Some people might not see national television as an opportunity to wear a fleece vest, but my lesbian friend is not one of them. You can read vest and lesbian and do the math for yourself, and that math may or may not equal some extremely unkind conclusions having to do with flannel, construction boots and Carhart pants, but she’s not like that. She’s no stereotype. Unless lesbian stereotypes coach softball, YouTube Brandi Carlile all day and don’t wear makeup.
That sounds pretty dykey now that I think about it.
Let’s backtrack: she’s too tiny to beat anyone up and she has really pretty eyes (unless they are focused on your crotch, at which point, they are still very pretty, but intensely gay) and she only owns one dog- so almost a heterosexual. Let’s consider the fact that she doesn’t smoke pot but always looks like she just ended a Phish tour and is so short and so youthful looking that hanging out with her is almost like babysitting… until…
Tuesday afternoon when my work phone rings, “What are you doing?” A person in a fleece vest asks me.
“I’m working.” I report, then reconsider. “Kind of.”
“Have you ever seen a video of scissoring?”
“What is it? Is it better than softballing?”
Side note: I don’t know what softballing is, but it’s a term I loosely coined for anything gay she does with another girl but which isn’t sex. I don’t really need the details; it’s enough for me to imagine them dressed up in knee socks, baseball caps and XXL shirts that button up the front while groping each other.
“It’s when your legs come together like a pair of scissors and then you move them back and fo-“
“I’m good.” I interrupt, making a distressed face at my phone. “Good. Thanks.”
“It’s fun.” She adds.
“Sounds fun. Will you be doing this with anyone anytime soon?”
“No. Did I send you the photo of the lesbian dressed up like her dogs yet?”
“Nooooooooo….” I can feel the smile covering my face. “Please do.”
“Being a lipstick lesbian is such a bad deal.” She grumbles.
“To be fair, you wear fleece vests in public, so I don’t really know if lipstick lesbian is the right term.”
“A.) Fuck you. B.) It’s a down vest. How many times do I have to tell you that? It’s down. Down is cool and hip and casual and fleece is not.”
“But it’s still a vest, right?”
“Okay. I just sent it to you.”
God! Bless! The! Internet! There is now a Match photo of a middle aged woman on my screen dressed like an inmate (complete with gray stripes and a cap!) with two gray hounds dressed identically. Naturally, she resides in Aurora. Her hobbies include: dog walking, watching movies and violent video games. She moved to Colorado three years ago, but often ponders what it would be like to go home. Last thing she read? A self-help book on Paganism. “Now, that, is awesome.” I exhale into the phone.
“It’s so unfair.” A little lesbian whines into my ear.
“If you can believe it, she’s really into camping.” I report.
“Oh I believe it.” A discouraged sigh escapes her mouth. “This makes dating gym teachers and cops seem totally straight.”
“Maybe we should go back to Her Bar.” She suggests.
I desperately want Fleece Vests to find love, marry that love, use a lot of crazy science to make a baby with that love and then share insurance and a lifetime of domestic boredom with that woman, but I’m not sure Her Bar on Colfax is where it’s going to happen. Their website makes it seem like maybe it could happen there and the mere fact that it’s a bar dedicated strictly to lesbians would almost seem encouraging, but last time we went it was little more than a prom of horrors. A woman that looked like a vagina-ed Sam Kinison slow danced with a beefy type dressed like Charlie Chaplin and Fleece Vests made the observation, “It’s wearing a hat and can probably grow a mustache.”
Which brings us to one crucial point, where do lesbians go to meet other lesbians in this town? Hot lesbians? Tiny lesbians that are committed to the cause; committed to professional sports and scissoring and not just having a college curiosity. If you know, tell me.