There is a very particular kind of emotional rug pull that only happens on queer dating apps. It is the kind where you show up to meet someone in person with nervous butterflies, fresh lip balm, and the fragile hope that maybe — just maybe — this is a date.
Then, 13 minutes into your overpriced matcha latte, she says, without hesitation, “Oh! I should probably mention, I am straight. And married. I am just here to meet new girlfriends!”
Ma’am. Respectfully. WHAT?
As a queer woman dating in her 40s, the author already feels like she is shopping in the clearance aisle of humanity. Everyone has baggage. She has baggage. You have baggage. The baggage has baggage. Fine. That is life. But nowhere in her grown-up lesbian brain did she think she needed to start screening for “secretly heterosexual and treating this app like Bumble BFF or pilates class.”
And it is not just the numbers. Queer women are trying to find each other in a world that keeps shrinking their spaces. There are barely any lesbian bars left, and the ones that remain are precious and few. Meanwhile, bills move through Congress that chip away at their rights, visibility, and legitimacy. The backdrop of queer life in America right now is not exactly a love story. So when one of the few spaces they have left gets muddied, it is not a minor inconvenience.
This woman’s profile said she was interested in women and looking for connection. There were photos. There was flirty banter. There was a mutual understanding that when two grown women coordinate childcare and parking to meet at 7 p.m. on a Thursday, this is not a casual networking mixer.
This is not LinkedIn. She did not come there to build your village.
And listen — the author loves female friendship. She is a woman who thrives on group texts, Marco Polos, and sending hilarious reels back and forth until they die. Female friendship has carried her through motherhood, divorce, and the existential dread of making another meal her kids will not eat.
But this? This is not that.
Queer dating apps are not an extracurricular activity for straight married women who are “just more comfortable with girls,” or “miss having deep conversations,” or “don’t have mom friends who get me.”
Do you know who else would like deep conversations with women? Lesbians. Who are trying to date other lesbians.
It is not that straight women are doing something evil. It is that they are wandering into queer spaces like it is a wine bar, sampling emotional intimacy and leaving before the bill comes.
Meanwhile, the author is over there doing the full gay math. Is she flirting or just friendly? Is this chemistry, or am I projecting because she touched my arm? Did she say we should hang out again in a romantic tone or a PTA tone?
The margin for error is already razor-thin.
So when the big reveal comes, it feels like the air getting let out of a balloon she was trying not to inflate too much in the first place. Because dating as a queer woman at this age requires courage. It requires unlearning years of shrinking yourself. It requires saying, out loud, “I want love,” in a world that still treats that like a “lifestyle choice” instead of a human need.
And suddenly she is cast as… what? The emotional support lesbian? The safe, non-threatening practice intimacy partner? The human version of a weighted blanket?
She smiled. Of course she did. Women are socialized to be gracious even when they have been low-key bait-and-switched. She nodded while the other woman talked about her husband and how hard it is to make mom friends.
Inside, though, she was so annoyed she was there when she could have been doing literally anything else.
Here is the thing the author wishes straight women knew: When you enter the queer dating world for friendship without being clear, you are stepping into a space that exists because the rest of the world often does not feel built for us.
We do not have infinite options. We often do not even know if another woman is gay in real-life scenarios, which is why apps are one of the few places where we can say, “I am looking for a woman,” and trust that means something.
Clarity is not a buzzkill — it is the first step in consent.
Showing up on that date was an act of vulnerability. And being a queer woman looking for love right now is not just navigating the micro — the bad dates, the frustrating apps, the emotional labor of it all. It is trying to find a partner, build a life, be seen, while the world is actively debating whether you deserve to exist fully in it. We are watching our rights get legislated away in real time. We are losing our spaces. We are doing all of that and still trying to find love. That is the thing straight women wandering onto queer apps for a new bestie do not see. We are not just swiping, we are trying to find each other.
If her bio said, “Happily married, straight, just looking for platonic mom friends,” the author would have swiped left with zero hard feelings and sincerely hoped she found a fantastic group chat.
Instead, she went home, took off her pants (the first thing she does when she comes home from anywhere), and added a new mental filter to the already exhausting checklist: Not a catfish. Not emotionally unavailable. Not a love-bomber. Not ethically non-monogamous. Not a woman looking for a threesome to please her man. Not straight and just seeing what is out there.
But here is the truth under her annoyance: She is still going to show up. She is still going to risk it. Because somewhere between the weirdos, the ghosters, and the accidental heterosexuals, there is someone else doing the same brave, awkward, hopeful thing. Someone who says she wants to date women — and means it.
At the end of the day, we are trying to figure out how to find love — real, lasting love — in a country that keeps making that harder for us. So, when the author finally sits across from her — lip balm, pants and all — she wants to know they are batting for the same team.
Jill Layton is a writer based in Long Beach, California, who has been covering lifestyle, parenting, and commerce for over a decade. Her work has appeared in outlets including PEOPLE, Scary Mommy, Bustle, Romper, Best Products, Runner’s World, The Dodo, and Popular Mechanics, where she blends thoughtful reporting with a candid, relatable voice. She writes about the realities of everyday life — from parenting and relationships to shopping to the small moments that often go overlooked — with an eye for what resonates and what is actually worth talking about.
