Pitching Woo and What NOT to Do

So, just the other day, my co-blogger Allure asked when my ladyfriend (hereafter referred to as "Amy Ray") and I started flirting with each other. And while Allure and I had explored several conundrums that afternoon - is it a date or a friend-date? what does a date sweater look like? can I ever wear tie-dye pants again? can I wear them ironically? - none was more difficult than determining when my ladyfriend, "Amy Ray," and I began dancing the ancient dance of lesbian flirtation.

I knew when I had begun pulling her metaphorical pigtails. But, like so many lesbians, I had no idea if she was interested in me. The only reason I asked "Amy" out was because my sister, my ex-girlfriend, and my other friends, after months of being supportive of my lady-lovin' angst, finally told me to woman the fuck up and ask her out. So I did, and it worked, and now we have many cats together and a relationship built on love, trust, and constant processing.

Happy ending. But this got me thinking - why didn't I know that "Amy" was interested in playing Xena to my Gabrielle? Is it just that I'm spectacularly unobservant? Am I so awkward that I was totally blind to the signal fires of flirtation slash homoboning? Were there clues that I somehow missed or misread? (As an English major, I am obviously a great close reader, so it totally wasn't this last one, just FYI).

Lesbian super sleuths, you're on the case! Here is what happened during my courtship of "Amy Ray."

We were exchanging our favorite poems through email. Because I am a constant soldier, a sometimes poet, and an English major, I chose sexy poems about getting down. For example, I sent her John Donne's "The Sunne Rising" - a seductive little piece about the boudoir, kind of like Nelly's "Hot in Herre," only hundreds of years earlier. (If you use that in an essay or as a dissertation topic, please feel free to cite me).

However, in response, here is what I received: poems about being alone forever; poems about being alone and super sad after your lover dies slash leaves you alone forever. Worst of all, at some point, she sent me a poem and asked me to guess the title. Was it about touching bodies? No, no it was not. Was it about secret love? Nope. Was it about anything that I could over-read and pretend was about me and how much we wanted each other? No, it was not. IT WAS ABOUT THE INTERNET.

Our conversation looked a bit like this:

Indigo Labrys: OH HEY GIRL HERE'S A POEM ABOUT MAKING SWEET SWEET LADY LOVE.
"Amy Ray": Here's a poem about being lonely and liking it.
Indigo Labrys: OH HEY GIRL HERE'S A POEM ABOUT LEAVING SOMEONE CLUES AND WANTING TO MAKE OUT WITH THEIR FACE.
"Amy Ray": Here's a poem about sadness. Her lover is dead and she'll probably never be happy, ever again.
Indigo Labrys: HERE'S A POEM ABOUT THIS GIRL WHO LIKES THIS OTHER GIRL AND MAYBE THEY SHOULD GET TOGETHER AND MAKE THE PONY WITH TWO TAILS IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
"Amy Ray": Ok, here's a poem. You have to guess the title?
Indigo Labrys: IS IT ABOUT US DOING EACH OTHER?
"Amy Ray": ... it's about the internet.

And yeah, maybe part of the problem is that I like poetry and can close-read it like a mofo. Maybe when I read "You're wondering if I'm lonely. OK then, yes, I'm lonely as a plane rides lonely and level on its radio beam," my automatic response should NOT have been, "Welp, this one obviously isn't interested, because if she were, she'd stop sending me poems about how much the speaker likes being alone."

But she could have at least sent me a poem about boobs or something.