“Let’s go to a regular bar, so I can meet some BOYS, girl!” My best friend Ruba* roared to me on a bitter-cold, mid-winter Friday night.
I knew exactly what darling Ruby meant by “regular” bar. She meant “straight” bar. I took a deep breath. “Fine,” I said as I exhaled the weight of the world.
Truth be told I had been dragging poor Rubes to gay bars for the past decade. She’s patiently sucked back cocktails as Owen (our other best friend, who is a gay man) and I cruise the gay bars for love, sex and drag shows, every single weekend since we were greasy-faced teenagers. It was due time I threw my best friend a bone and sucked back cocktails with her at the straight bar (no pun intended).
We decided to go to a bar on The Upper East Side because it was twenty degrees below zero and I lived on the Upper East Side at the time. The Upper East Side is the mecca of “bro bars” in New York City, especially on 2nd avenue which was two blocks from my six-story walk-up apartment.
The moment we stepped into the bar and took in the vision of bearded boys in white button-down shirts slugging back shots and bestowing beautiful girls with sad one-liners, I took a moment and pressed the proverbial pause button on life. I stared hard out the window and began to pray.
“Are you there, Lesbian Goddess? It’s me Zara. I just want to thank you for making me gay. Not neccessarily because men are vile, but they just don’t have the swag and sex-appeal of women. Dating is hard enough. At least I get to go out with smooth-talking women who know how to pick up a lady and not well-intentioned but clueless boys who think cliched one-liners are actual turn-ons. I mean maybe they are for some women, but not for me. So thank you for making me a LEZ! I love you.”
“What are you doing?” Ruba asked bewildered, her chocolate milk eyes the size of saucers. I had my hands clasped together in prayer and my eyes were slam closed shut, right in the middle of the pub.
“Sorry!” I said, realizing that I was smiling so big my face was throbbing. “I was just thanking goddess for making me a lesbian.”
“You’re such a bitch.” Ruba said, rolling her eyes.
“I know.” I chirped.
And together we got super drunk at the “regular” bar and by 2am even she agreed that gay bars were a far superior option (“only because of the drag!” She insisted).
Here are 10 other specific moments that the universe made me thank the great goddess for making me a Sapphic Princess in a sea of Queens.
1. When I get to wear my girlfriend’s supremely sexy leather pants that I could not afford.
One of my favorite parts of living la vida lez (that was terrible and cringe-worthy, I know and I deeply apologize it’s just that I’m getting old and the desire to be corny grows stronger with each day) is the fact that I get to borrow my girlfriend’s pants.
I don’t like to spend my own cold-cash on pants as I’m more of a “slutty dress” kinda girl, but hell yes do I f*cking love the occasional night out in buttery leather pants! Lucky for me, every girl I’ve ever dated is a leather lesbian (and happens to be my size—does that make me a narcissist? Don’t answer).
2. When I heard a dude yell “blowjob week!” when his girlfriend told him she was on her period.
If I had to not only endure insufferable menstrual cramps (thank you ovarian cyst!) but also be expected to give blowjobs (gag) when I’m on the rag; I would be even more of a raging nutty mental headcase when I’m bleeding between the thighs.
3. When I can bring a date to a boring “girl’s night!” with my straight friends.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus! The number of times I’ve been obligated to go to some cheesy “girl’s night” or some god-awful bachelorette party with my straight female friends, is more times than I care to count on all ten of my not-so-perfectly-polished fingertips.
However, I get to bring a date to these painful events because I date le girls, and together we can make the night more bearable by sneaking off to the bathroom to make out (or have sex, if the time permits).
4. When I coach my straight friends through a pregnancy scare.
I do want babies, but not today, ladies! At least I know my pregnancy will be uh, very, very planned. I can also have glorious one-nighters without the fear of getting knocked up, which is a big plus. Because I like my one-nighters!
5. When I walk into my clean, flower-adorned apartment and it doesn’t smell like socks.
I’m going to make a wild, wild generalization: All heterosexual men under 35 have apartments that smell like socks. Even if they’re tidy gentleman, you can smell the socks from the damn hallway.
I don’t think it’s their fault, per se, I think it’s something hormonal and genetic, but don’t fret straight babes. Once he hits 40, the smell will soften.
Oh and “Pro Tip:” If he is under 35 and his apartment doesn’t smell socks, he’s probably gay (if you don’t know I’m kidding I’m worried for you).
6. When a really sweet lesbian helps me carry my heavy suitcase up the stairs, and the dude sitting on the steps just sits and watches.
A few years ago I lived on The Upper East Side of Manhattan in a six-story walk-up apartment. One time I was coming back from a week-long trip and was clearly struggling to get my extra-large luggage up the stairs. The only person in clear view was a bro-ish looking dude around the age of 25. He sat and stared at me as I huffed and puffed and struggled my way up the stairs. And then a gorgeous lesbian wearing a gorgeous flannel appeared on the staircase.
“Can I help you with your bag?” She said, kindly.
“Oh, I’m so glad I’m gay.” I dreamily thought to myself as I gleefully accepted her help.
7. When I’m at the gym.
Everyone knows that I detest the entire male species when I’m at the gym. Is it horrendous of me? Absolutely. I never said this was rational, but it’s the truth, babes. Every single time I have to patiently wait as some bro texts for twenty minutes on the leg-press, I thank the goddess herself that she made me a lesbian and I go work on my abs instead. After all, lesbian sex takes some serious upper body strength.
8. The entire month of June (Pride Month!).
We get an entire month where it’s socially acceptable for us to don bizarre slutty rainbow garb without judgment and drink into oblivion without being sent to rehab, all in the name of ~gay pride~ baby!
9. “Straight Bars.”
Not dogging on straight bars (OK, maybe I am, but I’m a flawed, biased creature sometimes) but the energy is extremely animalistic in *most* straight bars. It’s like being in the wild! Men spreading their peacock feathers for women, women feigning disinterest in order for the men to spread their peacock feathers even wider. It’s very primal.
I’m into primal, but not every single night! It get’s exhausting!
10. “Gay Bars.”
Gay bars are the collective safe-haven, they are where we grew up and grazed lips with another girl for the first time ever. They’re teeming with glitter and drag queens and fabulous diversity and unabashed sexual freedom! Every single time I’m in a gay bar I feel like I’m in Church. I go there to be among my people and recharge my batteries when the darkness of the world feels too intense.
I can’t imagine my life without my home. And my home is the gay bar, always and forever.
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