Zoinks, Scoob! It's a Lesbian Evolution!

I pull up to the counter, dragging my life-on-wheels and ask for a different room.

“I know I booked a king but I need two beds."
“Yes, Ms. Michel.”

Before I became a gold member at Hilton, I was just “ma’am.”  Now, all over Louisiana, clerks that I’ve never met call me by my name.   I wonder if there’s a database with my photo.  In cities where I’ve dropped off TwoGirls cards, I wonder if they’ve copy and pasted my profile picture in their database.  (Have these counter operators read my entries and wonder if I’m travelling with Love Heroine; do they agree that the world can’t live without lesbians; is the cute one 1 punch away from receiving a free toaster oven (Huh?-Hint: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKfEdjlRxSk)).  If they didn’t get the photo from my TwoGirls profile, they got it after first coffee and a shower because I look like a teenage bat boy before 7 a.m.

When I ask for a second bed, I feel embarrassment rising. (Velma—from “When I Had My First Hysterectomy”—is driving over the state line and meeting me in Louisiana.)  Let me ask you two questions:

Does it embarrass you to check into a hotel with a woman?

Even if the woman is a relative or friend and obviously not a sex partner, have you ever caught the clerk imagining contortions he’d like to see you and your “friend” do naked?  

I look for signs—the wrinkled forehead, the rolled back eyes, the open mouth.

I wasn’t ever embarrassed when I had a girlfriend.  I loved her, so I couldn’t be embarrassed about being with her.  But single—that’s different; I’m one lesbian standing alone with an empty excuse on my arm.  And, I feel like I’m apologizing to Gopher.  (Is this Love Boat comparison making any sense?  Who is this generation’s Tattoo?)  Let’s face it—people who work in hotels don’t care about what goes on behind closed doors as long as it can be cleaned before 3 pm.  And lucky for them, Velma and I won’t be doing any of what Gopher’s imagining.

When Velma arrives, we go out for boiled shrimp and spicy crabs.  After we’ve rinsed the red-pepper fire from our mouths, are bloated in misery with Cajun salts, and wishing I hadn’t ordered the beans&rice, we google the local gay bar. I want to drop a TwoGirls card in the tip jar or tape it to the bathroom mirror.  The parking attendant at the restaurant wants us to pull out, so he gladly gives us directions.  Then, he offers an odd expression and bids us luck. It’s been more than 6.1 seconds so he’s got a good idea that I’m gay, but Velma—no; no way.  I imagine he’s trying to figure out what we’re up to.

Lining the wall near the door is a fifteen foot strip of gold streamers on the outside wall. 

“There’s the glitter,” Velma giggles. 

She works in the art world, so she’s been (dragged) to her fair share of gay bars.  (She said she would comment on my recent blog about the injustices against and exclusions of gays in the art world because it took her two decades to find a straight man in the pack.  I truly hope she will pontificate because she taught me everything I know about writing zany stories.)  I knew she was the one for this particular adventure, so I saved it for us to share. 

Just because a gay bar looks closed doesn’t mean that it is.  We tug on the handle.  Just because it’s the only gay bar in town, or it’s the middle of the week, or it’s only 6:35 pm, doesn’t mean it’s open.

“I can’t imagine that they’re closed for cleaning.”

I worried to know how I’ll share the TwoGirls portal.

“They’ll never know about our world.”

“What now?” Velma asks.

At the race track we make dollar bets on horses we like because they wear pink, have the biggest horse to smallest jockey ratio, or remind us of Ex lovers.  Even though we watched the betting machine tutorial on the “Espanol” screen, and I accidentally bet $9 on the first race, we only lost $10 each after a few hours.  

While we're waiting on the last race that we accidentally bet on during the first race, Velma says, "I was with my friend who used to be a lesbian."  

“Huh?” she catches me by surprise.  “How’s that?”

“She had a partner, and they had a baby.”

“Did you like the partner?”

“She was nice—way better than the guy.”

“What happened?”

“Used-2-B flew to California to have sex with a man.”

“Why? Texas has a lot of men who will have sex for less money than the cost of air fare."

“I know.  Worse, the guy’s a dud.”

It turns out that Velma’s friend, Used-2-B, had the baby.  Next, she wanted a man.  Somewhere, the sum of these equals a family.

Dud leaves northern California and moves to east Texas.  Having lived in both areas, I know this guy does not make good decisions.  Velma confirms my assumptions with a story about all he left behind.

“We were invited to their beach house.  Used-2-B’s parents were there,” Velma says.  “He was sitting about ten feet in front of everyone.”  Velma adds, “It turns out, he started the day by saying something mindless to the mother. After that, he was alone in his beach chair.” 

“Wow.  I wonder if Used-2-B’s parents were longing for yesteryear—when their daughter was a practicing lesbian with a nice girlfriend?” 

“Like, zoinks!” 

“That’s right, Velma.  What’s a family to do without a lesbian or two?”