Most of my love stories end with me feeling like I put a whole lot of energy into trying to build something out of nothing. Lust turns to love so easily and before you know it you're invested in a relationship that seems more important than you. You end up trying to save a relationship for the sake of the relationship rather than trying to save yourself.

Before you all start accusing me of being bitter or hard or cold or damaged or whatever else women with personalities and life experience are, I'm not anti-romance and I'm not anti-love. I get sucked into all that lovey crap like the best of us. That said, I like to keep a healthy level of cynicism (hey, let's just go right ahead and call that realism) on hand.

Having just moved to London, England, I don't always have my wits about me on the street and I've frequently wondered, biking home on my own in the dark, whether or not I'm safe. A straight, female friend of mine rightly wonders if queers sometimes hit the homophobia button out of knee jerk reaction. She's genuinely amazed that in 2009 there are still people who could possibly care who you sleep with in bed -- and so am I. Though when I asked whether she'd advise me to make out with a guy on the street in front of our house after dark, she conceded that it might not be wise.