Honorary Lesbian

During my junior year of college, I did a presentation/paper in my literary theory class on Monique Wittig. Though I had already come to my gender neutral pronoun kick the previous semester during an independent study, reading Wittig opened my mind to a new way of thinking about gender. If I were able to create a required reading list for everyone in the world, Wittig's article, "One Is Not a Born a Woman" (you can read a significant portion of the text here) would make my shortlist. During my presentation, I acknowledged the biological differences, and for a reason I can't entirely remember (though I swear it was legitimate), I suggested that I would be willing to present my genitals as proof of my maleness. Thereafter, Ted would refer to it as "that time I offered to show my penis to my class," which is true, but makes it sound more like pointless nudity than, you know, educational nudity. (Note: I would not afford the same offer to my high school students.) At the end, my professor applauded my willingness to tackle these theories, declaring me an "honorary lesbian," a monicker I, cheesily enough, cherished.

Despite my honorary lesbian status, I have never been to a lesbian bar before. Correction: I had never been to a lesbian bar before - until I went to two different establishments on consecutive nights.

On Wednesday, Jocelyn and crew took me to a place called The Hook-Up, a name that I respect for just putting it out there, for karaoke. Despite being in the middle of an eerily deserted road, this place was crowded. In fact, I haven't seen a bar this busy in my area ever, especially on a weekday -- apparently everyone's hanging out at the hidden gay tavern. (Alert the media, the gay bomb has already been detonated.)

The karaoke was pretty good. The busty KJ (Karaoke Jockey) referred to me as a "twink," and apparently, as an offering to the small assemblage of older gay men amongst the lesbians, skipped me toward the front of the line each time I requested a song. My best song was probably "Hey Ya" by Outkast, mainly because it got people dancing. And, by that point in the night, I worked up enough courage to shake it like a polaroid picture. If I ever return and my confidence increases, I might have to perform "Only Women Bleed" and then proceed to be beaten to death by a mob of justifiably bitter lesbians.

The best singer was this woman(?) who looked kind of like a man in drag to me, but whose voice was sweet and gave no indication of being anything short of feminine. As much as I think gender shouldn't matter, I must admit that it's still difficult for me to fight the impulse of trying to guess someone's "real identity" (whatever that means) all the same. I was so perplexed by trying to pinpoint a gender, I began to doubt if the person was even really as fat as ey appeared. I was either having a highly intellectual/spiritual moment, or I was drunk.

The thing about a lesbian bar is that, be it for biological or political reasons, I was probably not going to have much opportunity to "hook-up," despite what the name suggested. So imagine my surprise when I was described as being "exactly the type" of someone not present at the bar. I'm not really into the fix up thing, but I must say I would be intrigued to meet this person. I don't personally have a type, and of the people I've met that have a "type," I've never known it to be anything close to me. This is certainly uncharted territory.

Last night, Stacy and Alison brought me to Club Butchin'. There's not too much to report: the drinks were pricier and the lesbians were younger. It wasn't really my scene, honorary lesbian or not. You might think that by going to a lesbian bar, your female friend would not get groped by a scuzzy old man. Apparently, however, there's one in every crowd.

Oh, and I fell in love. I'm not sure I've had love-at-first-sight vibes since, who the hell knows when, but this girl was... wow. She stood next to me at the bar, made small talk and I was so smitten, I could barely respond. Though, again, I don't have a "type," I think if I were to have one, it would be the androgynous person with a hint of discernible femininity with a punk outfit and a shaggy, boyish haircut. Alas, my sudden affection was not unique, as I learned that, well, everyone thought she was fall-on-the-floor hot. I made an attempt to take a photograph of her with my phone, but missed and then felt super creepy. It's times like these, and truthfully, just the one time, I wish I had an honorary lesbian identification card laminated so I could have a shot with her.

Naturally, this post could only end with a Weezer song:

"I'm dumb, she's a lesbian.
I thought I had found the one.
We were good as married in my mind,
but married in my mind's no good.
Pink triangle on her sleeve
let me know the truth,
let me know the truth."