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For K.’s birthday a few weeks ago, she rounded up
several of her lesbian friends and a group of us went to the Clermont Lounge
to suck down some PBR while checking out the aging strippers.
Some of my best friends are gay men, but, in what some ways is a pathetically
sheltered life, I haven’t spent much time around lesbians. Unless, that is,
you count my days playing soccer in high school. Since then, I’ve heard
through the grapevine that several of my former teammates have, in fact,
switched teams. Good for them, I say. While some of the quicker-developing girls
may have thrown a hissy knowing they were sharing a locker room with lezzies, I
couldn’t have cared less.
After all, back then my boobs looked more like ant bites, and those players were
so focused on soccer that even if a naked Pamela Anderson doppelganger had
traipsed through the showers, I doubt they would have raised an eyebrow. While
the rest of us were perfecting our ponytails, they were already on the field
warming up.
Funnily enough, soccer led me to another rare long-term lesbian interaction a
few years ago. I tore my ACL (anterior cruciate ligament) playing in an Atlanta
recreational league, which required surgery and rehab. My physical therapist was
a gem: a tall, muscular chick with excellent technique and an endlessly cheerful
demeanor. I liked that she thought I was cute: It meant more attention, and
therefore a quicker recovery. Plus, she was funny as hell and made the torture
of rehab almost bearable.
But until recently, I had never really hung out with lesbians, not for any other
reason except that I simply didn’t have any lesbian friends. That all began to
change when I met K., a longtime friend of C.’s, and her girlfriend, J. For K.’s
birthday a few weeks ago, she rounded up several of her lesbian friends and a
group of us went to the Clermont Lounge to suck down some PBR while checking out
the aging strippers. Then, last week, my gay friend M. and I headed to the Wet
Bar for the season-opening party for “The L Word,” Showtime’s runaway hit.
We met up there with K., who gave us the insider scoop.
C., who was at a party of his own during our Wet Bar outing, was dismayed to
learn I didn’t once get hit on. I did, however, learn a lot about the
girl-on-girl-scene. A few opinions and observations.
The lumberjack look is still prevalent, but lesbians can rock some sassy
styles. At Wet Bar, I spotted hip fur vests, Ugg boots and fierce hairstyles
that only those with supreme confidence—and killer cheekbones—can pull off.
Perhaps such fashion-forward females should try to coax some style into their
less savvy sisters, starting with a good haircut. Because sadly, what K. dubbed
the “lesbian shag”—a horrific combination of a mullet and the frightful
feathering of the ’80s—still runs amok.
One menstrual cycle per relationship is plenty for me, thank you very much.
When Aunt Flo makes her monthly visit, I turn into a moody, emotional
bitch-on-wheels—which means C. has to overcompensate on patience and sanity.
That’s tough enough for four days, but losing nearly a third of the month to
mood swings and no sex? Or if, as research suggests, cycles eventually coincide,
double the trouble? Sizeable obstacles to overcome, indeed, and partners who do
so should be commended. Period.
3. On the whole, lesbians are some ballsy chicks. At Wet Bar, K. offered me
what looked like a cigarette, but with something a little more fragrant than
tobacco inside. “Won’t people smell this and know where it’s coming from?”
I asked, nervous as a prepubescent schoolgirl. “Exhale high, over everyone’s
head,” K. replied matter-of-factly, as I took a drag. But an ill-placed
ceiling vent thwarted that strategy in a puff of potent smoke, which descended
back down on us—and everyone in the vicinity—like a pyrotechnic effect in a
low-budget video. I smiled sheepishly while K. cracked up, but my idiot move
didn’t stop her from enjoying her “cigarette” for the rest of the night—a
display of f**k-it confidence I wish I had more of sometimes.
Purses are passé. In line at Wet Bar, I realized I was screaming
straightness with my big honking handbag. Some lesbians carry them, of course,
but many more seem to view them as an unnecessary distraction. “Why do you
need that big gay purse?” K. demanded early on, and I admit I didn’t have a
good answer. Then I looked around at the purse-free party-ers and noticed they
seemed refreshingly free of constraints: gesturing, dancing, making out, all
without a bumbling bag getting in the way. Perhaps straight girls—most of who
hang on to our purses like they’re vines that will pull us from a patch of
deadly quicksand—should take a hint when we’re out on the town.
It doesn't matter if you’re gay, lesbian, bi-curious, hetero or metro—going
out is going out. Either you’re with your partner or scoping the scene
with your friends, but whatever the case, most of us hit the town with one
mission in mind: to have a good time. M. summed it up perfectly: “It’s
really just about living your life. You can draw lines at sexuality, but in the
end, are we really that different?”
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