OK, it actually hadn’t been that long, but the night of dancing/drinking/partying that we had on Saturday broke a pretty long dry spell nonetheless.
The organizer, let’s call her the Catalyst, was none other than she whose gesture of asking for the check at a restaurant in late February filled me with such mute rage that I wanted to punch her. Why? Because it was confident, it was masculine, it was of a piece with her whole persona (I think butch lesbian is the term she chooses) and I saw what it was I wanted and what it was I had been slowly, deliberately killing within myself. Instead of punching her (thank heavens, she’s a lovely person) I let the rage go where it belonged and tear down the last little piece of the wall holding me back.
So. I danced with T. in a veritable sea of queer women. I flirted with some of them. Some of them flirted with me. (And with T. And I wasn’t even jealous.) I drank way too much and got embarrassingly teary with the Catalyst. I untied the back of her girlfriend’s top (I don’t know how to describe it, but it didn’t render her undressed or anything), and she (the girlfriend) caressed my jaw and called me hot.
This going out with queer women thing? This lesbian bar thing? Don’t give me the cynical, jaded take. Not yet. For now, I think it’s massively fucking brilliant.