The life and times of an ethnically ambiguous little lady.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Where's the Stubble?

I’ve noticed that people see me a little differently than I see myself. People look at me and apparently see a small, friendly, approachable girl who’s either Jewish or Italian, loves to give subway directions to strangers, and probably enjoys brunch. But I see myself as a mysterious, ethnically ambiguous, sensual gal who is darkly humorous, and…enjoys brunch.

I’ve always felt a little different, a little special, and I’m not sure if it’s the gifted kind of special or the kind of special that should wear a helmet. What I do know is that starting in college I tried show off that mysterious side of me in not so mysterious ways. I got a tattoo. And as tattoos are the gateway drug of inappropriate yet predictable young rebellion, after the tattoo I decided that I needed body jewelry. So I got a belly button ring. Several years later I still liked the tattoo, but realized that the belly button ring didn’t really symbolize who I am. I think the belly button ring agreed, as it never really seemed to heal all the way.

But the real deep dark secret isn’t what I’ve had; it’s how I’ve lost it. It all started at a Madonna concert, a typical location for darkness. I went to celebrate a friend’s birthday, a good friend of mine who happened to love Madonna. She brought along her girlfriend, as she’s gay, another lesbian couple, and another gay gal. Everyone was enjoying the concert, but you know what makes the Material Girl sound better? Lots and lots of alcohol. And we had been drinking. We tailgated in the parking lot. We tailgated right into our seats and continued to tailgate while voguing in the direction of the concessions stand as the night wore on.

When the concert was finally over we were all thoroughly intoxicated. The two couples were making out. The odd lesbian out was trying to get in on the action. And I was leaning next to the car, drinking a beer. Some dude came over and started talking to me and even though he was creepy, (because really, who wanders around parking lots looking for conversation), I was frankly just glad to have something to do.

Suddenly all of the girls stuck their heads out of the car. “Hey, Gina!” one of the girls named Lisa yelled. “You’ve never gotten a lap dance before, have you?”

“No, no I haven’t,” responded Gina, as her ears perked up.

“I think that would be just about the best birthday present ever, don’t you?” Lisa said.

“Yeah. Yeah I think it would be!” Gina yelled, as they settled themselves back into the car.

At the first sounds of stirring I had sent the creepy guy away, because we all know that if there’s one thing that creepy men love, it’s the idea of a bunch of lesbians getting lap dances. (That’s pretty much common knowledge, people.) As for me, I was just happy to be doing something other then watch everyone make out, so we started the car and our friend that was the least drunk drove us to the aptly named Delilah’s Den.

We pulled into the parking lot, all kinds of excited and headed for the front door that was blocked by a rather robust, bald gentleman.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, sounding a little like Shaft.

“Hi,” we said, smiling, trying our best to look perky and soberish.

I’m not sure if it was because it was obvious that most of us were lesbians, or the fact that most of were already drunk, or the fact that most of us were drunk lesbians, but Shaft just wouldn’t move.

“Ladies, this is a gentleman’s club. So in order to enter you need a man to escort you in,” he said.

It was at this point that I sensed trouble. I was glad we were all so drunk, because if there’s anything worse then a bunch of angry lesbians, it’s a bunch of angry, drunken lesbians who can’t do something because of a man. Luckily they were the happy kind of drunken lesbians, so we decided to problem solve. We began asking every man that was within 100 feet of the door to be our escort, our Delilah if you will.

The first guy we asked happened to be leaving the club. He replied that “he’d love to help us, but he just got kicked out for touching some stripper’s titties.” Just my kind of guy. You know, honest and hands on.

Our next opportunity was a little more optimistic. Not only did a couple guys come to the door (so they obviously couldn’t have been thrown out yet) but there were a gaggle of guys. Like an entire fraternity plus enough for two games of football. One of the girls in my group asked if they’d join us and the guys were so excited that one of them actually threw me onto his shoulders. I’m not even sure how he did this because I didn’t realize what was happening until I was already positioned, gripping for dear life, behind his head. I felt like at any moment someone would either bring out a keg and a table and we’d be required to get in a quick round of beer pong or have to do a keg stand.

I quickly decided I wanted to get down, but my new friend/perch wouldn’t let go.

And suddenly, like a voice from the heavens I heard Shaft command “drop her.”

So my fraternity fuckhead graciously just let go of me. And the way I was perched I just kind of slid down the back of his body. And as this was occurring I felt my belly button ring catch on something. Lucky for me, I was drunk so it didn’t actually hurt. After landing gracefully on my butt I felt my poor little belly button and realized that the ring was indeed gone.

We walked back to the car, saddened by not being able to give our friend her birthday present. We were just about to pull away when I decided I needed to get my belly button ring. I mean, that ring had memories! And frankly, it was a piece of me, or at least I think a piece of me was still attached to it.

So I walked back to the front entrance to retrieve it.

“Hold on!” Lisa yelled. “Listen, I’ll help you find it, but if I find it, you have to promise me one thing.”

“Okay,” I said, not really listening because I had one distinctive goal on my mind.

“If I find it, I get to kiss you,” she finished.

“Ah, sure,” I said, as we hurried along.

After about ten minutes of searching, I found my ring, looking a little worse for wear. Luckily neither Shaft nor the fraternity was in sight. Lisa and I started to walk back but suddenly she pinned me to a nearby car and planted a kiss on me, complete with tongue and tonsils and I think she may have spit shined my appendix.

“So, what did you think of that?” she asked, smiling at me seductively.

“Ahhhh,” I began, stuttering.

“Welcome to the world of girls,” she said.


“What? You like strong women, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And didn’t you think about playing rugby in college?”

“Yes, but it’s because I like to drink…”

“Shhh,” she said, as she placed her finger on my lips. “And I know you’re a nester.”

“It’s just…”


“Well, there was no stubble, and I kind of like stubble,” I muttered, as her face fell.

And so, my deep dark secret was out—I like boys. Maybe not the ones that frequent strip clubs in packs, or wander parking lots after Madonna concerts, but I figure that still leaves a few options. Although frankly, this is my second piece about not being gay, so maybe I should just talk to a trained professional.

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Anonymous Anonymous said...

I like stubble too

4:56 PM

Blogger Dale Sorenson said...

Brunch, Madonna, belly button rings and chatting up strange men ... you're not dyke gay, you're fag gay.


5:54 AM


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