Comedic piece for a feature spot in a novel, chosen from one of three
topics (politics, religion, sexuality).
All work copyright Larissa R. Young, unless otherwise
noted.
**************************************************
The original title for this session was going to be something classy, perhaps “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing”, or “My Boyfriend’s Closet”, but that’s not the story, at least not entirely. My opting for the title you just read at the top was because it covers the premise, as well as gives possibility for other options – of which this branches off into several.
It had been a few days since my last venture out of the house, so when the phone-call for the meeting came, my acceptance was instant. The office was set in a luxurious coastal setting complete with palms and orchids. Things went smoothly and on the way out a small elegant café caught my eye, specializing in pastries, and (I’m sure) tiny finger sandwiches of the egg salad and tuna variety. There were a few errands left to run, so reluctantly the drive towards home was started, mental notes of the location made, as well as appointments in my mind to eat somewhere as similar to that as possible – or at least recreate it on my roof.
On the way home, driving past the exit you could take for the Cove, my friend T called. I refer to her as T because this is how she introduces herself, painfully tight grip in rough hands, reminiscent of a bear’s paw engulfing a kitten’s. Blunt and to the point, T considers herself only a female by a biological fault in the Universe. I love this girl dearly but there are some days where I can almost feel the beginnings of a migraine… much like the day we went shopping.
Mostly it’s just been some casual barhopping, lunch here and there. In the five years I’ve known T, she has been a wonderful friend to me and is someone to be trusted with almost any dark secret. However in the past year or so her life has become, sadly, what I’ve started to consider almost commonplace within the lesbian community I know – drama, drunken debauchery, a tad too many substance abuse issues, and more drama. All of this involves or revolves around people that she or her friends have slept with, thought of sleeping with, passed around, and passed by. She considers herself “Gay”, labeled with a capital G, and my mindset has almost come to accept that. I have several gay friends that I’m not sure how to classify; they range from blatantly homosexual males to ultra-butch females, to some that are just plain confused. It’s hard to find proper terminology without getting under someone’s skin, and just forget about explaining this to the family back East! Most of them still consider it scandalous enough to giggle and whisper behind cupped hands if they see two people of the same sex holding hands in public.
That’s a different tangent however – this one is difficult enough to keep on track as it is. Before we go any farther, an issue must be brought to light and made crystal clear, as an azure lake in July or some such nonsense. I am not homophobic, prejudiced, racist, nor do I have a problem with non-heterosexual folk. I am, however, sometimes made to feel awkward or uncomfortable in situations where the lifestyle of one’s sexual preference seems to take precedence. As a matter of fact I consider myself bisexual, and will discuss my interests at length upon questioning. At this time though, the long-term relationship with my live-in boyfriend is suiting me just fine, and I feel no need to leave that situation for any other. Speaking of bisexuality and different experiences, please note that this particular writing session is dealing with gay and lesbian only, particularly lesbian. The many different branches of sexual preference are not something I plan on tackling at the moment.
Now that my preference and tolerance level is out of the way, the subject at hand seemed to be an overwhelming one. From situations experienced first-hand, it seems to be easier for me to spend time with
a single (as in solitary) female or
a small group of guys as opposed to
a single (as in solitary) male or
any size group of females.
This of course is an occasion-oriented thing, but for the most part it A &
B seem to be working out just fine for me. Two other points to make at this
time are:
If you are a male who prefers males, I consider you to be “gay”.
If you are a female who prefers females, I consider you to be “lesbian”.
When I have spent an extended amount of time with a group of lesbian women, not
only does the feeling of being ostracized threaten to overtake me; but my
awkwardness of being clearly the only hetero person turns me into a hetero
bitter person. If the group of people is closer in general with each other than
with me, i.e. if I’m a friend of a friend, then the discomfort level will be
that much higher. This problem does not seem to occur as much to me around
solitary or groups of gay guys. This may be because the majority of the
lesbians exposed to me have been too masculine and too “stereo-typical male
hitting on a female”, which bothers me. I appreciate attractive females, but I
don’t appreciate being forced to hit on them, or laughed at if I do not. Even
in a joking manner none of this ever sat well with me. My nature is shy,
reserved, introverted – until after a few initial meetings, at which point my
true self comes out. The above statements cover why so many invitations for
barhopping or clubbing have been turned down.
In any case, trying to get back to the tangent at hand, T and I were about to do lunch and go shopping. It had been months since our last time spent together, and there were a few spare hours in our afternoon – why not? For some reason I felt uncomfortable; my recent unemployment left my finances depleted, and the shoes on my feet weren’t meant for lengthy ventures. Luckily she only had a few things to pick up for work so the trip shouldn’t take too long.
Halfway through Abercrombie & Fitch I knew this was a terrible idea. Her seven bags of men’s clothing and my two arms holding what she couldn’t, we headed back to the Mall Concierge for the second time. Then it was off to Macy’s for my actual trial – Shopping For Men’s Underwear.
Let’s get something straight (no pun intended). When I shop for underwear for a guy, all my guys (excluding one) have worn boxers. They have explained the difference between boxer-briefs, swim trunks, silk boxers, stiff cotton boxers, soft cotton boxers, proper occasions to wear them, and clothing that will work well with all choices. There is, as you know, a reason for this – it’s much like bra shopping for women; to each their own. This is why, when T asked me what medium-sized white briefs converted to in women’s sizes, I made that face. Some version of, “I’m not sure – I just buy girl-panties” came from my mouth and gingerly set down the package of Hanes’ in my hand. For some reason this was all very disturbing to me.
T also ahem, packs, on occasion. Mostly for the Scene, for clubbing, for nights that she plans on taking home a female or two and actually using what she has packed away. I was not in the mood or state of mind to ask if she’d be taking that into consideration. The minutes crept along and the stories of men shifting uncomfortably in Victoria’s Secret fitting room chairs or watching their women try on the ninth pair of black strappy sandals (Jimmy Choo only, thanks) made more sense now. Instead of being surrounded by a sea of pink velvet and feminine perfume, it was starchy cotton and khaki as far as the eye could see. “God, I hate Corporate America. Why can’t I just find a good muscle-cut polo anywhere?” I wanted to die. She chose random cluttered aisles to pull on different shirts, all of which looked the same. Searching desperately for something that my boyfriend would wear, the realization dawned on me – this was the section Bill Lumbergh would shop in. My comfort levels dropped to a new low and I tried to blend in behind some cargo pants.
After that we reached a new devastating limit – she had her mountains of clothing, packs of tightie-whities, and now wanted to try it all on. Here I was, in a form-fitting black Prada business suit, Steve Madden stilettos, flower in my hair, and she needed an opinion on seventeen pairs of Diesel jeans that looked exactly the same. Except for these two pairs that made her butt look flat, and she wasn’t all about that. My mind boggled, I started to sweat. Stand up comics would have had a field day with this. Things were progressing well, she was explaining how guy’s pockets are better because they’re meant to hold more than say, a dime, when things went all sorts of awry – a man walked into the next fitting booth. She had taken the largest one and I was seated facing the door out to the store as well as her booth, and the male was in between. She was mostly done by this time (Thank you, Lord), except for that now I had to help her with her least favorite part: bra shopping.
Did my ears deceive? Was it Christmas already? It was. After some dilemma with a credit limit, we headed over to the women’s section. For some reason T thought it would be okay to be rude to the saleswoman (clearly engrossed with helping an 80-year-old woman look at pillowcases); belligerently wondering where, exactly, the sports bras were. With a wave of her hand the saleswoman let us know they were “Over there, around the corner”. Yes, there they were, all two racks of them. T wanted then to know where the cute ones were, because these were …ugly. Oddly enough they looked like every other sports bra I’d seen and/or worn, black and grey versions of stretchy cotton with thick elastic. They were for active wear, not club wear, so my confusion remained. Of course we happened to stumble into the lacey fluffy floaty feathery marabou-trimmed Lingerie Section, in which I found that my bra size had gone up several since my last purchase. Unsure if that was positive or negative, it seems to be a necessary evil here in Southern California.
Neither of us happened to be in the mood for Victoria’s Secret style measuring, so we took guesses and headed off to the fitting room. They were all occupied save for one and she wanted to share. My apologies, but fitting rooms are my weakest – especially ones bathed in hideous florescent light. A bare swinging bulb would have been better. Some time later we both emerged, unhappy and tired. She needed to pick up a few more pairs of underwear, something my brain could not process, since she’d already bought out one entire rack. Another purchase thrown in – packs of thick white cotton socks with the grey toes. I don’t care who you are or what you wear, those are the most comfortable socks on the planet. Tempted as I was to steal a pack from her, my optimism at this trip being done was far too great.
We finally got back to her car, filled it with all the purchases, and decided
that lunch was necessary for certain. Ben & Jerry’s sounded like a great
option, who doesn’t love the ice cream? As I ordered my New York Fudge Brownie
Chocolate Death Chunk of Happiness (2 scoops, thanks), I realized that ice
cream would be officially better than shopping with a lesbian, for a lesbian,
ever again.