Growing up a gay girl in a small Bible Belt town was not easy, trust me. I tried it and cannot recommend it to anyone. In fairness, that was almost 20 years ago and it was harder then.(Sorry, I lapsed into "Get off my lawn" mode.)These days, lesbianism has attained a certain cachet. It's nearly impossible now to watch a movie orTV program without a lesbian (always an attractive one, I must add). Hell, we've replaced the wacky neighbor on sitcoms.(Suck it, Mr. Roper!) In my day, the closest to a lez on TV was Miss Hathaway on Beverly Hillbillies reruns.That sight alone almost scared me straight ... almost.
I don't remember when I first realized my sexuality. It might be the tingling I felt watching Laverne and her closeted lover, Shirley, holding hands, skipping through Milwaukee. Later, my 24/7 fantasies of Britney Spears erased the last vestiges and sealed my fate. I'm the most insecure woman on the planet, thus I didn't want to be gay. Paranoia set in, crushing me in its wake. I pictured classmates pointing and whispering behind my back. All I wanted was to be like one of the cool kids on Saved By the Bell. (Mmmmmm Tiffani Thiessen). But, I ruined any chance of that when I tried to organize a Donny and Marie fan club my freshman year.
Regardless, I fought to maintain my hetero facade, even trying out for cheerleader with dismal results: "Push Em back. Push em back. Way... line please." With other girls, I would discuss dreamy guys like Tom Cruise when I was much more interested in Penelope Cruz. For the record I don't hate men. I just don't want their vile, disgusting, filthy hands anywhere near me. Other than that, I'm fine with the losers. Lesbianism was a mystery to me.The internet was in its infancy so my research was very limited. I was truly a stranger in a strange land. No Netflix. I couldn't even watch lesbian classics like "Blue is the Warmest Color" or "Below Her Mouth."(Shout out to Audrey for that delicious nugget.)
Which brings me to my mother and the gut-wrenching coming out debacle. Each night I would pace my bedroom, sorrowful, like Game of Thrones fans after the lackluster series finale. At least I didn't have to face it alone. My potent strains of cannabis and a bottle overflowing with anti-depressants were there for me as always. Four joints and ten Xanax later (washed down with half a bottle of Jack Daniels) I careened my way to the kitchen where my mother was preparing her nightly delicacy, known to gourmets everywhere as Salisbury steak. With slurred speech, I told her we needed to talk.Those words alone made her weep. I was not optimistic.
Two psilocybin mushrooms later I finally revealed my secret. "We've suspected that for some time," she stated calmly, like I was telling her I got a D in calculus. I felt a huge weight lifted from my weary shoulders and could finally breathe again.That relief lasted all of two seconds before she broke into hysterical tears, whimpering, then pleading, "We will always love you, but don't tell anyone else or your life will be ruined forever!"
(Damn, Mom, you're harshing my buzz. How rude.) I immediately left her alone with her sorrow, stumbling back to my room, my own tears flowing. Adding to my misery, I discovered my vibe batteries were dead. (Fuck the Energizer bunny!) "What a perfect day," I muttered with a degree of sarcasm even Chandler Bing would admire.
I did take her advice initially. I told no one. I didn't want to be ostracized like a Chick-Fil-A rep at an Elton John concert. None of this secrecy curbed my desire for girl-on-girl shenanigans. I just didn't know where to start. Even our gym teacher was straight. I felt star-crossed like in an updated version of Shakespeare's "Juliet and Juliet." In retrospect, I know it's easier for gay girls than guys in a way because guys seem to like lesbians (or at least watching them.) But, I took little comfort there. Suddenly I had an epiphany. In order to find pussy paradise, I would need a much larger, more liberal city for experimenting. I settled on New York City.
Prior to travel, I sought research so not to be the penultimate tourist in the quaint land of Lesbos. I learned jargon like "Cunnilingus" and its naughtier cousin "analingus." Learning those wanton activities both excited me and led me to stock up on Listerine and Crest.The reference book I used was neither recent nor helpful. It referred to the clitoris as a "fictitious creation by a woman," not unlike Mary Shelly's Frankenstein. Other terms were listed but never explained like "scissoring." I surmised lesbians enjoy a peaceful evening clipping coupons after cunnilingus was a fait accompli. All I had were pinking shears, but I assumed they would still work. (Who the fuck even owns pinking shears?)
As my departure for the Big Apple drew near, I grew more anxious. On a nervousness scale of one to seventy, I was locked in at a solid 69. With my Colonel mustard-colored Chevy Vega packed and already leaking oil, I turned to my family to bid adieu. My bawling mother was silent but surreptitiously handed me rosary beads and patted my head like I was a rescue beagle seeking refuge. It was a sweet, sincere gesture, although confusing since we aren't Catholic. My two sisters stood behind her, each with their index and middle fingers spread wide, their tongues fluttering between them. (Very subtle, bitches!) Before leaving I checked my cassettes, making sure Ricky Martin was easily accessible. (Knowing with his epic talent, his career would obviously span decades.) Tunes from my current role models, k. d. Lang and Melissa Etheridge, rounded out my playlist.
With Shania Twain blaring from rattling, blown speakers, I waved to one and all thus beginning the most frightening travel adventure since Hope and Crosby embarked on the Road to Bumfuck, Egypt.Within five miles the pesky oil warning light came on and rudely refused to go out, but that was easily corrected by strategically placing a band-aid over the meaningless red light. ("She is an incredible problem solver," you must be saying to yourself.) Guilty.The next obstacle was the GPS on my smartphone, which had apparently developed dementia. I was driving north from Kentucky to New York so why was I suddenly cruising through Florida?
(I realize there are some non-sequiturs in this woeful tale, such as having a smartphone before they became commonplace but on a road trip fueled by ether, amphetamines, weed and Jolt Cola, my memory is as blurry as the Zapruder video of the JFK assassination.)To keep myself occupied, I concocted limericks (or was it a haiku?) in my head, but quit when I struggled with a rhyme for "discombobulate." (Feel free to list your rhyme in your comments.Treasured bonus points will be awarded.) Also, in those blissfully unaware days, I smoked cigarettes and was chain-smoking Marlboro's until my overflowing ashtray began to smolder like a smudge pot in an orange grove, before finally bursting into flames. Smoke was billowing from my car like a scene from every Cheech and Chong movie. Luckily, I had to pee so l was able to extinguish that potential disaster to the delight of passing motorists. Another problem solved!
Once I crossed the New York state line, my anxiety spiked, gripping the steering wheel so tightly it was no longer circular, now more like a crescent moon and with knuckles as white as legendary albino bluesman, Johnny Winter. (Seriously, how obscure will I get?) My mind was racing with visions of what might lie ahead. Surely even I can find a gay girl among seven million residents. If not, well I came for the pussy but could stay for the pizza and cheesecake. If I failed I would simply return home, secret intact, with my proverbial tail tucked between my proverbial legs. (I read that in Proverbs.) As my car limped into a parking lot in Manhattan, the second, and hopefully much more enjoyable leg of my coming-of-age adventure, could commence. It was early afternoon, but already raucous crowds were busy ... raucousing. I was in fabled Greenwich Village amid a very festive atmosphere. I was unaware of the occasion but vendors were set up on both sides of the roped-off street, doing brisk business.
Each one had many flags displayed, all rainbow-ish. I'm far from a vexillologist but I felt certain such rainbows could only mean one thing: the national flag of the merry ole land of Oz. I should have known with so many guys wearing Judy Garland tee shirts.The city felt so alive, gay even. Music seemed to flow from every direction. Back-to-back I heard "All the Young Girls Love Alice," "YMCA," "Lola," and "Walk on the Wild Side." But the most boisterous reaction came when strains of "It's Raining Men" lilted through Washington Square Park. Men, both young and old, razor thin and portly, formed a conga line, skipping and prancing around the iconic fountain to the adulation of on-lookers. It was a hot, humid day, so how so many men could cavort about in leather attire was beyond me. I was here on a mission, but I hated to leave this celebration. I knew it was a celebration because Kool and the Gang told me so through song.This was a people watcher's paradise but the yen to sin was strong with this one. So I moved on.
Walking down the boulevard, I stopped at a movie theater specializing in classic films. By the ticket window, stood a short, cute brunette who was lecturing revelers about which slasher movies have gay actors in prominent roles, but certainly not in a homophobic manner. More informative. She was so knowledgeable and emphatic, I could have ogled her all day until I suddenly remembered my quest which naturally made me curious about her sexuality. But, first I needed an ice breaker, a witty conversation starter so......
