Clothesure.

When I was in high school, I often found myself accompanying my girl friends to the mall (yeah, Jersey) on Fridays after school to go hunting for cute tops. Now, as a grown-up living and working in New York City, I find myself accompanying my boy friends to the bars on Friday nights in search of cute bottoms. Ah the mating game.

As a sixteen year old girl, your focus is image-obsessed. The right clothes, the right car, the right crowd—these are the things that make you who you are. As a grown gay man, things are quite different… I kid! As a lesbian, we're primarily obsessed with the emotional equivalent of these things: text messages, facebook notes, and maybe a few emails if you're getting serious with someone. I was faced with the striking difference between my gay boy friend and I this past week. My buddy and I were making our weekly pilgrimage to Pinkberry and I nearly got hit by a car whilst texting a lady friend (as per usual).

“What are you constantly texting about?” He said after patiently waiting for my attention to turn back to our conversation.

“What do you mean? I text about everything. It’s a means of communication. Duh. I’m trying to get to know her better. Y’know, to see if we’re going anywhere.”

“Wanna know what gay men’s texts are like?” He asked as we crossed towards the bright green sign of yogurty goodness. “’Are you hard? Yeah, you? Yeah. Come over.’ That’s it! That’s all you need. I don’t know what the lesbian equivalent of hard is…Is your vagina…” He looked to me for answers.

“Wet?” I offered.

“Precisely! That’s all you need to text her! ‘Is your vagina wet?’ End of story.” The elderly woman in front of us tried to be subtle about turning around with curiosity. In her brain I’m sure my buddy and I registered as a straight couple and the words we were exchanging (what few she probably caught given her hearing aid and the street-noise combo) should have been kept to the privacy of our apartment. Why oh why did I leave the Village? No one would bat an eyelash at this conversation South of 14th Street.

“Dude, it’s not like that,” I said. “Sex, for men, is between the legs. For us, it’s between the ears.”

“Are you saying that this lesbian wants to put her vagina in your ear?” He nudged me as the woman in front of us started digging through her purse viciously—hopefully not looking for pepper-spray.

I lowered my voice and turned away from the old lady so as not to get maced. “I’m just saying, I can’t get ‘hard’ until I know what she’s about. Does that make any sense?”

He yawned with exhaustion as my text alert beeped again. The old woman stepped up to the counter and placed her order offering payment in the form of loose change. When we finally did the same, I tipped the patient server with generosity and a wink and showed my buddy the clever text. “Also, she’s not even in the city. I couldn’t let her put her vag in my ear tonight even if I wanted to.” (***Disclaimer: This is not what lesbians do in bed. I don’t want to be held responsible for this ridiculous rumor. It will 1. Ruin my cred with the ladies. 2. Make me a magnet for freaks with an ear fetish. Or 3. Inspire all sorts of weird questions I’m in no way inclined to answer.***)

“What?!” He says as we round to the other side of the counter awaiting our treats. “You mean to tell me you’re wasting your time texting someone who’s not even bodily available to you even if she were to meet your lengthy list of requirements—which clearly includes the patience to text you her life story in 5 witty words or less? This is ridiculous. We need to go out and find you a real life flesh & blood lesbian. Tonight.”

“How many times do I have to explain that I’m not ready for that? I’m still trying to work out my feelings about the whole ex situation. Texting a new girl is about all I can handle right now.”

“I’ve had just about enough of this ex. I’ve never even met her and I’ve had enough. Seriously, we’re moving on. And the only way to get over one girl is to get under another.”

“Un clavo saca otro clavo.” I said reaching for my sweet white swirl. He gave me a quizzical look as they handed him his lychee, blackberry covered Sunday. “One nail removes another,” I translated. “One of my Cuban friends gave me that gem.”

“I don’t know what you lesbians are up to with the texting and the ear sex and now this business about nails. It all seems rather exhausting. I think I’ll just stick to cock, thank you very much.”

I giggled and reached for a bite of his. “Says the man enjoying the lychee…”

“What?”

“Lychee—it feels like vagina on the tongue.” I popped one in my mouth and smiled at him.

He choked and then promptly spooned the rest of his lychees into the trash can. “Well, thank you for ruining that delicious treat.” We see the sign for Banana Republic (irony unintended) and he turned to me, “Oh, that reminds me, I need a new top.”

“You and me both, my friend. You and me both.”