothing in return. Her petite Asian pussy was probably really fucking tight. I wouldn’t know.
Then suddenly she pushed me off of her and handcuffed me to the bed. She slapped me across the tits, slapped my face, smacked my pussy. I winced and pulled my legs in, only to be met with a slap on my left ass cheek. She pulled my legs back down and committed the vibrator to my pussy again. I screamed. I assumed I was being punished for my lack of vril. For not being the man she actually wanted. She slapped the shit out of me Looney Tunes-style, taking out her anger on me for the basic fact that lesbian sex fundamentally doesn’t work.
Sex with men is uncomplicated, and ultimately, a two-way street. But there’s no mutualism in lesbian sex. You give an orgasm. You only get one if you’re lucky and your hormone cycles happen to align. Or you don’t because one of you is angry about something you’ll never actually talk about. Intrasexual orgasm competition. I longed for the time when sex was only putting the penis in the vagina.
The following week, she moved out of her apartment into a Dyke House in Dyke Town, but had to come back into the city to run some errand in the morning. I begrudgingly let her sleep over at my place.
“So you’re not gonna fuck me?” she asked.
Is this bitch serious? I thought, exhausted and ready for bed.
“Can’t you see I’m falling asleep? If you wanted to fuck, you should’ve said something earlier.”
“Oh, okay,” she sighed passive-aggressively.
I never saw her again.
While man-hatred is declining, it’s also evolving. Women don’t need to become lesbians anymore to fully engage with it. They can shrink-wrap their ass cheeks, torture and shame men at the gym, and post TikToks about the whole ordeal. They’re allowed to hate “men” while still loving their boyfriend. It’s a software update that threatens the existence of lesbianism itself. Those who do still venture to the other side quickly find out that no one knows how to hurt a woman like another woman, and that the “toxicity” and abuse are only heightened by the intrasexual bond.
Some of them straighten up and come to their senses, like I did, but some of them don’t, and remain locked in a fugazi delusion, forever on a quest to prove to men that they don’t need them. Then there’s the secret third thing—the new generation of radical queers colonizing places like the Last Ditch. They’re not technically lesbians because they’re “genderless beings” who seek not women but the destruction of the social order itself. In a way, they’re more honest, admitting that the whole pursuit is political and not about sex at all. But for the few “real” lesbians left, it’s all a performance. The ultimate proof of male obsession is convincing yourself to go down on a chick.
Eventually, I left the cult, burned myself out of dating women because of their infinite mess, and comfortably dated a few guys who fucked me better than any strap-on ever had. This cured me. The simple fact is that no plastic appendage compares to the real thing. Don’t let them tell you otherwise, fellas. Dick her down good enough and rebuild her from first principles.