I'm Still More Single Than Tom Hanks In 'Cast Away.'

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woman blowing a heart
"With women, there has to be an even game of push-pull, because, well, because we're women."

[Bo Sellers is a Los Angeles-based comedian, who appeared this season on Oxygen's My Big Fat Revenge. After realizing seven months ago that she's gay, here Bo now blogs about her journey to find "the Ellen to my Portia."]

When I first started attending lesbian nights at bars—for the purpose of something other than drink specials—I was in a committed relationship and went solely to observe ass and titties while whipping my hair back and forth. My intentions are still pretty PG compared to most, but it's a whole different world as a single lezBo.

 

No longer ducking in the corner like a wallflower waiting for the punch bowl to be refilled, I take a lap to scope the night's options like a lioness hunting her prey. I never commit to one spot because it's best to seem aloof, and because I have the attention span of a two-year-old in a church pew.

The type of women I'm attracted to would ideally chase me, but it's slightly different in girl world. With men, I could just keep running and they'd never stop chasing. With women, there has to be an even game of push-pull, because, well, because we're women.

My personal mode of attack is to take to the center of the dance floor. After busting out some dance moves typically reserved for Dancing with the Stars contestants, or big booty hoes in a Too Short music video, I lock eyes with any women I saw from my casual jaunt around the place.

I'm mostly attracted to tomboyish women. Chucks and blazers. Like Ellen, except longer hair. There's something super sexy about a soft mane brushing your breasts, while wrestling each other during a frisky game of "King of the Mountain." Did I say PG?  Maybe I meant PG-13. Although depending who you ask, last Wednesday ended slightly more risqué.

I was home by midnight, yet managed to wake up half-naked with a blonde and brunette sharing my bed. Even though I owed their presence to my charitable attempt at keeping drunk-drivers off the road, I was happy to have the company. Before their presence, I can't remember the last time I woke up with someone sharing my bed. Outside of occasionally double-dipping in my exes' poonahnah, I'm still more single than Tom Hanks in Cast Away. At least he had Wilson. The only person I see consistently is the homeless man on a bus bench I pass on my morning runs. I've named him "Wilshire" after the street he lives on.

Although I've graduated from aggressively grabbing boobs to saying 'hi,' I still need more than Julianne Hough's dance moves and a predator's smile to reel in a lady. The good news is I have a very vivid imagination and plenty of time to masturbate between auditioning and writing dick jokes.

The bad news is I still eat dinner over the kitchen sink in my robe and sock-monkey slippers.

 

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