The otherwise perfectly coiffed, high couture woman in the airport this morning who was wearing the sparkly-est, blingy-est silver-sequined tennis shoes imaginable.
The thought of just how many things L. left behind in California that I had to squeeze into my overstuffed suitcase*.
Crushing on someone I’m becoming more and more certain is a very special soul…not being too caught up in whether or not it goes anywhere…just enjoying the deliciousness of getting to know her and reveling in possibility.
Memories of a weekend in a rambling craftsman bungalow in Northern California, warmed by a crackling fire, soothed by the sound of the rain that poured for three days straight, energized and empowered by the women who surrounded me and humbled by the power of the ritual we shared in honor of my lovely friend B.
The lone heron I spied while riding the shuttle bus to the airport this morning – in the middle of the deepest green field, appearing like magic out of the morning mist, almost too perfect to be real.
Flirtatious texts from pretty ladies. Enough said.
A moment of spontaneous connection with another mama while waiting for my flight, relating briefly in the way only two mamas can - over chit-chat about baby carriers and crawling and grandparents – reminding me that even the briefest moments of human connection are precious, and should be cherished.
Savoring a bar of rich, dark chocolate, the layers of flavor melting on my tongue - essence of orange with a hint of spice - this is the taste of luxury.
The very amusing flight attendant of Southwest flight 1561 who kept me smiling throughout this flight. He reminded me that any job, approached with joy, can positively impact the experience of many.
The soul-deep awareness that even though I have no idea where I will ultimately end up, that I am finally on the right path and that I can relax and let myself flow into my new life.
Reconnecting with one of the most important people in my life, and making a sincere apology for having disconnected over the past several months. Promising to come back.
Seeing my girls again after a weekend away, hugging them and telling them just how much I love them.
The knowledge that my talented new friend K. is making me the most kick-ass leather belt, wallet and cuffs you have ever seen. Guaranteed.
Sitting on J’s front porch, warmed by the Arizona sun and wondering if most people laugh even a fraction as much as we do.
Turning back the covers on my bed, knowing I’m just a short time away from slipping between the cool, crisp sheets. There’s no place like home.
*Not kidding people, this is what she forgot…
One pair tennis shoes
One pair baby booties
One bikini top
One bikini bottom
One black top
One diaper wipe container
One wide brown suede belt
And last but not least….one bugaboo frog stroller (that didn’t fit into my suitcase).
We talked about this recently, sitting in my living room with a handful of beautiful women, the last guests remaining at the end of a fabulous party. We’d had amazing food, football in the backyard, girls rocking out with guitars, an unexpected juggling show, chair massages and the reconfiguration of living room furniture to make room for an impromptu session of two-stepping and line dancing.
Later in the evening, when almost everyone had left, we rearranged furniture once again and settled in to talk and laugh and talk some more. Among a million varied topics (ranging from serious to random to hilarious) we inevitably began discussing attraction and dating and sex.
At one point the discussion rolled around to ‘the look’, the one you give when your interest is piqued, when the sight or scent or sound or touch of a woman awakens something inside you. When your eyes meet and pulse quickens because you want to get closer, to know more, see more, have more of her. We talked how to recognize the look, how to receive it, how to return it.
It’s that fleeting glance from across the room, across the dance floor, across the table - the meeting of eyes for a fraction longer than necessary, and then looking away. The moment of looking away just as important as the eye contact itself - because of how it’s done. It’s the lowering of eyes, the slight curving of lips, the body language that is questioning “do you? will you? yes, please?” and at the same time emphatically stating “i do. i will. yes. please.”
The look can be cocky as hell, or rooted in deep insecurity. It can be a stolen glance that lasts a fraction of a second, or it can linger, prolonged for endless moments as you trace the contours of her face, body, soul. It can be uncertain, flirtatious, confident, hopeful, aggressive, demure, bold. It can be a question, an answer, a frank perusal, an introduction, an invitation, a desperate plea.
In a confirmed mutual attraction, the briefest of glances repeated over time creates a current of energy. Those moments of eye contact can make your breath catch in your throat and send tingles from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. They heighten the anticipation of that inevitable moment of connection, and the look itself becomes an integral part of the exquisite dance of foreplay. Inside that look a million messages are transferred in a frozen moment in time – but all the messages can be reduced to the exact same thing.
Want.
…want to talk to her, date her, kiss her, possess her, touch her, dance with her, fuck her, drown in her, caress her, make love to her, discover her deepest thoughts and secret dreams…want to know more, to learn what makes her heart beat quicker, to know how she tastes and what she sounds like when she comes…want to hear what she is afraid of, what her favorite TV show is, what she is doing on Saturday night…want her to look back…want her to want in return…
It might be that seriously hot chick you just saw for the first time. It might be the girl you’ve known for years who you just now started to see in a different light. It might be someone you’ve been crushing on for months but to whom you have not yet found courage to communicate your feelings. It might be the woman who has loved you for so long you can’t imagine a time when you were not together.
Whoever she is, you just cannot stop yourself from looking at her. It’s the way the light reflects in her eyes, the way she unconsciously runs her hands through her hair, the way she throws her head back when she laughs. You look at her far more often than could be considered accidental, glance her way frequently than could be justified by normal polite interaction. Sometimes you feel like you couldn’t possibly look away.
Maybe you want her to notice your gaze; maybe you hope desperately that she remains oblivious. Whichever it is, you look because you just cannot help yourself. You drink her in with your eyes, you absorb as much of her as you can, you imprint her into your brain so you can recall her captivating nuances in detail later when you are alone.
Eventually, she will catch you looking, and in her return gaze – if you are confident enough to hold it for a moment – you’ll have all the answers you need.
The look. That’s where it all begins.
[…yes. the girl was there. yes. i looked. plenty. yes. she looked back. no. it’s not going anywhere but friendship right now. fucking logistics. forgive me a moment of self-indulent wallowing. feeling deflated tonight…]
I know where my eye goes first – to the rockstar bad girl, the edgy dyke with her short, spiky hair and larger than life attitude. She’s got tattoos and piercings; maybe her hair is bleached or dyed some outrageous color. She captivates her audience and works the room with a confident swagger, nothing (and everything) to prove. The cocky self-assurance, the overt sexuality with an undeniable edge - bordering on androgynous but still so innately female. I feel myself responding immediately.
[…think Pink. Oh god yes, let’s think about Pink for a moment, shall we? Ummm. If ever a gal should be gay. That pic makes me..well..you know…]
Yes – they are the ones that grab my attention first, but then I keep looking. I am overwhelmed at the beauty of the women I see. The butches with their man-style shirts and ties - the right girl in the right tie, sigh. The sporty girls in their tennis shoes and pony tails – so fresh faced and strong. The femmes in their dresses and lipstick – the embodiment of the traditional feminine ideal. The younger girls, barely out of college. The older women, so comfortable in their own skin.
Each of them unique, each of them beautiful in a million different ways. I find myself wanting to try one of each, like a kid at an ice cream counter who can’t possibly choose between rocky road or strawberry or butter pecan and so begs for a triple scoop.
I don’t need to limit myself to a type, or a look or a label or a role. Right now I feel this incredible freedom to experiment and sample and learn about myself, and about other women. I’m fascinated by their voices and their scent and the way they move. I’m enthralled by how they are all so unique and yet all so wholly female. I am captivated by the endless expressions of femininity and masculinity and how they flow together so seamlessly in the same space and even within the same body.
I want to romance and to be romanced. I want to be kissed passionately and urgently against the side of a car in a dark parking lot by a girl who tastes of cigarettes and beer. I want to touch softly for hours on a bed covered in blankets and pillows with a woman who smells like orange blossoms and tastes of red wine and dark chocolate. I want to sit in a café while daylight wanes, across from a cute girl with curly hair and glasses and learn about what makes her tick. I want to ride on a motorcycle out into the desert pressed up against the back of a worn leather jacket breathing in the scent of men’s cologne, the engine so loud that conversation is impossible.
I want to be seduced by an experienced top who knows exactly how to strip me of my inhibitions. I want to take the role of the aggressor and experience a woman who knows exactly how actively bottom. I want to sit and sip herbal tea while I watch a girl I’m crazy into up on stage singing a song she wrote. I want to go rock climbing with a woman who will show me just where to place my feet and hands to stay safe, and push my body till my muscles burn and I’m covered in sweat. I want to be in control, and I want to be totally and completely out of control.
Right now I am so dizzy with potential I don’t even feel too attached to developing any one particular reality. I’m flirting. I’m getting phone numbers. I’m sending and receiving texts and emails that bring a smile to my face and make me wonder ‘what if?’ and ‘oooh, I hope’. I’m cuddling on the couch with cute girls watching movies, acutely aware of the feel of our legs pressed together, or her fingers intertwined with mine, or that slight hint of her scent that makes me want to move in closer. I’m hoping she’ll call, and I’m trying to decide when I’ll pick up the phone. I’m waiting to see if I’ll be kissed, and I’m leaning in to do the kissing myself.
This is not an ode to any one particular woman, but to all women who love women. Enjoy.
[This is what I listened to while I wrote this, so of course I think you should listen to it while you read it. One of the sexiest songs ever.]
there is something
about a woman
something about the way
my hand slides
along the smooth curve between
her ribs and her hips
and settles along her waist
and curves around to the small of
her back
to pull her closer
something about the way
our lips meet
and pull away
and electricity pulses
and our eyes connect
to share a million secrets
and hands become entangled in hair
and bodies fit against one another
like pieces of a puzzle
something about the softness
and the firmness
and the perfect alignment
of parts
and about that magic spot
right
on the inside of
her hip bone
there is something about the
familiarity
of intimately knowing what
and where and how
and why
it all works
and that, in our shared feminine experience
there is undeniable connection
something about the
the way we meet as equals
and the safety of
exploration
and the vulnerability of
opening
and the freedom of
surrendering
and the bliss of
coming back to earth in
her arms
something about the feel of her arms and legs
intertwined with mine.
and the sound of her
voice in my ear
husky with desire
like the wind, or the waves
or a lullaby
before falling asleep.
there is something about
the way my body reacts
whole, instantaneous
passion awakened
need overtaking
and spiraling
and roaring
in my ears, in my heart
and in my very soul
till I am dizzy with my yearning for
her
and, oh yes
there is something about
the way friction becomes
something far more exquisite
than I ever fathomed when I was
sitting in physics class.
and there is certainly something
about the heat and the sweat
and the sound of her ecstasy
as she climbs and crashes
and the way she moves
inside of me
and of reaching down to feel
the slickness and wetness
of our desires
mingling together
and the almost unbearable
sweetness of the rhythm of moving
as one
and the scent of her on me
surprising me when I least
expect it.
something about the way there
is no ending or beginning
just the endless experience of
being
something about the stopping and starting
and whispering and laughing
and traveling to the edge,
and back
and back again.
Is it a uniquely lesbian phenomenon, I wonder, to fall into comfortable friendship so quickly with someone you used to date/kiss/love/fuck? Of course, I’d heard all the jokes, laughed at the clichés, and have seen the evidence among my own friends – but it still surprises me.
Not even a month out from ending things with e. and I can honestly say we’ve moved into a pretty good place. I can’t help but smile at the irony that we’re far better with one another now than we often were during the period that we were dating. Yes, it’s bittersweet. I still wish things could have gone differently, I’m only human. But, I understand now that we’ve been given a chance to develop a solid, healthy relationship in a way we never could as a couple.
We got together to talk things out once (which made a huge difference), we’ve hung out briefly a few times, we’ve exchanged emails and had casual phone conversations. It’s been fairly smooth and comfortable and good. I think I’m probably more surprised than anyone, I really didn’t expect to feel this way, at least not this quickly. I know that much of this healing and perspective came from the fact that I allowed myself to dive into the darkness of my emotions and not deny myself the right to sit with my sadness and disappointment for a while.
Fact of the matter is, in the three months we were together, I came to care about her on a level that went beyond the dating and romance and sex. The intensity of our life events made both of us vulnerable and we each opened ourselves to the other in a very real way. In the process of navigating all the drama and uncertainty, I became invested in her as a person.
I’m glad that I was strong enough to recognize that it was time to move on from our relationship the way it was, but I’m far more glad that both of us care enough to let it become something else. I don’t want her to disappear from my life. I want to be her friend, to see her succeed, to see her really happy. I feel a deep sense of gratitude right now that it appears I will get to do just that.
It’s sometimes hard to discern, when life takes you down a road you didn’t want to travel, if it’s your heart that is more damaged, or if it’s your ego that has taken the brunt of the hit. Sometimes, I suppose, it varies from second to second. My heart hurt like hell when things ended – no doubt. I ached in a profoundly real way. As much as I knew they had to be, I did not want things to be over between us.
However, with a little distance, it’s also easier for me to see that a huge part of my emotional response was related to the bruising my ego took because of how things went down. Fact is, she moved on quickly. Really quickly. Like before things had officially ended kind of quickly. And when you’re the one on the other end of things, it really fucking sucks.
“Ouch”, whined my ego, with a massive pout and a bit of petulant foot stomping, “I wasn’t all that special after all”. When there is moving on to be done, nobody wants to be the one left behind in the dust. It’s a big slap in the face of the ultimate suck-it-up-sistah variety. Yeah baby, sometimes reality really does bite.
But it became clear, very quickly, that C (the new girl) was something different for e. I can’t exactly tell you how I knew, but within a few conversations I had a sense that C. already had e. in a way that I never did (and likely never would have). You might think that would make it hurt more, but instead, everything seemed to make more sense. If things had ended between us for the sake of casual dating or a quick fuck – it would have seemed so senseless, it would have burned in a whole different way. But if things ended because e. found someone that she has the opportunity to create a real, lasting connection with…well, all of a sudden the whole picture looks different.
I’ve seen them together twice now. The first time was crazy awkward, it was very soon after everything had happened and although I thought I could handle it, I just wasn’t ready. E. hugged me and J., J hugged C, and then C and I just stood there purposely not looking at one another, both of us likely wanting to sink into the floor wondering what the heck we were supposed to do now.
But Sunday night at the L word showing they were there again, and this time I felt totally different. This time I went up, gave e. a hug and then turned to C and hugged her as well – hoping I was transmitting the message that I was cool with this, that we could be cool with each other. Truth be told, I met C once before this all happened, and I honestly think she is a really cool lady. Someone who, under different circumstances, I would have totally wanted to get to know better.
Personally, I’m so much better, so much happier, so much more solid having moved beyond that relationship. Those three months were important to me on so many levels, they taught me so many things – but energy between e. and I didn’t put me in a good place mentally or emotionally much of the time. I was always unsure, off kilter, just a little out of wack. It never felt stable or predictable or like something I could put my faith and trust in – and a relationship like that just cannot sustain itself long term. Regardless of how much you care, or how much chemistry you have (or how damn good the sex is) it’s just not enough.
But if you take out all the drama, and all the uncertainty and all the missteps – it just comes down to two individuals caring about each other…and that is more than enough to form the basis of a friendship. So here we go, learning about each other in a whole new way, hopefully building a lasting relationship of an entirely different kind. For once, I’m happy to be a cliché.
I have not just been in the closet – I’ve been buried in the back of a long term storage facility with an elaborate Fort Knox-style security system. I was tucked so far in the back corner that you would have needed a map, compass and sophisticated GPS system to find me in there, hidden away, trying my hardest not to be noticed.
Even if you had stumbled across me and somehow recognized me for what I was, I’m not sure you could have gotten me out. For so long I have been crammed and locked inside a massive box, which was inside another massive box, which was inside another massive box (ad infinitum). Each of these boxes was chained, padlocked and booby trapped and covered in words scrawled in angry black marker…
What combinations of personality and life experiences led me to deny myself for so very long? What convoluted social regulations made it necessary for me to push down, block out, hide away from things I have been feeling and wanting for much of my life? What kind of lies did I have to tell myself to sustain my belief that I could feel and think all those things and still be a good little straight girl?
Why was I so damn afraid to be me?
I never gave voice to this in my life. Not to friends, not in the countless journals I filled with angst and joy and philosophies about the meaning of life and stories about kissing boys. Only in the quietest, darkest corners of my heart and in my wildest silent fantasies did I let this live. I never once spoke of this aloud until meeting my best friend M.(another married lesbian, we’re a more common breed than one might think).
And in having a place to release my feelings they became - for the first time - something real. It was such a relief, such a sweet exhale, to let go of these swirling, mixed up, crazy emotions that had been fighting for acknowledgement for so long. It wasn’t a quick path from there to here; it still took three full years of discussing and processing and agonizing to get to the point where I could accept my sexuality without reservation or denial or apology.
For the past seven months I have been ever so slowly making my way out of that closet and into the light. Every step forward is liberating, every time I am open and honest with the people in my life I feel a little bit lighter and a little more solid at the same time. Every time I am accepted for who I am, I feel myself occupying this new space with more confidence.
But as I move further and further into this new life I also find myself wishing I could have figured this out a little sooner, that I could have been this person a little earlier. I wonder what it would have been like to own my experience on this level when I was 16 or 21 or 28. I wonder what it would have been like to go through my early adulthood knowing and accepting and loving myself this way.
On many levels I get that this was my path. That everything I’ve lived through in the past 32 years was necessary to my journey. That everything I did was something I had to do to get here, to this point, so that I could live THIS exact life. But sometimes I just have to shake my head and laugh that it seemed so hard and took so long and scared me so much – because the reality is incredibly easy. It fits. There is a rightness to this life, a sense of immediate and total belonging, that I’ve never experienced before. This is who I am, without doubt or hesitation. This is me.
And I hope that most of you out there know on a personal level exactly how amazing that is, because there is nothing that compares, and no way I could ever fully explain how it feels.
It’s exciting and calming and electrifying and crazy and easy and it’s just simply good. Yeah. It’s good.
This week started off on a good note when my new friend M (I told her this week she’s my L-word bitch) walked in the room and, as threatened, I jumped up on the couch and yelled out…
“You messed with the wrong bitch, bitch”
‘Cause like I told you, I’m crazy cool like that. And I’m sure that everyone else at the bar agrees completely….me, totally cool. Obviously, yes.
After that kind of kick-off, only good things can happen, right?
Okay, I’m not going to recap in chronological order, because I’m a little spacey and fragmented today (just today mind you, I am normally a highly concentrated individual with a sharply focused mind).
Most important development: Bette and Tina.
Oh.My.God. Bette and Tina. Tina and Bette. Bette getting topped by a newly aggressive Tina. Oh.My.Hot.
I’ve never been a huge Tibette fan, but you’ve got to admit those two have chemistry. After five seasons, I think we’re all just rooting for them to make it. Their sex scenes have always been undeniably fabulous (the scene where they were baby-making, and the crazy wild sex after Tina found out about Candace for instance…need I say more?)
But this week….Um Yeah. Just watch, is all I ask. Even you straight girls out there. Just watch.
[…as an aside, watching the L word when you’re ovulating but don’t have anyone to have sex with is dangerous. At one point during one of the above scenes my cell phone vibrated in my pocket, and I seriously thought I was going to have to leave the bar and find a way to relieve some tension. Ask J…I’m a quivering ball of sexual energy right now. Seriously…]
Okay, on to Jenny.
Confession Number One: I might lose some credibility by admitting this, but I think that the more outrageous Jenny gets, the more she grows on me - in a hate-to-love-her/love-to-hate-her kind of way. She’s utterly ridiculous and utterly delicious all at once. She annoys me and amuses the hell out of me at the same time – and I rather like that in a girl. (but seriously, those nails have to go. What lesbian has nails like that?).
There were many brilliant Jenny moments this episode, but the opening scene takes the cake. Jenny is directing the actresses playing Bev and Nina in Lez Girls in the scene from season one where Nina tells Bev (or Tina tells Bette) that she is ovulating. The two actresses playing Bev and Nina are clearly straight girls, and totally awkward and uncomfortable. Jenny, with that perfect look of calculated arrogance and studied ennui, is attempting to explain how the sex scene should go…*
Jenny: “This is what I want you to do — you are going to look at her — and you’re going to TAKE HER — and you’re going to THROW HER UP AGAINST THE SINK — BAM! And you’re going to look at her with passion and then you’re gonna and you’re going to take her, and you’re going to kiss her — with tongue. And then I want you to reach down and then I want you to finger fuck her and give her the best fucking orgasm EVER…” Bev: “Oh — you mean — with my hand?” Jenny: “Yeah … unless you have some other apperatti that i don’t know about?” …
I’m crazy impressed that they managed to work the word apperatti in there – because seriously, every sex scene needs some apperatti, right? It gets even better when Jenny tells them she’s going to hire a lesbian sex coach so they can learn to get it right. A lesbian sex coach. I love it, I love it, I love it.
Jenny: “You guys really don’t know how to fuck women, do you? You guys are going to learn how to fuck…”
She Bar Bitches
Confession Number Two: I am rather ashamed to admit this, but I kinda think that Dumbo is hot. Sure she’s a bitch, and her put-on ghetto-fied speech and mannerisms are aggravating as hell. But just to look at. Um yeah. Hot.
Lover Cindy though, I could do without. The loyal sidekick with her perfectly coiffed blonde waves and utterly vapid stare…ugh. Annoying. Automatic Straddle got it totally right when she called her Disco Barbie. Shane, however, gets props for trying to make amends, very adult of her. Shane’s hair though, needs some assistance.
Oh – who am I kidding. I’m as hot for Shane as anyone. Who cares if she has stupid hair, really. I can get past it.
Best quote of the scene: Dembo: “What can’t you do Shane…other than make my girlfriend come?”
Seriously? Lover Cindy was unsatisfied by her encounter with (um…cheesy seduction of) Shane? Highly doubtful.
The scene was made for me, however, by the Peach Pit reference. For a girl who went to high school in the early 90’s, 90210 references can only make a good show even better. Come on, didn’t you ever hope Brenda and Kelly would get it on in the Peach Pit bathroom?
Oh, and how many times can Dumbo say “It’s On”. Really?
Alice and Tasha.
Deep sigh, sniff, sniff.
As my new girl M. said (with a slight hint of panic) during the scene: “Where are you going Tasha? Where is she going? Is she going?”
I refuse to believe that this is it for Alice and Tasha, because anyone can see that they are perfect for one another. And Tasha has to stay on the show, because otherwise who would I swoon over? Because her cheekbones and her eyes and her smooth creamy skin and her smile and her beautiful flat stomach and those strong arms and…
Oh wait a minute –where was I?
Oh yeah.
Don’t go Tasha. Please don’t go. Didn’t you see Alice crying in bed? She is broken-hearted without you, and I know that beneath your tough exterior you are broken-hearted without her. You two are meant to be together, and besides, I have a serious need to watch you have sex again. So come back Tasha. I’m begging now. Don’t let me down.
Clothing:
All I have to say is Jenny and Tina – get some new clothes. Now, please. Those boots, Jenny? That bow, Tina? All those puffy shirts and strange dresses. Really? Yikes. Life is too short to dress that badly.
Alice gets a little more leeway to wear somewhat odd outfits, ‘cause she’s Alice, and she’s so dang cute I could never judge her for anything. But Jenny and Tina, you’re not anywhere near that adorable, and I have to hold you to higher standards.
Look at Bette, the girl has got it going on. She rocks her power lesbian wardrobe, and the lady can work a white tank top like nobody’s business. Shane has a look that works for her too (that black see-through shirt. Whew. It got to me. See ovulation comment above), but you two are struggling. Once Adele (see below) starts dressing better than you, you know you’re in trouble. Just try a little harder, is that too much to ask?
Adele:
I love to say I told you so, so I’ll say I told you so. That girl is trouble. Now that’s she’s gotten her Jennified ‘What Not To Wear’ makeover and has gone all Single White Female on us the storyline is beginning to take shape. I’m starting to get an idea where this is going, and I don’t like it one little bit. At least Max seems just as wise her tricks as I am – and I’m feeling fairly confident that he’s going to take care of business. You go Max, watch out for my girl Jenny - she’s a little clueless on her own, no?
Final Miscellaneous Comments:
I loved Phyllis’ comment that she didn’t want her daughter to think she was a ‘debauched promiscuous lesbian’. I get where she’s coming from, I mean I don’t want my daughter to think that either. But honestly, is there anything wrong with being a debauched promiscuous lesbian? I want to know; because there is a slight chance I might consider becoming one, at least if this ovulation business goes on much longer.
My other favorite line was the bit about the faux-protesters (lead by Dumbo herself) saying that they didn’t want their neighborhood “portrayed as a hotbed of lesbian sex and salaciousness”. Dumbo’s personal vendetta aside, all I can think is, damn – I wish my neighborhood was a hotbed of lesbian sex and salaciousness. Right?
I found myself in the rather surreal situation this week of taking dating advice from my husband. S. and I were talking a bit about ‘the girl’ and about my call/don’t call/when-to-call/ask/don’t ask/when-to-ask quandary. You wanna know what he said?
Come on, admit it, I know you do.
He listened patiently to my back and forth detailing of my inner conflict, my wanna-call-and-ask-her-out-but-don’t-wanna-seem-too-eager-and-besides–I’m-shy-and-scared-of-rejection ramblings, and looked at me with amusement in his eyes and said…
“Come on Jen, don’t you know that you can’t just sit back and be the girl anymore”.
Ooooh…he was so right. That man knows me far too well.
In previous relationships I have always let others take the initiative, always waited to be chased instead of going after what I want. This is partly an ego thing – I get a real high from being pursued – and partly a confidence thing, as I’m not such a fan of being turned down.
In the traditional dynamic of male-female relationships, this can actually work fairly well. But S. is right - we’re not talking traditional dynamic anymore, and there are no males in sight.
[…well except for this lovely gay boy that I have a huge crush on, but I digress, that’s another story for another day…]
I’m not a college kid anymore, struggling with identity and self-confidence and (obvious now) issues of conflicted sexuality. I’m a confident 32 year old woman who is getting closer and closer to owning herself with every passing day. I don’t need to play games, to waste time wondering, or to sit back and wait for life to happen to me.
And so I called her.
[…and of course I got voice mail and asked her out via message, have since only corresponded through myspace, and am thinking she’s not all that interested, but that’s not really the point of this story…]
I called her. And I asked her out. And maybe it won’t ever happen – but I wanted to do it, and I did it and it felt GOOD.
And once again, something seemingly small creates an inner shift that makes everything look different. Knowing I have the ability to go after what I want (be it a coffee date with a cute girl, an unexpected kiss in a crowded bar, a new friendship or an entire future) and don’t have to wait and wonder and agonize about if/when/how it might happen makes me feel incredibly confident. And, dear readers, we all know that confidence is hot. Confidence begets hotness which begets further confidence; therefore I’m feeling pretty damn good.
Last night found me once again at ye olde lesbian country bar. This time, there was another cute girl with spiky bleached blonde hair and a gorgeous tattoo on her upper arm. She caught my eye right away, and I think I caught hers. We ended up talking and laughing and I asked her to dance. Trouble is, she’s a follow and so am I…and without a lead, there ain’t no two-steppin’ goin’ on. I really wanted to dance with this girl, and later on we did manage to stumble through a few songs with her leading, but I decided then and there that I need to learn to lead.
If you exclusively follow, you can only ever dance with a lead – which leaves out half the girls in the room. If you learn to lead AND follow – you just opened yourself up to a whole lot of potential dance partners. You can be what you need to be in the moment, depending on who you want to dance with and what role you both feel comfortable taking. And folks, from where I’m sitting, more dancing is never a bad thing.
[…yes, I realize that this little dancing analogy has much wider implications for life in general, that is exactly the point…]
And so in the next few weeks I’m going to go to the two-step lessons again, except that this time I’m going learn to lead. I’m going to learn how to dance a girl around the floor, to communicate without talking- just a gentle push/pull with arms and hands - where I want her to go, and how I want her to move. I’m going to learn to turn in place and change directions without missing a beat. I’m going to learn to spin her out, and bring her back in to me again. I’m going to take the lead.
Anyone watch the L word last night? J. and I went a local bar that shows the episodes on the big screen every Sunday night. I think this is going to be a weekly date for us, so much fun to watch with a bunch of lesbians yelling at the screen! Gay girls take this show personally and rather seriously, it seems.
I loved last weeks episode – when Bette and Tina kissed you should have heard the place break out in cheers, and Alice and Tasha…be still, my beating heart. Unfortunately, this week was kind of lackluster. As J kept saying “too much talking, too much talking…why all the talking?”
As if we watch for the dialogue! Please.
Still, the whole pot brownie, lip syncing scene that ended with Dawn Dembo (LA’s fictional lesbian scene’s newest answer to the Wicked Witch of the West) yanking the cord out of the stereo and yelling Shane….now that was priceless.
“You messed with the wrong bitch, bitch!”
Aside from the sex scenes (which were actually rather uninspiring this week), lines like THAT would be why I watch the L word. I so want to find a real life situation where I can use that line. Seriously. Just to be cool like that. ‘Cause I could pull it off, I’m sure.
I could have done without the male full frontal shot. (wow, could I ever have done without that) and really, I could have definitely lived without watching Jenny having sex with ANYONE (who are they kidding with those nails. ouch). And what is with Dumbo’s ditsy girlfriend, with her fake boobs and one piece demin shortall jumpsuit? Not cute. Surely Shane can do better…
Still, the promise of more Tibette in the future, the way things are heating up with Tasha’s situation, and the fact that I’m very curious to see what happens with Adelle (she cannot be trusted, I predicted that from the beginning) means that there is still much to look forward to this season.
And, in news unrelated to the L word – there was a very, very attractive soft butch at the bar last night. She seemed to be a friend of A (my first kiss, think I will write more about her soon) and so I asked if she was single. Apparently A. has a big mouth, because she told her I was asking – and M (that would be the butch girl) asked A to arrange a hang out. My goodness, it seems my social calendar just might be filling up…
We cannot expect others to respect our truths and love us when we will not live our truths and love ourselves, standing firm for what we believe.
~darkdaughta
"We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us."
~joseph campbell
