Dyke Style Update!

OMG quick look I posted poetry!

Ahem.

So you thought you knew best 

all the ways to tell

if a woman was gay 

by the way she was dressed.

You laughed - "This is easy!"

you said with a grin

"A fish is a fish -

look for scales; look for fins!"

There were dykes all around

and you just went to Pride -

finding lezzies was simple

not a thorn in your side.

There were messenger bags!

There were tats and hairdids!

It was easy to tell

the gays from the straight kids.

But now there's a problem:

your gaydar doth err

and you're hitting on women

who like dick - they ain't querr!  (work with me.)

There are all sorts of chicks

copping dyke-style clothes

and they look, walk, and act 

like lesbian pose...rs.

Well, we can't let them win.

We still have to get laid!

We must update our gaydar;

our skills mustn't fade.

So...

Summer school is in session

Get your books; grab a pen.

Hot girls can be gay...

now it's time to learn when.

POP GAYDAR QUIZ!!!

Everybody put your books under your desk.   

Each question is worth 50% of your grade. 

You have 15 minutes. 

Begin.

                                        [via lesfemmes]

1)  Isobel is 32 years old and has really short hair.  She works in a pharmacy lab, drives a Prius, lives in the city, and is a vegetarian.  Everybody in the lab has a crush on her.  Isobel is very mysterious.  Right this second, she's running late - it's  someone's birthday party tonight.
  

As Isobel races out the door, she's wearing: skinny jeans, a white t-shirt, a tweed fedora, and brown boots that come up to her calves.  

Is Isobel gay or straight?

Why?

---------------------------------

                                 (by ! Siu)

2)  Shelby is tiny.  She's 29, has shortish red hair, a Monroe piercing, and works in art therapy.  She drives a Volkswagen bug, is obsessed with the new Thai place around the corner from her house, and has about 80 male friends surrounding her at all times.  Today she's going to a summer art fair in the park.

Right now, Shelby is wearing: a white cotton sundress, bare legs, a different ring on every finger, a straw fedora with a black band, and brown leather sandals.

Is Shelby gay or straight?

Why?

------------------------------

Time's up!

Alright, put your pencils down and turn your paper over.  

Everyone hand their paper to the person to your right - we're going to go over these together.

Answers!

1)  Isobel.

Ha!  Don't play with me.  Isobel is a big ol' homo.  Apart from all the stereotypical clues (vegetarian, Prius), Isobel is wearing a fedora to a party.  

Do not be distracted.  Look at nothing but the fedora.

Fags, I know fedoras are the ish this summer, but only gay girls are into hats enough to throw one on without a second thought to complete a party look.   

A statement hat like a fedora requires some serious time spent trying on hats - a commitment to long-term hat-wearing.   

Queer women are obsessed with hats, and so have already put in the time posing in front of mirrors; seeing how hats look with all their different outfits.  

Remember this:  Lesbians fucking love fedoras.  

A lesbian cannot look at a fedora in any setting without trying it on. 

                                                 (via strawberrylaces)

No lesbian can walk away from a fedora.  

It's nobody's fault.

Something in the chemical makeup.

Fedoras say "40's gangster." 

Fedoras say "I am El Mysterioso.  Come to me."  

They are real, real gay.

Yes, straight girls.  I hear you.  You saw Alicia Keys wear a fedora all those years ago and you've rocked one ever since.  

Well, you look like a homosexual.  

No lie.

2)  Shelby.  

Shelby is super fucking straight.  

Tricks, I am aware that Shelby is, in fact, wearing a fedora.  I know. 

But Shelby is wearing that fedora because Urban Outfitters told her to. 

She's trendy, not a twat-licker.

There's only one kind of fedora that straight girls wear, and it's this one:

This particular fedora has been all over magazines, and now it's trickled down to Target.  

Everybody and your mom has one. 

A hip, "menswear-influenced" way to keep the sun off your face.  


(*Tip!*Make sure to add a feminine detail to soften up your look, ladies!  Love, Cosmo.)

Straight girls don't wear their straw fedoras at night.  That would be stupid.  The straw fedora is a day hat.    

Now don't get me wrong.  Straight girls look cute in this hat.  

But they sure as fuck don't look gay.

How did you do on the quiz?

Was it super hard?  I tried to make it super hard.

We gay girls love hats - it follows that we love and wear the fedora. But we mustn't be fooled!  Constant vigilance!

Straight girls have also started showing their love for the fedora. 

Fortunately for us, they only wear one kind.  

Gay is in the details, friends.

They Let Anyone In

Hi there, homophiles!



This summer is getting on my fucking nerves.


Here's why: 

I live across the street from a Ukrainian Orthodox Church. 

Now, this was a selling point when we looked at the apartment last year.

It would be so pretty, right?  We'd look out our front window and see green, well-manicured lawns. 
We'd see priests in odd hats. 
Mosaics and shit. 

We were thrilled.

There was actually a choir singing as we signed the lease.
How quaint!

Well, as it turns out, this branch of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church likes to throw parties.
At least once a week, they rent out a sound system and have themselves one helluva polka party. 

                                                        [by water&sleep]

All the neighborhood old people come to dance, and there's a rummage sale, and a wiener roast, and lots of beer drinking.  Rousing choruses of old country songs.  Right across the street!
Fun, right?


Drunken Ukrainian karaoke ensues.
Until about 3 in the morning.


I used to think this was charming - an adorable quirk of my neighborhood.


But now...I would do anything to get the Ukrainian polka music to stop. 

Do you hear me. 

ANYTHING.

The church members don't care that the whole neighborhood calls the police every Friday and Saturday night since summer started - the congregation is first-generation, they're all in their seventies and eighties, and they're all tough as fuck.


They're like, "Ooh, look, the cops are here.  We're making too much noise. Well, guess what, officer?  We survived Chernobyl. What now, bitch?"

Hmph.

I'm also sulking because I have been humiliated this summer.

I went to a party last week, and while I was publicly mocking CJ for thinking the words to 'Besame Mucho' were 'Tresemme Mucho' (so, what - kiss me, but make sure you have plenty of volume and shine?), she got fed up and accidentally-on-purpose let it slip to a room full of lesbians that I failed Women's Studies in college.

My secret! My closely-guarded lesbian secret!  CJ told on me!

The room went silent.

Twenty pairs of lesbian eyes cut to me.  Twenty sets of lesbian lips quirked upwards.
There was a split-second of quiet, and then...

Twenty lesbians started laughing at me.

Laughing!  At me!  Not with me - at me!
The shame!  The unmitigated shame!

That's the last time I tell lil' CJ anything.

My secret's out.  
And fuckit, I might as well tell y'all - it's a true story.

I failed Women's Studies in college.
Failed. Got an F.

                                                          [via justmeamandaleigh]

But homos, it wasn't my fault.

I was 20 and newly gay.  I was dying to have a girlfriend, and I had heard that Women's Studies classes were full of lesbians.
So I signed up for Women's Studies to meet girls. 
Brilliant, right? 

Probably no baby dyke in the history of the world had ever thought of that before.

                                             [via smartmouthkillerhand]

But when I showed up, pink with excitement, for the first day... there wasn't a single cute girl in my class.

Except for one.

My professor.

                                              [by Alyssa Noches]

My professor, Sharada, was an incredibly beautiful Indian woman who had this long, black, shiny, thick braid.

You guys, it fell past her knees.

I had never seen anything like her.

Sharada was in her mid-40's and had gorgeous brown skin and liquid dark eyes.  She wore dangly gold earrings that shimmered in the light.  She talked really fast, had skinny wrists, and perched on the top of the table in the front of the room as she taught.

It was love at first sight.

                                                [via hellogirls]

My god. My GOD.

Sharada could have been talking about anything - I was captivated.

As I stared at her, week after week, phrases like "the other" and "culture of oppression" came swimming to my ears like something out of a golden dream.

I blinked and nodded for months.

Whatever she said. 

Societal expectations.  Normative.  Patriarchal structure.

Whatever.

I sat in the front row, inhaled Sharada's smell, and never missed a class.

                                               [via ohcardigan]

So...I didn't pay attention. 

But here's the reason I failed:

Every day, while sitting on the table expounding about the history of feminism, Sharada would pull her braid into her hands and absentmindedly undo it.


She would talk to us about matriarchal civilizations while dipping her fingers through that thick twist of black, silky hair.

Cool black water running though her hands.  A slinky snake of shininess.

I was transfixed.

What the fuck.

What was she trying to do to me?
All I wanted was to bury my face in that hair.

Or, um, lay naked while Sharada cloaked my body with her midnight tresses.  

When the final exam  (80% of our grade)  came, it was like being startled awake while sleepwalking. 

I stared at the pages of the test in shock - the questions were like a foreign language.
The essays I simply skipped.

Women's Studies, to date, remains the only class I have ever failed.

And the irony is that I failed because I was studying a woman.

Gayelles, a few years later, I looked at my notebook from that class.

Apart from approximately 33 sketches of a faceless woman with long black hair, I never took a single note.

There is not one note. 
Not one date - not one sentence in my Women's Studies notebook from Fall Semester 2004.

Twinks, I always kinda thought that failing Women's Studies made me a "bad" lesbian.

That's why I never told anybody about it.

It's something that goes against the culture of our tribe.

It's like being a beaver who wants to take Irish clogging instead of learn how to build a dam.

It's something that simply isn't done.  It's on par with not knowing who Ani DiFranco is or not having a crush on Angelina Jolie.

It's like being a dyke who's repulsed by vaginas.
It's like admitting that you've never read The Well of Loneliness or getting drunk and telling a bar full of lezzes that you've always found k.d. lang to be a little cheesy.

WHAT KIND OF A LESBIAN ARE YOU???

So now I have a question for you, queers:

What's YOUR dirty little secret?  What makes YOU a bad lesbian?

[via lesfemmes]

Please tell me.  I could use some comforting right now.

white girl

I don't know what to do,I just sat on the curb.but my brother came and took my pic :p
in this photo i'm wearing Chloe shelby bag, Manggo shirt, mixmax bracelet,unbranded shoes

Week of Debauchery Date #5 - Looking For The Matched Set

Hi muffdivers!

It's time for the last Week of Debauchery date.

Date #5!

Let us start with an analogy.

Have you ever been to a wedding-cake tasting?

A wedding-cake tasting is when you go to a bakery that makes wedding cakes and they try to persuade you to choose them for all your wedding cake needs. 


They bring out all kinds of cake and give you binders full of pictures to look at. 

The saleslady says things like "marzipan" and "fondant" and talks about how different frostings will hold up in the heat of an outdoor June wedding. 


You get to sample flavors of cake.  For free!

It is very exciting.


Vanilla.  German chocolate.  Limonciello.  Pistachio, red velvet, raspberry, dutch cocoa, orange liqueur.  Coconut cake!  Strawberry n' cream cake!  All for you! 


Why yes, I am the bride-to-be.

Anyway!  After a few flavors of cake, you start to lose track.  You think "Mmm, that was good"  every time you try a new piece.

You go "Huh.  Well, this piece is delicious, too.  You know what?  I love cake." 

You take bigger bites than necessary.

Eventually, it hits you like a thunderbolt:

The bakery badly wants to make the sale. 

They will keep letting you try cake as long as you want. 

They will continue to give you cake. 

There is no limit to the amount of cake you can have.

                                             [via sweetopia]

And that's how you find yourself locked in the bakery bathroom an hour later, horking your buttercream guts out.

When you get back to the tasting, everyone (with self-control) is still going strong.

They don't know you just barfed.  
You play it cool.  Act like you were just peeing. 

But there's one thing you're now certain of:  You never want to see a piece of cake again.

Not ever.  No more.  You hate cake.  You'll never touch it again.

And then...the bakery brings out the piece de resistance. 

A kind of cake you've never had before - a caramel-brandy extravaganza, with edible flowers made of butterscotch candy floss.

And even though, five seconds ago, you were sure you didn't want to eat cake ever again...
well, you've never had caramel-brandy cake. 

AND WHAT IF IT'S AWESOME? 

What if it's your favorite kind of cake ever, and you never know, because you missed tasting it because you pussed out when it really counted?

That's what Date #5 was for me.

By Friday, I was cured of women.
Never wanted to fuck again.

                                           [via conversations about]


I was sore and tired and as limp as a noodle. 
I had weird bruises.  There was carpet burn.

I had had my cake.  I never wanted to see cake again. 

And the only reason I didn't just say "fuckit" and cancel my date for Friday night was because it was the piece de resistance...

I was meeting a couple.

                                             [via dirtyprettything]

This is the email they sent me:

So you want to have lots and lots of sex huh?
I got what you're looking for. Me and my lady will fuck you into next week.
We are an open dyke couple; she is more "femme" while I am more "butch". We are both drug and disease-free, non-smokers and up for anything. 
She is a tall beautiful blonde; I am tall, dark-haired and pixie-like. She is 35, in-shape, and SMOKIN' (if I say so myself).
I am 32, HWP, and pretty darn cute.
Would send a pic, but don't have a good one of both of us.

A couple!  A dyke couple!

                                                                      [via nevver]

Fags, I was thrilled.  I've never had a threesome with two women.  
I guess you could call it a "life goal".


However, I didn't let myself get too excited. 


They didn't send a picture.  Plus, "a tall, beautiful blonde"?

                                                                      [via hipcumon]

Who says that?  Nobody says that.


They were probably men.  Only men pretending to be women describe themselves like that. 


Bah. 
A tall, beautiful blonde.  A dark-haired, pixie-like butch. 


I would believe it when I effing saw it. 


Certain I would never hear from them again, I actually sent them this:  
Thanks for your interest, but I think you're a dude.  

Ha ha HA.  Fuck off, Craigslist predators!

Ten minutes later, I got an email back.  All the email said was, "Ha. We're women. If you'd like to voice-verify, we'd be happy to speak with you."   

There were two pictures attached. 
And...they looked good!  The femme was tall and pretty!  The butch really was pixie-like! 

                                          [via lizzyhatfreak]


There was also a phone number.
These dykes were not new to the Craigslist game.

So...I called them.  What the heck. 
I talked to both of them - their names were Cerise and Ryan. 

Cerise was the femme and she had a deep voice.  Very throaty.  Ryan was the butch and she cleared her throat a lot. 

We had kind of an awkward conversation. 



Me:  Hello?  Hello?


Voices: (overlapping voices) Hello?  Hi!  Hey.  Krista?


Me:  Uh...am I on speakerphone?


You know how sometimes you can't get the rhythm of a phone conversation going?  You keep interrupting each other without meaning to?  That was what was going on. 

                                                [via lesfemmes]

However - they were both nice and cute-sounding and not men.

Ryan teasingly commended me on my level of caution. 
Cerise kept laughing with that whiskey voice.

Suddenly I wasn't so sore anymore.

We agreed to meet at The Stumbling Monk at 8 pm to "see if we all hit it off." 

Ahehehehe.

                                           [via cutegirlsmakemenervous]


So.
I got there early, actually got a parking space within the same block as the bar (did I rescue a baby in another life?) and managed to secure a table. 


I was wearing my best red "seduction" dress and, in honor of the occasion  (Baby's 1st All-Female Threesome!) was wearing high-heeled boots. 
Wildly uncomfortable. 
Obviously worth it.


I could not. wait.


But...20 minutes later, I was still waiting.


Dum de dum de dum...


Ryan and Cerise were late. 

I started to get really nervous.  Wouldn't it be a terrible way to end the Week of Debauchery if I got stood up?

                                                 (by canovix)

I suddenly wasn't so sure about any of this.

I fidgeted.  I peeled the fresh red polish off my fingernails.  I examined my hair for split ends and went to the bathroom twice, just to make sure I looked ok. 
I played with my phone in that desperate way you do when you're trying to look busy.


By 8:35, I was ready to leave. 

Who did these bitches think they were?  Why was I sitting in a yet another dark bar when I don't even drink in my cutest red dress waiting for two slow assholes who might be serial killers after all and couldn't even bother to show up on time for no-strings-attached fucking? 

Why did I want to sleep with two strangers, anyway?  What was I thinking?  Was I a just huge slut, but not in a positive way like I'd always thought? 


Was this all just so I could check off "threesome with two women" on my list of experiences? 
What was I doing there?

                                              [via fringeandglasses]

Once I start in with the deep questions I sometimes can't stop.
 
I had worked myself into a good lather.  I grabbed my bag and paid my tab. 

Fuck them.

And then I got a text.

"Hey, we're late"  it said. "U cool? Be ther 1/2 hr" .

No apology.  Not "Hey, I'm really sorry, but we're running late, totally understand if you're pissed, sorry sorry sorry"  but "Be ther 1/2 hr".

And you know what?

No.

I didn't want my first all-layday threesome to happen like this.


In my head, my perfect threesome involved me meeting two elfin boi-dykes who were British and first made out with each other for hours while I watched and then ravaged me in a very cool London apartment that smelled like cloves. 

They worshipped my body, were best friends, and couldn't believe their luck.

As I pictured this, I realized something:  I was willing to negotiate on the cloves and the locale (other acceptable locations were Tokyo, Taipei, Paris, Sao Paulo, Milan, or Buenos Aires)...but not much else.

I've heard that sexual fantasies are often disappointing in real life.

                                                [via hellogirls]
 
Well, here was my big chance to have a threesome with two other lesbians. 
They would "be ther 1/2 hr".

Hmph.  Nothin' doin'. 
I decided to hold out for my dream.

Outside The Stumbling Monk, I took deep, head-clearing breaths.

It was still fucking raining.

I got in my car and drove home. 
Kelly was waiting for me. 
So was a re-run of America's Next Top Model. 

We had a great night.

Now, don't worry.  The perfect first all-woman threesome still lives on in my mind, lezzies.  I'll get there someday. 

Someday I'll walk into a club in London where M.I.A. is playing and there they'll be:  Adorable best-friend bois with British accents and tattoos.  They'll make out for hours on the dance floor, call their cigarettes "fags", and then they'll take me home, where we will fuck all night and I'll make jokes about sandwiches.

I just don't think I can settle.

                                               [via hipsterdykes]

As my Week of Debauchery drew to a close, I reflected on the many lessons I had learned.


Listen to your intuition.

Don't let curiosity lead you down a path filled with lizards.

Only fuck people who ask about and respect your limits.

A little danger can be exciting. Try the whip.   

There really are sex clubs in America.  You can easily go to them, but you have to know someone and be on your best behavior, like when you meet the Queen.

                                           and finally

If something is important to you...you have to be willing to wait for it.

                                                                       Day 72 (by John .)                 

Hoo!  We made it!  Week of Debauchery!


We'll hafta do this again sometime, eh?