So I’ve told you about some of my good, or at least adventurous nights…but what about the off nights?
Well, there was the time I got to a club in Somerville at Midnight, only to wait in line until 12:45. When I finally got in, after saying hi to a cute transman, I spent the remaining 13 minutes before the club closed bemoaning the lack of mature attractive women.
Another night I ventured out the Guerrilla Queer Bar–but found myself daunted by the line: which consisted mainly of men. The few women there looked barely old enough to get into the club. I told myself that if there was one cute girl in line I’d stay–but there wasn’t.
Then there’s the time I tried to go to the Randolph Country Club–which is not, in fact, actually a country club, although it is country–only to have Google direct me to a random a cul de sac in the subburbs. (True story–Google it yourself) Have the people who live in that house have developed paranoia wondering why all these lesbians keep driving up their terrace and stopping in front of their house at all times of night? (The actual Randolph country club can be found by googling “Randolph Movie Theater” and then going to the back of an unmarked, unassuming parking lot–forget it! Just have a friend show you where it is!)
Recently I had a broken date at a Thursday night concert where I missed most of the music and spent the last half of the night forlornly watching two interracial lesbian couples play pool.
At least I got some people-watching in.
Two interracial couples: How cool was that? Now I felt inter-racial dater invisibility. If only Noma was there!
One couple consisted of an thick older stud with the swishy affect of a gay man, and her gray-haired butch-femme partner. The other couple consisted of a compact and weathered old-school butch and her tall high-yellow femme with a wild cloud of black curls.
I got talking to the older stud and she expressed her sympathy for my dateless state. Then she noticed my tattoo.
“You know, she has a Labris tattoo too.” she pointed in the direction of the other interracial couple, standing intimately together.
For some reason I assumed that she was pointing to the butch, and when she walked by I tugged on her leather jacket.
“So, I hear you also have a Labris tattoo…? I enquired, and the butch looked at me like I just climbed out from under a rock with three heads.
“No, it’s her!” the stud rescued me by pointing at the light skinned femme (now draped seductively over the pool table taking a shot. At my shift of attention, the butch escaped from the apparently traumatic and unwelcome experience of conversing with me.
The femme came over, and she did, indeed have a Labris tattoo. Hers was on her arm and had a crooked handle. We ooed and awed over each-other’s tattoos.
“Labris girls unite!” She exclaimed.
I felt silly for assuming it was the butch with the Labris tattoo, rather than the femme. Even though I’m a femme with one, a part of me must hold that prejudice that labrises are a butch symbol.
And maybe at one time that was true. While I’m sure that the women who inspired me to want a Labris were butch (remember, I grew up attending lesbian music festivals) it actually makes a lot of sense that a femme would want one.
After all, a butch doesn’t have to advertise that she’s a lesbian, but a femme has that whole “invisibility” issue. Although the younger generation seems sadly ignorant to it, nothing says “hello, I like pussy” like a big fat double-headed axe (well, men tend to take it as a man-hating castration symbol, but that’s their hang-up)
I think the Labris is like what rainbow rings used to be–a subtle way of signaling your sexuality.
I think I’ll tell you about my next off night in another post…