Like most things in my all too restful town, Pride is months behind the rest of the country. Instead of celebrating in June, when most of the college town is here, we celebrate in August, the hottest month of the year. In our defense, August is the only time we can hope to not be rained out, so we opt instead to fry while laying in the grass listening to horrible covers of lesbian folk songs.
It was here, in that grass, that I met my first potential pride hook-up. She was far from my usual type – young, alternative, partial shaved head—but there was something about her edge that made me want to see just how hard she could get. We sat for awhile with mutual friends, and I enjoyed watching her lip ring move as she laughed harder than my mediocre jokes deserved. As she talked, I daydreamed about how nice the cold steel would feel on my hot neck, and was glad to be able to blame my flushed cheeks on the weather.
Halfway through our conversation about swashbuckling female pirates, it finally clicked where I had seen Lip Ring before. According to an online dating website, we had “stalked” each other’s profiles. I had definitely checked her out more than once, and my “list of stalkers” told me she had done the same. As if she read my mind, she then offered up a random comment about something on her profile. If it was a hint to see if I recognized her, it was not enough bait for me to bite. Eventually the heat exhausted me, and I had to settle for the hottie’s info instead of the hottie herself.
After showering, primping and changing into a lovely blue vintage dress, I rushed off to a wedding reception for a close friend. The irony of attending a heterosexual wedding between gay pride events did not escape me or the three absolutely stunning women I made friends with over multiple flutes of champagne. I laughed and flirted with all three equally, despite the fact that their husbands were within arms reach. I cannot deny that the sexiest most amazing women I met all Pride weekend were straight; I can only hope that my new friends have lesbian relatives.
Rushing home once again, I changed into the special outfit I keep around just to wear at the white parties that are standard for any gay happening. A local lesbian couple put on a Pride dance at a club, and the place was packed full of hundreds of sweaty, humping dancers, all dressed in white. People seemed to pop out of every closet in town and land right on the dance floor, half naked and loving life. Queens, bulls, femmes, dykes, twinks, trans, kings and everything in between provided eye candy to satisfy any sweet tooth.
There, in the middle of it all, was Lip Ring. We said hello to each other and attempted to converse over the loud music. I wanted to taste the steel through her lip right then, but I decided against it. Lesbians come out once a year in this town, and I was determined to get to know as many of them as possible. I made my way around the dance floor, bumping and grinding like I was back in seventh grade and this was as good as sex.
An hour before last call, the Massage Therapist I went on a date with last week showed up. Although we didn’t have the take-me-home-and-do-me-now chemistry I had hoped for, she was still fun to hang out with. At the end of the night, I was ok with going home alone.
At 3am, I made my last and final change of the night into my pajamas. I had sore feet, tired legs and three new phone numbers. Resisting the urge to call and invite them all over right now, I fell asleep, proud to be a part of this fabulous community.
Article originally written for Curve Magazine.
