Oi, lesbicas!
I've said it before, and I'll say it again:
There is nothing like Seattle.
I'm sitting at a cafe called Zoca, having a transcendental experience with my soy latte.
It's perfect.
A (fucking adorable) Asian boi with a tattoo of the full Hebrew text of the Kaddish running up her arm made my drink.
Good fucking morning.
How I would love to know the story of that tattoo.
Faggots, I know I praise Seattle a lot, but come. on.
C'mon!
Walking into the Sea-Tac airport baggage claim is like surfacing from the waves.
One big breath in.
Breathe in the queers.
When you've been working in places like Iowa for the past couple weeks, Seattle seems like an effing gay Disneyland.
The Happiest Place on Earth.
A place like San Francisco - it's so normal to be gay/trans/queer that it's actually boring.
I can deal with boring.
The last time I talked to y'all, I was thinking about maybe not continuing with my job next year.
You know, the job where I travel all over the damn universe every day.
But I just had a realization:
If I don't sign on for another year, that means...I won't be back to Seattle for a while.
Maybe not for a long time!
The thought of not being in Seattle on a regular basis is causing my throat to constrict at odd moments.
I look at all the tiny coffeeshops, each churning out perfect espressos the whole day long.
Gulp.
I look at the friendly neighborhood farmer's markets, full of badly-disciplined, well-dressed toddlers with parents who used to be stoners but now work for Microsoft.
Ulp.
My gaze lovingly falls upon an innocuous little bakery...there's a hand-lettered sign reading "We have gluten-free cookies!" in the window.
Gluten-free cookies. Just hangin' out. All for Krista.
My eyes well with tears.
Everywhere I turn, Seattle whispers, "You will fucking miss me so bad."
Seattle is right.
I started thinking. Thinking about how my last week here should be a blow-out week.
A farewell tour, if you will, of my jewely emerald city.
As many gluten-free pastries as I could stuff in my mouth.
As much good coffee as I could swallow.
And as many dykes as I could trick into sleeping with me.
I decided that the best way, hands-down, to celebrate what Seattle has meant to me would be to have...
A Week of Debauchery.
One whole week of dykes.
A different date every day.
If I could swing it.
Awesome.
It is rough being as greedy as me.
First things first.
I cleared my Week of Debauchery with CJ, my favorite lil' piece, before moving ahead with my plan.
CJ is fantastic. The first time we slept together, 4.5 years ago, we had this conversation afterwards:
I mean, I could if I wanted, but I don't want. I love women. And I want to sleep with more of them.
(pause)
in a panicked rush)
Um. I-don't-want-to-mislead-you-I-totally-understand-if-you-want-a-completely-monogamous-partner-you-have-every-right-to-that-if-you-don't-want-to-see-me-again-that's-fine-I-just-thought-you-should-know-what-you're-getting-into-with-me.
(big pause)
CJ: I like slutty girls.
We've been together ever since.
With CJ's blessing, I moved forward with my plan.
Week of Debauchery!
Now, lesbos, I don't want you to get the wrong idea.
For me, 5 dates in 5 days is an impossible feat.
I'm the epitome of "not smooth."
I got no game.
I. Am. Awkward.
If I was going to accomplish my goal, I needed help.
I needed Craigslist.
I spent Sunday night cruising Seattle Craigslist with Kelly, picking out possible lezzies and writing to them.
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eek [via myseaofanonymity]
The lezzies wrote back. Then I wrote back. Then they wrote back.
Tick-tock went the clock.
I didn't have time for this. I needed 5 dates! And they needed to start Monday night!
Fuckit, I said. I'm posting my own ad.
Forty-five minutes later, I had 37 responses sitting in my inbox.
Isn't technology amazing?
Because I seem to like to humiliate myself, here's the ad I posted, verbatim:
Week of Debauchery - 27 (Seattle)
Hi.
I'm 27, a super-femme, and I'm in Seattle for one week.
Let's be frank: I want to have sex. Lots and lots of sex. With you, hopefully.
It could be a week of debauchery! Who's excited?
Here's what I'm looking for: aggressive, confident butches and bois. Alright, or femmes.
OKwhoamIkidding, if you're hot, get over here.
I don't care about size, I don't care about race, I don't care about age.
I do care about playing safe, the ability to listen, and having conversations.
I want to get to know you. In, um, lots of different ways.
I'm blonde, I'm pervy, and I like funny/crass women.
Finally...not hatin', just sayin: I only want to sleep with dykes. Not men. Not couples. And not someone who wants to "learn the ropes."
Let's have dirty dirty dyke sex.
Want to?
Pic for pic.
*Ka-BOOM!*
Amazed at the response my ad (with no picture!!) got, I cackled over my inbox like a hen locked in a granary.
Two hours of back-and-forth negotiations and picture exchanges later, I had my five dates locked in for the week.
It was like ordering Chinese take-out.
The dates start tonight. I'm ridiculously excited.
I am going to glut myself on ladies.
Wish me luck?
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