Left Of Queer

Y’A

Despite the fact that she gets jealous if I even mention speaking with a lesbian, and by speaking I mean giving a lesbian directions to the L train, Jess wants me to date. For reasons unknown to me, she is pushing me to get laid or maybe split my rent with a young lady. I haven't figured it out yet. What she doesn't understand is that New York isn't really the lesbian wonderland she thinks it is. In her eyes, New York is fucking Lesbos. There are subtle realities that I have tried to drill into her, with futile results. So as far as this post goes, I will plead my case and she will undoubtedly plead hers. 

There are many obstacles with me, Y'A, dating in NY. Firstly, when Jess was a lil Jersey dyke she would come to the village in complete awe.  At the same time, I was hanging out in the same village in complete boredom. NY is a city of 8 million solitary folks. It’s a welcoming city if you are a smoker or a drinker. Drink and smoke at any bar in NY and you will find a friend. That's where the friendliness ends. You can't look at someone on the train without getting into a creep-out contest. Jess doesn't believe in picking up straphangers anyway. I'm listening to Macklemore and reading a book about Anxiety on the train, not at all engaging in society.  

Another obstacle is the type of women I like. On the Kinsey scale of sexuality, RuPaul is a 1 and Leslie Feinberg is a 6. I don't do extremes, so I'm not into 1 or 6. I would conservatively consider myself a 3.5, or at most, a 4.  My ideal girl would be in the 3-5 range. Complicated enough?  I'll go deeper, or more accurately, come up more shallow. If you have shit in your back pockets, I heart you. If, as a profession, you wear something around your waist: rig [gun belt], tool belt, EMS gear, fire department equipment…I heart you more. Essentially, not to sound narcissistic, I like girls that are like me – a chick who rides a bike for the sport of riding and not just to be green. Relax vagetarians, I'm green. I like girls that are completely unaware of their own skin. I like all women and according to Jess, NY is full of women. NY is definitely full of women…That won't date me. I see the hottest, dykiest tomboys ever eye-fuck the hell out of me on a weekly basis and then watch the internal struggle as they fight their good sense not to talk to me. I don't/didn't care because I don't date. But with Jess' insistence, I'm noticing more and more the women that I am most attracted to usually fight their attraction towards me. This is the gay reality in NY. It really is dykes lining up two by two in heteronormative pairings. It’s the Noah’s Ark of lesbianism. The problem is I'm far from normal. 

 Jess

NYC is a gay mecca. At the tender age of 18, I took to the streets of Manhattan to declare my gayness and find respite in the comfort of kindred souls. I wandered through the village, St. Mark’s Place, Washington Square Park in complete awe that NO ONE was looking at me. NO ONE gave a fuck that I was giggling and holding hands with my first real gf. I have always believed, after growing up in a town that prided itself on being wholly working class, a touch racist, and completely hetero, that NYC was OZ of the Gays. Y’A, however, has painted a very different picture.  NY is place where 8.245 million people look through one another, and by doing this, miss the unique atoms buried in the meat of each of us. It’s true that our initial attraction to people is usually skin deep. We see hair/eyes/lips/teeth/chin/ears and immediately decide if a look is/is not favorable. For lesbians, we get all kinds of messages transmitted by society about what a couple should look like – male with female. Since we pair up vagina y vagina, I think many of us revert back to that comfortable pairing – femme and butch.  I’m not going to wax poetic about the sociological and psychological reasonings for this (also, Y’A stole my soap box so there’s nowhere for me to stand while proselytizing). It just makes it hard to date, plain and fucking simple. 

During the OKCupid Chronicles, it became apparent that the chicks I found attractive and messaged were not necessarily out there searching for me! What does a middle of the road, not too femme, not too butch, female oriented lesbian do? Grow my hair out, slap on lipstick, and try not to break my neck in a pair of heels? Or chop the hair, buy more button downs, and dig out that long ago lost visor? It was oddly apparent that a whole lot about dating was based on appearances, and not just the overall cute vs uncute – it was based on gender expression. One need only to spend 5 minutes on Craigslist w4w to read countless ads with titles like ‘Lady 4 dis Stud’, Where all da gud Studs at’, ‘First time femme for femme’, ‘Butch Bottom’, ‘Single Femme lookin for a Daddy’. It goes on and on and on and on.           

So will Y’A find her 3-5 Kinsey scale dyke in shining armor? Who knows? Given what I now know about the complexities of even talking to another lesbian in NYC, I’m not so sure there is hope. I always believed dating was like the genetics theory – larger pool, better chances at survival. At this point I may try to convince Y’A to move to Missouri and shack up with the only other lesbo in town. At least the odds would be in her favor.  Or, I will enthusiastically applaud any and all gestures made toward a fellow lesbian, even if it’s only giving directions.