The Time I Thought I Was a Lesbian
A couple of years ago, I decided that perhaps I was a lesbian. It started because I was wayyy too into The L Word, and then I became obsessed with Audre Lorde’s poetry and sapphic 70s supermodel, Gia. I had lusty fantasies involving Rihanna and a Cayman Island cabana. And then a book called “The Girls” landed in my lap — a tell-all about early Hollywood lesbians like Greta Garbo, Tallulah Bankhead and Marlene Deitrich, all seducing each other in exquisitely tailored pantsuits and lush finger waves — and that was it. I realized I was supposed to be a super-glamorous lady lover. Why not? The man thing certainly wasn’t working out.
[Note: I realize most women go through this phase in college, but I was too busy ignoring my point guard BF's flagrantly obvious infidelities to notice hot girls. Oh, how my heart goes out to basketball wives. Not "Basketball Wives," but actual wives of basketball players.]
So, I did some research on hot lesbian nightspots, found out it was Thursday nights in the basement of a Union Square coffee house — and then dragged my bisexual girlfriend there the following week. I knew I looked irresistible. My look for the night was Old Hollywood dragon lady: super-glossy crimson gloss, a tiny fake beauty mark above my lip (made with a very sharp black eye pencil), and sultry metallic grey eyes. Oh, and lush Dorothy Dandridge curls. Lady lovin,’ here I come!
In the dimly lit basement-turned-dance-party, Kanye’s “All of the Lights” was throbbing and there were women galore. I decided I’d perch at a banquette in a conspicuous corner, put out devastatingly sexual vibes and wait for the action to come to me. An hour went by. Nothing. And hour and a half went by. Nothing. Meanwhile, my girlfriend scored three numbers and was dancing with a cute cop. I decided that posing was unproductive, so I got up and sexy-danced. And still nothing! Was no one noticing the tongue thing I was doing with my cocktail straw? This was a disaster!
I noticed a bored-looking Latina with blonde Pocahantas braids sitting alone, and thought maybe she could give me an explanation. So I quickly downed two vodka sours and sidled up next to her.
Pocahantas: What’s good.
Me: No one in here thinks I’m sexy, I’m so confused. Do you find me fuckable?
Pocahantas, shrugging: I mean…yeah man, you’re hot.
Me: So why hasn’t anybody talked to me all night?
Pocahantas: ‘Cause you’re straight as shit.
Me, aghast: How can you tell?
Pocahantas: It’s so obvious, mama. Your makeup, that dress…you’re dressed to attract a man, not a woman. Certainly not these women. This is a wifebeater and kicks crowd.
Me: But…I think I might be a lesbian. Or bi. Bi-curious?
Pocahantas: Look at your nails. They’re mad long. How you gonna finger-fuck with those nails?
Pocahantas: And would you go down on a woman?
Me: Well, I was hoping it would be the other way around. Like she’d do it to me.
Pocahantas: You’re not a lesbian.
Me, crestfallen: No, I guess not.
Pocahantas: But you’re really cute. I have a brother you should meet. Are you ever in Canarsie?
And thus ended my lesbian career. But my brief, unsuccessful sojourn into Sapphic love taught me a lesson. You are who you are and there’s no changing it. I cannot imagine myself ever giving head to a woman…so no matter how slutty-hot I think RiRi is, I am not a lesbian. No matter how much I love eyeliner on the bottom lid, my undereye bags are such that it makes them look darker. I can’t wear it! Know your strong points, know what works for you, and don’t chase trends or worry about what everyone else is doing. You are you and you’re everything, boo.