Saturday, March 28, 2009


I’m living the life that most guys only dream of, or pay for with American Express, Visa, or singles. Women throw themselves at me. It’s an affliction. But that’s the price you pay when you’re a 15% lesbian.

Like the time my living room became a strip club. Janet Jackson was present in spirit, riding the baseline. My cute friend that fights men off with a stick, and once with pepper spray moves the coffee table aside and hits the dance floor. I think she’s getting her cardio on. She unbuttons her teeny sweater, down to her camisole. I figure she’s breaking a sweat. But undress continues, she lifts the white camisole over her head, long hair spilling from it, on to her tiny flowered bra. I haven’t felt gay in months, yet I’m getting excited. Next the jeans, shimmying out of them, eyes fixed on mine. No mixed messages here. The girl is in her bra and thong, and even Janet seems to be getting increasingly wet as the tune throbs and builds. I won’t say I’m not gay, because I hate labels. I’ve actually tried to be gay, tried very hard in college, but it just wouldn’t stick. But I’ve got a thong in my face, long hair blanketing me, nipples through silk bra. That’s when I croaked in that voice that just can’t hide horny, “let’s get pizza!”

That wasn’t the first episode of my career as a 15% lesbian. The first was in the 7th grade. The prettiest girl in the class invited me for a sleep over at her house on the beach, just the two of us. The invitation included the option to ditch the bottom bunk and share the top bunk with her. So silent, just the two of us on our sides, facing each other. Me trying hard to hold my breath, thinking it would stop the pounding. I was ashamed, even more ashamed then when she coaxed me into the shower to rinse off our sandy bodies. We were close and curious, and it stopped at that. That was my initiation into my career of half-assed lesbianism.

Years later, it was the captain of the women’s swim team at B.U. I was already dating the captain of the men’s swim team. I didn’t want to be hog the deep end of the pool. I should have chosen her over him. She offered to buy me drinks. He made me order the small juice at breakfast and only one egg. And they say dykes are cheap. But not as cheap as me, ponying up just 15% per usual.

Soon after came the blond thrill seeker dorm mate who had a penchant for shoplifting and bong hits before breakfast. She had a twin brother who was equally blond hot. She invited me to their parent’s house in Connecticut for the weekend. I was going to go for it. But once I arrived she must have smelled the readiness wafting off of me. She split with her ex boyfriend for the night. I sat dejected in her teddy beared bedroom, when her male doppelganger appeared at the door. He took my hand and led me to a moonlit golf course. Next night it was back on with sister and tequila shots, I was sure I was going to add twins to my resume, just one at a time. Suddenly the bar became a minefield. She wanted to know what had gone on with her twin. And that was that. As I slipped out of the house her twin hissed, “you blew everything”. I caught his drift, and it was a taboo-dirty drift, indeed.

Gorgeous girls don’t pop into my mind when I’m touching myself, yet they pop up into my life like a bad “B” comedy. My high school gym teacher driving me home in her new Corvette 80 MPH in a 35 MPH zone. The ring-nosed Latina following me with a non-threatening glance, then more threateningly down the subway platform. The CEO’s Maxim-ready assistant, dirty whispering in my ear my very first week at work. What does a girl have to do to make it stop? I bet sleeping with a woman would break the curse. But what fun would that be? My career as a 15% lesbian would be over.

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