A visit to the zoo, or A slice of possible internalised homophobia

So, what kind of lesbians do you want to go and look at anyway? ask my two friends and escorts. For a split second, Sarah’s lured me into believing that there actually is a choice and that it’s mine to make. I should know better. So as we make our way through foggy Soho, we carefully avoid the much despised Candy bar and head into its clone on Old Compton Street.
After I’ve regretfully kept my hands in my pockets as we make our way through a roomful of gayboy muscles in tight tshirts, we find the back cupboard devoted to womyn the broads what we’re there for.
We scan the crowd. It’s not just policemen that look young, you know, I mutter between two sips of bubblegum-flavoured alcopop. Everyone in here looks about 16 with similar hair, clothes, mannerisms. I bet they’ve all applied to go to fashion school after they’ve done their A-levels. I inwardly kick myself; I’m getting seriously, cynically annoying, and I don’t want to try the patience of my willing friends. Make an effort, Y. ‘Anyone you like?’ chirps Maria. No. Wait, what about her over there, she’s nice.. No. I mean, yes, she is, but she looks, somehow, like a younger A. Let’s not even go there. I toy with my bendable straw and practice my wise, mysterious but still approachable look. Oh no, a girl is attempting eye contact; I can’t look away, but mainly because she looks uncannily like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. Can’t she see I have wrinkles ahem lines, for the sake of Pete? We retreat and spend the rest of the night in an old man’s pub, eating old man’s pub grub. Contentedly.