Now, I enjoy being a girl as much as the next underpaid effeminate lad, but even I must admit to sometimes wondering what lies beyond the other side of that gold-plated vulva, that vivid swirl of orgasmic womanhood that gurgles and yelps, occasionally subsiding to kittenish come-ons.
And no, I didn't say "golden showers" there, but I certainly thought it.
Where it might seem an easy bridge to cross, a previous attempted foray into the heterosexual paradigm gave me only slight pause and a two-page article before giving way right back to the poop chute. Which is OK, because, I mean really, everything ends up there eventually, right? Hmmm.
It's always been in the cards anyway. From my early-20s Indigo Girls phase to the overstated protest years of my college discontent, I've always been just one step away from being a card-carrying lipstick dyke. Annie Lennox androgyny fixation? Had it. A voice that often veers into excited Muppet affectations? Yeah, that too. I even resemble Ellen DeGeneres in certain unnatural lighting, not to mention the boatloads of nonironic sarcasm occupying both of our chosen fields. I'm halfway to Sappho and I haven't even left the couch yet.
Well, Lesbo-a-go-go, anyway. My likewise nelly hairdresser friend, Skotty, has decided to tag along on my fetid journey to the other side, and I'm downright rowdy in that Wynonna Judd kind of way about slipping into something (someone?) a little less comfortable. But we've gotta get juiced up first, naturally, so we swing by the Cactus for a little incognito whistle-wetting. And where I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing, I opt to throw back a shot or two of Crown brown liquor befits my cause here and elicit a few dry heaves.
"It's just like old times," crows Skotty.
"Yeah, only without the straw," I wink. So clearly we won't be out as late.
But pulling into the Southern Nights parking lot we make something of a snort, regardless, when Skotty has to be yanked out of my passenger window by the valet's jaws of life. Obligatory Daisy Duke jokes are flipped like so many coins, while we gussy ourselves up for the transformation of a lifetime. Men are stupid. We like girls ... and we are girls! Could there be a more perfect life?
Perhaps. So we initiate our evening's affairs with some early-on canoodling with the management, kicking back in the office and possibly kissing big lesbian ass. You gotta start at the top, or at least start somewhere, so I start throwing around praise about the sort of sushi-shop remodeling that's taken place in the front bar since the last time I pretended I was a girl. I mention that my current boyfriend once slept with a guy at her house, oddly.
"It's hard to keep up," she says.
Is it ever. More niceties follow broken cars, hurricanes, hangovers and I'm fast falling into the arms of sweet lesbian love. Get me a pickup truck, fast! I've got places to go and baggage to haul!
"You still with the same guy?" she deflates my whitewall tires.
"Uh, yeah." Dammit. I'll never cross over with my ankle still bound to gay hell. Not to mention that small appendage currently experiencing no life dangling betwixt my twigs.
For some further tutoring on the finer points of gal-on-gal-dom, we segue over to the mock-up dressing room where the show's principal, Baby Blue, is readying her troops for an evening of sexy cabaret lipping. Blue's an old friend who often sports my exact same haircut (plus a few hairs), and she really likes my column.
"Tell me, Blue," I lay my head on her bosom. "How do I become a lesbian? And I already have your old haircut, so don't say that."
She gazes back with only measured offense before stopping short of a giant smile that gives away nothing. She's cornered the market, you see. And there will be no sharing here. There will be plenty of lipstick, duct tape and all sorts of lace, though, so I can at least finger the empress' new clothes. Fancy that the legion of ladies present are largely un-gay, as if to mock my impossible dream. They're just working girls, tying on second jobs to keep their families above water. All of which is depressing, although very conscientious-lesbian. Sign me up, Norma Rae. I've got kids to feed.
Or at least a liver. So we make our way up to the DJ booth, hopping to the next epicenter of activity and avoiding any activity along the way, save a few drunken exchanges about me with a series of folk who are not me. Note to self: Shut up.
Once inside the two-way-mirrored enclave, we set to acting like we belong there, amongst the rattling ruins of the current heavy-beat dance trends and the people who spin them. No, they don't have the new Duran Duran. But they like it. Oh, and I'm still not a lesbian. Although I own a pair of promotional Miller beer drinking gloves.
And here's where it all goes black. I blur around the various rooms speaking into blank walls, drink and throw up. Not funny? Well, neither is that one about never trusting anything that bleeds for five days and doesn't die, but I'm not throwing that one around, now am I?
By the time I'm approaching my predictably shambolic demise, I'm completely not responsible for anything going in or coming out of my mouth. I'm a digestive factory with a tendency towards toxic conversational emission. I love you all, fuck everybody and so on.
At the exit, where the superkind girl with a girlfriend who apparently loves me is calling me a cab, I fall into a conversation with said girlfriend that goes like this: "Me, me, me, me, me, me." She's an editor at Harcourt, so she ought to be able to make something of it.
I've made nothing, short of a couple of new friends. One such fool mans the doorway, singing his own praises while a couple of ladies lock lips like there is no tomorrow. They're probably right. I fall into the taxi, sniffing my own vomit and cursing the bad idea that brought all of this on.