Photo by Alex Andrews
I have never thought I fit in within the queer community. Since I’ve dated and slept with individuals who identify as men, I no longer attract the attention of the “gold star lesbians.” I don’t have a specific “vibe” — so I never fit in with the cottagecore or the goth communities. Once you throw being Black on top of it all, I’m met with a whole host of other reasons that I don’t fit into the more recognizable queer categories. Do they consider me less than because I’m not sure what planets are in retrograde at this time of year, because I don’t know how to wing my eyeliner, because I still wake up missing the hole that my ex-girlfriend left in my bed?
I got my septum pierced at 20. Rings glitter across my fingers, always getting stuck between my knuckles when a girl is over. Moonstone and carnelian crystals stand guard around my neck and wrists. A tattoo with a meaning you’ll never hear the story behind resides on my thigh. I have my astrological chart memorized better than my social security number. Long flashy earrings stolen from my mom’s collection get caught in every sweater I wear — these are the identifiers of a nearly 22-year-old lesbian. Even though I check off all these boxes and more for being the “perfect partner,” there was one thing that set me apart from others regarding the astrological scope: I refuse to date water signs.
Earth, air, water, fire: categories that we all fit into — elemental makeups giving us our strengths, our weaknesses, our ambitions. Earth signs like me are known for their logical, yet stubborn approach to life; I run purely on thought-out plans and routines with a dash of a god complex. I have no practical use for feelings. Water signs are known for being emotionally intuitive, driven by impulse instead of logic and that is where I draw the biggest disconnect.
A friend of mine, a virgo (a fellow earth sign), always remarked that she had the best luck with pisces women (what a coincidence, a water sign), suggesting them to me whenever I dove into the dating pool. Some of my friends that were “out” — at least much as you could be in Louisiana — would hide their experiences with women inside of passing anecdotes. Never dwelling in case prying ears were around, but enthralling me with their sappy stories nonetheless.
Tales of getting a girl’s number between cozy bookstore shelves.
Secretly sharing coffee in intimate booths of coffee houses.
Late night clandestine kisses in cars so parents like ours wouldn’t find out.
These experiences paired with deep analyses of their previous partners’ birth charts eventually morphed into a golden rule: “Earth signs can’t date fire signs, you’ll be too different from each other. Get with a water sign, or maybe even an air sign, and they’ll provide the openness that you should have.”
I’ve met most of my partners online or through school, but the importance of finding a water or air sign has always sounded like something that I should do, like “finding a nice man,” which my family would surely want.
Before I was completely out to myself, during my early high school years, I dated two men — water signs in cancer and scorpio. Both were the hardest lessons in pain that I’d ever learned. I lost myself in their waves, always pulled underneath, only surfacing when they wanted.
No one ever said that scorpios could manipulate you better than any lawyer could.
No one said that cancers could make icy chains that got tighter the more you pulled away.
No one said that water had a memory and it would always come back to drown you.
There was never anything logical about their assault, it was never something that I could prepare for — so how was I supposed to resurface and jump back into the pool?
Extremes are not my strong suit, but I am constantly intrigued by their existence.
One of the first girls I dated was a fire sign, and even though we knew the summer before I started college was drawing to a close, it was a moment that has set the bar for all my relationships going forward. It was fiercely passionate, adventurous in a manner that I was not aware of. I realized it was what I really wanted.
Even though I am destined to hate them, to have violent opposition to them — the signs I shouldn’t be with are where I’ve found the most comfort. The woman who holds fire in her heart has been the kindest and most violent person I’ve had the privilege of tethering to the earth.
Radically vibrant people that are just energetic enough to break me out of my work-induced routine, adventurous to the point of dragging me along mountains when I should be going over papers. The laughter is always sweeter with them.
It is an interesting comparison to see two people so in love with freedom that they’ll tie themselves to each other to retain it.
It still took several years after the end of that relationship to truly recognize that I was only dating men to support this supposed obligation to my family, to keep up this appearance that I was a God-fearing woman.
But young love is made to show you hard truths about yourself.
When you have tried the options that people tell you that you should be doing, the last resort is to attempt the opposite. My qualities as a capricorn have seeped into my dating life, with a previous partner telling me that I had “too methodical of an approach” to dating. Structures are meant to adapt, to change as we grow; but what kind of earth sign would I be if I didn’t mold to the expectations of my own impossible standards?
Curating your outward appearance to meet the standards of dating websites comes at the cost of rapid judgment. You attempt to never reveal too much, like how clingy you can be once the sun sets, but you also try not to reveal too little. There is a delicate balance that must be played into that makes you approachable enough but still interesting — since we’re all apparently too afraid to talk to each other.
The addition of my sun, moon and rising signs aptly placed in my Tinder and Bumble bios give them what exactly they need to know about me: “capricorn sun, capricorn moon, capricorn rising, the embodiment of anxiety, workaholic tendencies and a superiority complex that grants me the power to fight gods — and win.”
Since water never worked, I will offer myself up to the fire.
wonderful piece! i really enjoyed the read (even as someone who has a difficulty with understanding astrology).
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