Decision '08: Corny Queer or Stealth Butch

I have been accused of shamelessly chasing straight women. However, if I look back into my comparatively short history as a lesbian—I'm only 5 in gay years—this is certainly not the case. However, I will admit to this much: I have flirted shamelessly with ALL things skirted and purty…or, at least all persons XX…more often than not they're in pants…and I'm not really sure what would even qualify as "purty."

Straight women provide the perfect practice partners for fun-filled flirtation. For the most part, they’re a safe source of sassy seduction rehearsal. As long as you're clearly not pursuing anything and they’re in no way interested in crossing that line, it’s usually safe to push the flirtation-envelope all the way to the mailbox (just don’t you dare stick it in…). Please note that one should refrain from any sort of touching when engaging in practice flirts (Pflirts…the "p" is silent)—that’s where things could get hairy…I mean sticky…I mean…sorry.

Women are women—and by this, I mean we're all nuts—and by nuts I mean different—and by this, I mean to say that we’re all crazy in our own special way. But flirting with a woman is bound to be better practice than flirting with a man (especially the straight ones, they generally have a hard time with the whole flirting for fun concept—it’s like mental masturbation, and to them, that sounds like a ridiculous refrain in an old Alanis song). But even gay men flirt differently than women, they're often more forward than the average gal; and part of the fun of flirting with the ladies is being ambiguous as to what your true feelings actually are. Leaving the lingering question up in the air gives the game a sense of silliness that can prove pleasurable for all parties involved. Incidentally, this is nothing I would condone if intentions are genuine. Where real feelings are concerned, I’m a hundred-percent for honest expression of emotion. But in the meantime, it’s super-fun to talk all saucy and rev the engine—even if your car is in neutral.

This week I bought one of my straight friends a card that had a picture of a diner and said: "I'll have the special…that'd be you." This was to go along with a few CD's I made her. Inside the card I wrote: "Let this be but a prelude to the sweet music we'll make together." Now, if you can stop puking on your keyboard for a moment, take note: talking like this is fun! {SIDEBAR: Y’know what else is fun? Puns. This weekend, that same friend called someone a “Female Douche Bag.” And I said that I didn’t think that this label needed a qualifier; and because we’re not speaking a romance language, there’s no need to make the adjective gender-specific. However, if we were to do such a thing, we would have to call her a “Douche Baguette”—and then I laughed at my own joke. “I’m on a roll!” I proclaimed…yeah, I have ensured that she’ll never sleep with me.} But here’s the beauty of flirting with your straight girls: you can be as corny as you like. Because you aren’t ACTUALLY trying to get them into bed, you needn’t worry about appearing “cool” or “sexy”—whatever those two words mean.

I was recently knighted with the label “Stealth Butch” by a member of NYC Lez Royalty (if you believe in these things…I’ve conceded that the Lesbian Mafia probably exists in Los Angeles, so I’m claiming our New York Lesbians as the Monarchy of Dykes—MOD for short.). We were in a conversation about Twinks, Silver Foxes, Bears, Otters, etc. and I noted that we, as lesbians, really only get to chose between Butch & Fem—which is a bear of a task—and I want an animal name, damnit! Well, my friend noted that I probably couldn’t qualify as Fem because I have a nasty habit of holding doors and paying for stuff. But, I’m great with a flat-iron and happen to know the best mascara presently on the market (Rimmel London Eye Magnifier)—thus precluding me from the Butch set. It was, at this moment, she coined the term: Stealth Butch.

“Y’know, it’s like one minute we’d be sitting here talking about hair-product or eye-make-up, and I’d be like: ‘Can I borrow your lip-gloss?’ and you’d have it, so then I’d be like: ‘Oh, cool, we’re totally friends.’ But then I’d be like ‘Wait a minute, she’s totally buying my drinks.’ Or like: ‘She totally gave up her seat for me.’ And then the next thing I know, I’d be on my back with my legs in the air.”

If it’s these little things that lead us lesbos to our lengthy, lusty liaisons, perhaps I’m too stealthy for my own good. It’s in my nature to be polite; it’s how I was raised. I was very much a Daddy’s girl and, from him, I learned to be a gentleman. However, I did grow up with a tight group of girly girls, and from them I learned how to take care of my wavy hair and properly apply eyeliner. Now that I have learned that the combination of these attributes is akin to a lesbian super-power, I will use it only for good, when the time is right. I will only switch into stealth-mode when I genuinely desire the damsel (hopefully not in distress). For now though, I’m very happy to be a corny queer making bad puns and dad-jokes, laying the sweet-talk on my purely platonic straight, taken, or gay male friends.