But I'm A Fun Girl

It's Learning Time!

Word of the Day: Vituperative
Pronunciation: vih-too-per-ah-tive
Function: adjective
Meaning: uttering or given to censure : containing or characterized by verbal abuse.


Keep this word in mind, homos.
 Now guess what?

New Orleans is crawling with lesbians.

Holy shit is it ever. I was there for the MLK weekend, and it didn't even cross my mind that there would be dykes there. But it makes sense.

If they're not camping, lesbians love cheesy tourist/drinking destinations where they can buy fuzzy pimp hats or have their name airbrushed onto a t-shirt. Think Wisconsin Dells. Six Flags. Anywhere with fried mini-donuts.
New Orleans was a good time. Made better by the fact that there's a dyke bar there called Rubyfruit Jungle. Totally serious. Right off of Bourbon Street!

I had to go. I dragged Kirsten with me. She didn't want to go - she'd been pleading all night to go to a titty bar. BITCH NO! We were going to see if we could hook up for free first. (then we could totally pay for strippers. I'm just not that good at sitting on my hands in the club. They somehow...wander.)

Inside Rubyfruit Jungle, it was a sea of sporty dykes. They were wearing jerseys and cheering the Saints on toward playoff victory. Everytime the Saints gained yardage, much sporty-dyke shoulder-punching and whooping ensued.
Ew.


But wait! There! Leaning against the wall! A cute boi! Wearing a hoodie and drinking something clear! She was elfin (how I like 'em), messy-haired, and had what Avril Lavinge calls "shit on her wrists." Lots of cuff bracelets.
I had my target.


Never let more than two minutes go by after spotting what you want.


She had already seen me. I smiled. She smiled.
Kirsten rolled her eyes and sluttily ate a cherry out of her drink.

"AAack look at that girl over there OMG she's so cute," I hissed to Kirsten.


She looked over the bar.
"Which one? They're all sporty."


Bah. How could you not see the shining beacon of hotness that was the sulking boi-dyke? I gathered my courage and left Kirsten. She did not understand true magnetic attractiveness.

Me: (hovering near bar stool) Hi. (Sitting down next to adorable boi)

Adorable Boi: Hi.

Me: Wow. You are really cute.

Adorable Boi: (flatly) Thanks.

           (Really, really awkward pause)

Me: Just, um, wanted to tell you that.

Adorable Boi: Lemme guess. You're from out of town.

Me: Ha. Uh, yep. Chicago. Where are you from?

Adorable Boi: Here. (slow-motion points to the floor)

Me: Oh. Wow. Is this, like, the only place in town?

Adorable Boi: Uh-huh. And - lemme guess again - you're only in town for a couple of nights.

Me: (shifting uncomfortably) Well...yeah.

Adorable Boi: (laughs meanly) That's what I thought.

Me: You must get this a lot.

Not-So-Adorable Boi: (nastily) You could say that.

Me: Jesus. You live in a huge party town. Of course dykes in the only dyke bar in the French Quarter on a Saturday night are going to be looking for one-night stands. Let me give that a "duh." If you don't like it, you should move.

NSA Boi: You don't know me. Excuse me for trying to find something a little more long-term.

Me: Excuse me for paying you a compliment and trying to talk to your bitter ass.

NSA Boi: I think your friend's cuter, anyway.

                 OUCH.

Me: (in a vindictive fury now) Yeah? Well, she's straight. You're attracted to straight girls. That's why you're having problems, Bitter. You're attracted to straight girls.  Good luck having a long-term relationship with one of those.

I shoved back the bar stool. I collected Kirsten's cuter ass. We left.

SHOT DOWN!!!

I stalked through the cool mist, past flickering gas lamps. Fuming.
I told Kirsten was that the cute boi was really bitter and looking for a long-term relationship. I didn't tell her that the boi thought she was better-looking. Kirsten was mildly surprised we were leaving so soon, but willing to go, as we had plans to watch Interview with the Vampire in our Westin bathrobes.

We got a ride back to the hotel from a sweet white mule named Mercedes, and the driver was very nice to us. He gave us carrots to feed Mercedes, and I patted her nose and mourned the loss of my innocence. Y'all: That was the meanest rejection of my life. Granted, I said some pretty vicious words (should we say I was...vituperative?) as well, but that boi started it.


When you're a femme lesbian, and you don't have a second head growing out of your right shoulder, it's fairly easy to get dates.
Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Like bow-hunting a deer when you're riding the deer.
It's easy.

There just aren't that many gay girls who dress girly.
There just aren't.
We are a scarcity, and getting rejected out-of-hand like that had never happened to me before.

I called my favorite lil' piece, CJ, to howl.

CJ: Let me get this straight, boo. You're calling me at 3:37 in the morning to complain that some girl in a bar rejected you? On the New Orleans trip I wanted to come on but couldn't 'cause of school?
Me: Exactly. Now tell me how sexy I am.

That mean boi really hurt my feelings.
It was probably good for me.
You know, take me down a notch.

But never fear, skanks, I have recovered. It's Learning Time, and the lesson we can take from this is: we must deal with rejection and move on.

We must never, never stop hitting on women.