Here's your place to come talk about sex and love whenever you feel like it.
I know, I'm terribly immature, and that's not how you spell vagina.
It started, I think, at university. No, I'm wrong, it started on a family holiday. I was 17 and sharing a hotel room with my older sister Becca talking about -- I THOUGHT -- our recently deceased house rabbit Bunji.
“There will only ever be one man in my life, and that's Bunj,” I said.
Granted it was rather a sad attempt at a joke, but it was a joke. A few days later Becca informed me that she was honoured I had talked to her and that she and Mum had always had their suspicions and they were fine with it.
Fine with what? Somehow a conversation about a dead pet had been interpreted by my sister as me coming out as gay. I mean I like a tortured metaphor as much as the next gay but I tend not to be quite so opaque.
This isn't a re-hashing of the brilliant film "But I'm a Cheerleader!" (my mum rented it as soon as it was released -- I should have known there were suspicions) in which I realise everyone was right and the only one with a dud gaydar is me. I knew from an early age that I was straight and that's OK.
Fortunately my family were always very supportive. I am extremely lucky that somewhere in my parent's house there's probably a dusty banner emblazoned with the words "Happy Coming Out Day!"
Ashley has talked about people making assumptions about his sexuality before, due to his preference for a “pot of glitter over a pint of bitter.” I have met men who perhaps fall under the metrosexual genre and struggled to convince women of their desires. I had an intern once who I was convinced was gay only for him to be very vocal about the all the lady-crushes he had.
But I have never met another woman who has repeatedly been informed she's gay.
This article originally appeared on xoJane.co.uk. Read the rest here!