Sometimes a Girl Needs a Guy to Show Her the Way

The last time we sat in this auditorium, Love Heroine was drooling over a girl’s naked back.

“It’s a really pretty back,” I patronized.  “Has she turned around?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Love Heroine said.

Later that month, our small group joined the big group on a deserted back road and went on a five mile bike ride, took a ferry, and then went to this cool Hispanic guy’s house who served us Mojitos and Coronas while we ate a 150lbs. of crawfish.  The girl with a naked back had a tee shirt on and didn't seem as interesting to Love Heroine.  Still, that was an awesome day, considering I was in a walking coma from my unexpected breakup. At the cool Hispanic guys’ house, there was a band and the female lead singer, an intern for our group, was staring at me.  Too bad I was old enough to pay her tuition. Still, she had a great voice and I thought we should move to Austin and live together forever and ever until she met someone her age or a shady, wrinkled agent with cigarette vocals who would promise to make her famous, and then my sweet innocent desert flower would leave me for Vegas.  But, heck, I’d be back in Austin—right? 

Once a quarter, our small group has to join the bigger group of employees at State headquarters to listen to the fiscal report.  YAWWWNN!  I would like to propose that all B.A. graduates be offered a non-fiscal powerpoint presentation with symbols, graphics and music…or be given the morning off to sleep-in or write in a blog or get coffee so that something that matters actually happens.  The only thing I get out of these meetings is a text-by-text view of the Love Heroines’ world where every girl has the potential to be naked.  Ok, that’s not such a horrible way to spend the morning.

“When the Secretary starts, let’s have a Texas Hold ‘Em, competition,” I suggest.  I enlisted the new I.T. guy.  “Whoever loses, buys lunch.”

Love Heroine chuckles his little chuckle that is appropriate in every situation.

“I don’t know how to play,” new guys says.

I reach out and extend my shaking hand.  “Great!” I’m glad I invited you. He doesn’t know how to play either.”  I point to Love Heroine (because he was a sheltered child—but is making up for lost time—and was never taught cards.  Seriously, I had to feed him casino Coronas and set him in front of a .25 electronic poker game to teach him about the suits. After thirty minutes, he had exactly as much money as he started with and could only identify the difference between the red and black cards).  “I’d like Sushi for my winnings, please.”

In the meantime, the two human herders have successfully corralled everyone to the center section so that we are nestled in close together, inhaling too many perfume chemicals for our organic filters to filter.  Love Heroine is not-dating someone in the group; she just joined us.  This means that he’ll be not playing Texas Hold’ ‘Em or keeping me entertained with observations.  And that means, I’m on my own in a room full of straight women.  I’m not a switch-hitter, so this game is boring without testosterone to text semi-suggestive things about co-workers who we don’t know because they belong to the big group.  It would be different if we knew them because then we wouldn't text such things.  Well, I can say that I  wouldn’t text such things.

While upping my ante with imaginary money brought to me by the government paid Blackberry, I’m hearing words like “Top 10 ranking,” “Ante-poverty programs,” and “Business climate.”  I did not know that the words in and migration make their own word but my brain flips them around and cha-ching; it accepts a meaning.  And here it is, “People are coming.”

“If all of these people are moving into Louisiana, then .05-5% of them should be lesbians!” I realize. 

This is good news. I’m glad I came to this meeting.  Still, I haven’t spotted one lesbian in the audience collective.  How will the inmigrants know where to find us without a lesbian mascot? Maybe, at the next Quarterly meeting, I can hand out twogirlsarebetterthanone cards.   After we find each other and disrobe of our professional props, we can form a book club (or softball team), have movie nights, and go to distant lands for gay bar outings. We'll be a tight group that will seduce the inmigrants.  Government lesbians could bring along their non-government lesbian friends.  Some of these social settings could eventually lead to rich relationships.  Wait a minute. I’m talking about lesbians. We don’t date!

I snap out of my silly thoughts of lesbians performing prolonged heterosexual mating dances about the time the Secretary stops talking.  He opens for questions.  First guy up asks, “Any update on a new building?”  Our group is crammed together so tight that the graphic illustrators have been told to design bleacher cubicles in the unused space by the ceiling tiles. 

“If they build a bigger building we’ll all be together.  My connection to Baton Rouge lesbians gets tighter-faster.”  I like this thought but can’t wait for the construction crews to get the concrete poured.  I need lesbians now!

Between Texas Hold ‘Em hands, I spot a few artsy guys from the big group that I’ve deemed ‘gay’ or ‘gay-friendly.’  “They’ll know lesbians,” I assure myself. “I can give them twogirlsarebetterthanone cards.”

I’m like a dog with a bone. Since I wrote: “Any Next Any One Can Jump Start An Evolution,” I’m taking my own advice and walking up to women who look gay (well, one woman) and handing them (her) cards.  (Hello my little senorita- are you still out there?)  I’ve got to expand my circle or I’ll be mad before the next quarterly meeting when I’ll hand-out twogirlsarebetterthanone cards and then be escorted of the premises. 

Maybe I can get on the international team and look for lesbians around the globe?  I could go visit the twogirls communities in Germany or Russia.  I’ll put my belongings and dogs in storage because I’ll want to come back to Louisiana.  Thousands of lesbians will be here any day now—so says the Secretary.

There’s a guy—already deemed gay or gay friendly—with groovy thick-rimmed glasses.  He is staring at me. He’s probably trying to figure out how a lesbian survives in this hetero-vacuous existence.  “I don’t know,” I mouth the words and offer a shrug before I wave with my fingers.  He immediately stands and looks alarmed.  We both realize the Secretary has called his name. 

It turns out, he doesn’t work in the bigger group.  He’s our guest speaker.  Darn.  How will he introduce me to the secret underground Baton Rouge gays if he gets to escape the government hetero-vacuous existence immediately after the show? 

Anyone want to write a happy ending to this story?