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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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