A New Direction

All the recent man-hating and ranting has left me exhausted, and not really ready/willing to jump back into the pool of Boston Dudes. So, I’ve decided to go a new direction:

I’m going on a lesbian date.

Yeah, I know. It’s craaaazy. My best friend and roommate both told me [a while back] that I liked the penis too much to ever go lesbo. My roommate said [and I quote]: “There are girls who scream ’sausage.’ And there are some girls, who screeeeeeam ’sausage.’” Apparently, I seem to really, really enjoy…sausage.

Anyway.

I have a very close lesbian friend who has invited me to the lesbian club with her and her other lesbian friends on an occasional lesbian basis. * Sorry – I keep using the adjective lesbian, and it’s starting to modify nouns that don’t really need lesbian modification. After some coaxing [I was tired and wanted to stay home and be lame], I agreed to go. Rifling through my drawer, I settled on a hot pink, cleavage-baring top and jeans, primped up, and headed out. I decided if I was going to a lesbian club, I better at least get hit on.

The entourage consisted of me, my lesbian friend T, her lesbian friend E, and E’s straight guy friend D. Immediately, T and E were prodding me – “Isn’t D cute?” “Ooh, do you like D?” “If I were straight, I’d fuck him, would you?” – like I’d never seen a straight guy before. He was okay, but very much not my type. Example: On the drive to the bar in his souped-up Acura, he blew stoplights and whizzed past buses at an alarming rate, one that made me say aloud too many times, “I think I’m going to die tonight.” Regardless of the exterior, I just simply cannot date/fuck/otherwise interact with a guy who drives like a complete toolbag.

We parked and got to the club, entered, got a beer, and made the requisite lap. It was still early and the place was fairly empty. Some women in skimpy clothes danced on the stage. Others, fully-clothed, danced with each other on the dancefloor. A strange man, maybe 40, stood alone at the bar, holding a Bud Light. He surveyed the scene. I thought maybe he was security – I think he was actually just a creep. A middle-aged hetero couple stood by the bar as well, and every once in a while, the woman would walk away and start to dance near a group of girls – then return to her place at the bar. My guess? A married couple looking to spice things up with a third. It was an interesting circus. I felt a little awkward at first. T and E started running around like mad, dancing with other lesbians they knew. D and I stood to the side, and chatted about how out of place we felt.

After a few minutes, I noticed a girl across the bar. She was wearing a Celtics jersey and a Red Sox hat, cargo shorts, and was dancing with some other girls. Definitely on the butch end of the spectrum, but I was curious about her – which surprised me. But I couldn’t stop looking at her, and kept thinking that I really wanted to talk to her. It freaked me out a little – who was this girl, and why was I being so weird? Eventually, my group made it closer to hers, and then we were side by side. I wondered if she noticed me and wanted to talk, too. But then I thought, “You’re hetero. What are you doing??”

Later, after I realized this weird obsession wasn’t going to fade, I told T about it. “Oh, I know her friend! Let’s go talk to them,” she said, and dragged me over there. I was scared, and didn’t know what to say…so I said, “Hi, nice to meet you.” I find that usually works in social situations where you meet new people – straight, gay, aliens, whatever. There was no reason for me to feel weird, so I decided just to try to be…normal.

The girl in the jersey’s name is R, and her friend is S. We all decided to dance, and as we walked to the dancefloor, S turned to me and said, “You’re straight, aren’t you?” I felt like my cover was blown. “Yeah…why? You could tell?” She nodded. We kept dancing. I wanted to blend in, but apparently I didn’t look homo enough. Quietly, R said, “Well, all the prettiest girls are straight…” It kinda made me smile a little bit.

A couple beers later [but not drunk], some Lady Gaga played, and R and I danced. We talked over the loud thump of the bass and the lively lesbian chatter. She was cool. She was…cute. What the hell was I doing? She said in my ear, “So, you’re straight?” I said, “Yes…but I could be convinced otherwise…” and I told her she was cute. She said, “Well, you should give me your phone number.” So I did. Then she gave me hers.

I got a girl’s phone number.

T came running up to me as the DJ was announcing the bar was closing. Apparently E had drank too much and was puking it all back up into the trashcan. As I turned to leave, R said, “Okay, well…call me.” And I said I would.

After piling back in the Acura in the rain, we headed home. I asked T the rules for lesbian dating, and she said I needed to wait at least a week before making any contact. I thought that was ridiculous, and I wanted to text R to see if she got home safely. I don’t know how much she had to drink, it was a rainy night, and I was genuinely concerned.

So I texted. And she texted right back, saying she was about to text me. And then we made some tentative plans, that turned into real dinner plans. For tomorrow.

We’re getting sushi.

I’m definitely looking forward to this new experience. If it goes badly, then at least I know, and I’ll stick it out with dudes. And if it goes great…well, then we’ll see.

Never Enough Time…or The Panic Was So Far-Reaching It Could Be Described As Widespread

You know, there’s just never enough time to do all the things I have to do and all the things I want to do. So I either put off the former, stress out, get anxiety-ridden, and feel like a loser…or put off the latter, and feel unfulfilled and like a loser. Both results in me feeling like a loser. Why, oh why, can’t I just be independently wealthy, and spend my days reading, writing, crafting, drinking coffee, and enjoying the great city in which I live?

One of the things I want to do on a regular basis is write. Since I made the decision to actively do so [in my quest of becoming a "writer"], I’ve made leaps and bounds in my prioritizing “writing” and putting it near the top of the list [even above "laundry" and "gettin' money from my hoes"]. But I haven’t enough time in the day! I don’t even get it. I work all day, come home, watch a tiny bit of television, check my email, then all of the sudden it’s time for bed! No time to write, unless I drink massive amounts of coffee and/or alcohol, and don’t sleep…which I’d do, but my youthful face would suffer, I fear. And I like being 25, yet still passing for a teenager. It gives me hope for when I enter my 30s [which a jerk I work with reminded me is not too far off].

So, specifically, I wanted to write about my most recent experiences at a concert. I began writing the story a couple days ago, so finally, here it is:

The panic was so far-reaching it could be described as widespread…

The concert tonight exceeded any of my expectations, the few that I had. I met Steve, the tour manager [or so his business card read] at Fenway on Wednesday. He offered me tickets to see Widespread Panic on Thursday night, so how could I refuse? Free concert = awesome. My roommate and a friend said they’d come with me, and we met at the Bank of America Pavilion down by the Boston Harbor at 7:00. Will call didn’t have me on “the list” so I called Steve, and he brought the four tickets up [and my roommate called the situation "dodgy"]. I only had two friends, so there was an extra ticket that my roommate promptly sold for twenty bucks. I said we couldn’t sell a free ticket, but he’s Irish and doesn’t follow normal rules.

When we got inside, the scent of marijuana wafted through the air. With ten-dollar beers in hand, we laughed, joked, and chatted while Widespread Panic jammed on stage. Upon drinking the second alcoholic beverage, and as the sun finally set, we stood up and joined the throngs of hippies dancing in the aisles of the pavilion, moving their bodies without inhibitions. There was no way we could refuse the call of the music [especially a ten-minute jam of Bill Withers' "Use Me"] and soon we, too, shook and gyrated like the white people we are. The dancing was contagious! And actually, quite fun. Even the cute four-year old girl with glasses was running up and down the aisles, jumping and shaking about. In the bathroom, my friend and I encountered the ballerina-turned-hippie, who demonstrated her years of ballet study with a glissade and an arabesque before flitting her way back to her seat.

At 10, a we finally departed and made our way to Hennessey’s near Faneuil Hall for an awesome 90s rock cover band that jams there on Thursday nights. The bar was so hot that during the band’s break, I turned the fan that cooled them off to me and stood in front of it. Unfortunately I got too close and my hair got stuck in the fan. A helpful bystander cut off the fan and we dislodged the majority of my tresses, leaving only a small chunk of my blonde locks in the fan — I told the band’s singer it was a special gift from me. Some Sam Summers, shots, and shaking it later, and we were on the move again to J.J. Foley’s for more drinks. At 3am, we were finally in a cab to go home. All in all, a good night of music, dancing, drinking, friends, and fun.

See, if I had more time in the day, I’m sure that story could be better. But at this point I’m just happy to have a minute to sit and recall it, let alone the time to type out my memories about that night.

Maybe one day I’ll either: 1) win the lottery, quit my job and have time to write all day, or 2) meet a hot, rich, amazingly sensitive and brilliant older man who will pay all my bills and I’ll quit my job and have time to write all day.

I’m pretty sure that I have a better shot at winning the lottery.