TB: "That'd be really gay."
Me: "That'd be like, the gayest shit ever."
Me: "OMIGOD! I'm just gonna write the gayest shit ever!"
TB: "Totally dude, just do the GAYEST SHIT EVER. Like, candles, cuddling and shit--"
SUNDAY TOP TEN: THE GAYEST SHIT EVER
10. Processing Emotions
Lede: "I just have all these feelings, you know?" OR "So this morning, in my bed, where I was sitting with five other big beautiful dykes, eating organic farm-bred pomegranates and Krispy Kremes, we got to talking about feelings. Then we decided that instead of talking about feelings, we would try some sexual healing, so we started taking our clothes off, but carefully, while checking in with everyone to be sure we were all still feeling OK about the orgy that was certain to ensue once all our breasts were out there in the open--"
Reality: Feelings? Do people still have those? Who has time? The first rule of Riese Club, don't talk about feelings at Riese Club.
Lede: "Many women look to other people or to Fiddle-Faddles for comfort in times of need. I just rub my face in the face of my cat and make cooing noises, almost as if I too were an animal. I lose myself in the ecstasy of allergenic cat dander and tuna-flavored cat saliva. But then the other day, I was playing with my girlfriend when Mr. Fiddle jumped onto her bare ass--"
Reality: I hate cats. "Hate" is a strong word: I'm allergic to cats, and also cat-loving is just not in my disposition. I can't be all ooh-ahh about this little furball lazy thing that pees in a box of smelly gravel stuff. I've liked some kittens though. They're cute and sort of innocent, and haven't yet grown up to be lazy fat hairy dumb fucks like their parents. I don't like when cats jump on me, and I don't like it when a person has a cat-haired apartment. I do, however, think Garfield is okay, but mostly as a vehicle for Odie. I'm just skeptical of the whole cat "thing," that's all.
8. Womyn's Studies/Herstory
Lede: "This weekend is the big march against [whatever]! Papi and I are making really big posters right now. Papi thinks it would really make a better point if I were to get naked and paint [whatever political slogan] across my breasts, to reclaim the motherland, you know? So I said, Papi, whatever it takes to get the point across to the Republican assholes, I'll do it, and she said, stop wasting time, the patriarchy is gaining speed as you talk and talk and so I took off my shirt (no bra, I burned them all)--"
Reality: I admit I totes love Women's Studies and probably would have studied it as a minor if I hadn't been so focused on getting the hell out of Dodge (A faster feat with only one major). But I need to save my energy for when it really matters: when you're stuck in a conversation with an ignorant douchebag who has subscribed to Girls Gone Wild since like, before VCRs or Spring Break were even invented.
7. Babies and Ovulation and Other Things Related to the Miracle of Life
Reality: On a Maturity scale of 1 to 10, I am closer to "infant" than "infant caretaker."
Lede: "I was at Home Depot this morning getting some screwdrivers and hammers and chainsaws to hang from my new toolbelt when I realized it was time to do what Jessalyn and I had always dreamed of doing: turn the basement into a rec room! But first, Jessalyn suggested we do a little 'power drilling'--"
Reality: Um, that's what ex-boyfriends are for. JK. Lo used to be like "You're such a lesbian Bob Vila today!" when I would fix things around the house. Yeah, fix things. With tools. Mostly just a hammer. I use hammers for lots of things. Like the Indigo Girls say, "I gotta get out of bed and get a hammer and a nail, learn how to use my hands ..." etc.
Lede: "At the end of a long day at work, there's nothing I love more than curling into the bulky arms of my girlfriend Fanny and watching old episodes of Dante's Cove on here! on demand. That's all, just cuddling. We used to have sex, but then we decided we'd rather just cuddle."
Reality: Cuddling is nice. It's lovely. It really is. However, the best part of cuddling is when you realize you're sort of like, rubbing up against someone's leg, and that feels good, like maybe better than cuddling? Like, A LOT better?
Cuddle sounds a lot like curdle. Like curdled milk, which is bad, and makes you sick. But not sick like crabs or something, which you can get from actual sex, so that's one thing about cuddling that's better. Also, it takes less energy and is, from time to time, not entirely unpleasant.
Also, anyone who calls it "cudds" never gets to cuddle again ever.
Dina calls me sobbing: "Riese, I just can't take it anymore! It's so--" She hiccups. My phone beeps. Alicia's on the other line. I ignore it. Dina continues: "Riese, I don't know what to dooooooo--hang on a sec, I'm getting cigarettes--"
"Dina, Tell me you aren't crying at the store?"
"Of course I'm crying at the store," she exhales. "I can't talk in the house!" She wails. I hear a cash register chime.
"What should I doooooo--" she begins again. My computer beeps. Alicia's IMing me: I'M COMING OVER. CAN'T TAKE IT.
"Do you think this looks hot?" Leisha, my straight (and often barely clothed) roommate who I used to sleep with before I met my girlfriend, asks. She's behind me, wearing my dress, rubbing lotion on her legs but I don't have time to think, because just as I'm turning to Alicia's latest message and listening to Dina sob on speaker phone, I notice an email from a this hot mess of a girl claiming that I'm a heartless bitch for refusing to acknowledge the love that allegedly passed between us when we hooked up TWICE about ten lifetimes ago.
I'M NOT COMING TO YR BIRTHDAY DINNER. Alicia types. NOT IF DINA IS GOING.
"Tell me if you like this dress, please?" Leisha puts one hand on her hip and the other on my arm, yanking me to her, blocking my view of her dress because when she pulls me up against her, her mouth is on my cheek because I turn my head just in time and--in the background Dina is still crying on speaker phone, the AIM is ding-ding-dinging and then, that loud buzz from downstairs that my girlfriend is here and so I tear myself away from Leisha's hot fast unstable energy and rip-roar down the stairs like Road Runner and thrust the door open like a happy hostess and grab my girlfriend's neck--
The Reality: Usually I somehow get involved in the drama in the start (sometimes that's my fault, sometimes it isn't) and then I run away really fast and say that I don't do drama and leave everyone else to deal.
3. Knocking Balls Around
Lede: "I've been playing softball for the Northampton Peaches in the Labia Majora League for 10 years but we didn't know real competition till last Friday when we faced off against the Providence Lady Lighting. It brought back memories of rough n' tumble rugby matches in college, which brought back memories of slipping my hand between the waistband of my co-captain's uniform shorts and the taut skin of her stomach and plowing my fist inside her--"
The Reality: If Elliptical Training could be a competitive sport, I'd kick some ass. Or if like, I hadn't stopped playing basketball and soccer in favor of going to boarding school to study poetry. But I think it's sexy when girls (and boys, but this is supposed to be an all-gay-themed blog, right? avoiding the bullseye, etc?) play sports.
2. Singing Along to the Indigo Girls on road trips
The Lede: Robyn pulled her iPod from the pocket of her cargo shorts and hooked it up to the stereo. "This shit is the JAM!" She said, cranking up her all-time faves from Swamp Ophelia and Nomads, Indians and Saints. "I hope "Get out the Map" is on this mix!" Jo yelled from the backseat, where her head was wedged neatly between her girlfriend's legs. How long till my soul gets it right? I sang, full of glee like a schoolgirl.
The Reality: I actually am considering writing about how much I love the Indigo Girls. And how much I always have, and always will. There's no joke here. I really do love the Indigo Girls.
Obviously, I need ideas, ASAP.
1. Watching "L Word" Highlight Video Montages on YouTube at 2am When You Are Supposed to Be Sleeping or Finishing Your Blog or Talking on the Phone for Three Hours Like a Teenager or Writing One of the 30,000 Emails I Owe or Whatever
The Lede: I am officially the biggest loser on earth.
The Reality: Like, times ten million. OK mostly I've become fascinated with this one girl, Amnesia, who has made 54--FIFTY FUCKING FOUR--music video tributes to Shane and Carmen. She has set clips of this sexy duo to the tune of her favorite terrible songs (e.g., "Lips of an Angel"). I don't know how she found this much footage. There must be repeats, because I don't think all four seasons of this show would actually equal the length of 54 bad pop songs and I refuse to watch another just to see if like, there were some deleted scenes that I missed or something?
Maybe just one more.
God, this is the gayest shit EVER.