A Roundhouse For Sappho

Sometimes you read things on the internet that just make you laugh:

I went to a college that was populated almost exclusively by lesbians. I'm not talking about I-like-the-Indigo-Girls–So-Maybe-I-Like-Girls-In-General LUGS, I'm talking about Real Lesbians, some of whom were so real that they didn't even consider themselves lesbians – they were trans, or bois, or gender-queer. They all dressed exactly like J.D. Samson from Le Tigre. Many of them had facial hair and big muscles. They hated: girls who, hee hee, had totally hooked up with a girl once because they were like sooo drunk! That kind of thing offended them in the same way that I imagine Muslims are offended during Ramadan by people who talk about when is lunch I'm totally starving! The Real Lesbians did not want you borrowing their struggle.

I had a thing for this…this individual in one of my writing classes, who I'll uncreatively call Jane. She was a big girl who prided herself on drinking a lot of Bushmills. She had a very adorable tiny nose and a big moony face. We would get drunk after class and she would tell me about what a faker I was, and how she completely did not take me seriously or have any interest in me whatsoever. Needless to say this increased a millionfold my need to win her over, if not to actually make out with her (I had a boyfriend, and I also did not want to substantiate her belief that I would suck at doing it with a girl).

One night, after Jane's fourth or fifth whiskey, we got into one of those flirtatious play fights that are somewhat OK to get into with boys because boys won't actually hit you very hard. Whereas Jane kept punching me in the arm really, really hard and saying stuff like "You like it, don't you!" "I bet you think it makes you a dyke well it DOESN'T!" I was (I was like sooo drunk) and I actually did sort of like it. I liked that she was flirting with me for sure; I felt like it meant that I'd won. The next day, however, I woke up to go to my waitressing job, which required me to wear a logo'd tank top, I realized that I had a huge, deep blue, completely inconcealable bruise on my upper arm that was basically like having a tattoo that read "Ask me about having been beaten!" Every day at work for the next three weeks, women gently pulled me aside and whispered about 'a safe place to go where he won't be able to find you.' They sadly shook their heads when I denied being in an abusive relationship, which of course just convinced them further of the Lifetimeyness of my scenario.

I guess I pretty much stopped hanging out with Jane after that.