"Can we, as a country, all
: July 2002: Dyke
only lesbian I've ever knowingly and willingly encountered
was a chubby girl
I dated briefly, so I guess she really wasn't a "true"
lesbian. I think she just liked the comfy shoes. But
comfy shoes are just one of myriad reasons why I offer
a hearty "woop-woop!" to the Lesbian Nation. And this
woop-woop I offer isn't a sheepish, halfhearted, one-handed
woop-woop, but rather a bold, saucy, two-hands-in-the-air,
awww-yeahhh salutation to all of my carpet-munching
sisters. I sit high on a craggy mountaintop, squinting
my eyes really hard and resting my chin atop my fist,
as I ponder lesbianism's rich cultural heritage.
usual, my mind drifts to the gutter, and there I find
a cornucopia of adult films wherein bleached-blonde,
artificially tanned white girls whose skin has been
liposuctioned into snare-drum tightness loll about
on a bed, licking each other's snappers and wishing
there was a dude there with them. Lesbian cinema rocks!
Hell, lesbians rock! Everyone knows that these "lesbian"
gals really crave cock but have failed in their quest
to find suitable male partners and thus are driven
underground into a seamy, swampy, stinky cesspool
of unnatural, ungodly acts. Films such as Girls
Only and Strap-on Sweeties empower lesbians
and give them the comforting illusion that it's OK
to engage in acts which make God and all his cute
little angels shudder with disgust. These films' message
is simple: It's possible to have sex without a penis,
no matter how vile, filthy, tainted, and ultimately
punishable such sex may be.
used to be my perspective on lesbians. That was my
"take" on dykes,
if you will. But I've changed. I've grown. I've sprouted.
I'm a different man.
A better man. A slightly hairier, paunchier man than
I used to be.
with me, fair friend, into the forbidden lair of girl-on-girl
physical intimacy. Let us join these overweight, hairy,
unpleasant, self-righteous, scowling, bitter human
monstrosities as they march for freedom, equal rights,
and the stomping, shrieking drive to make everyone
else feel guilty that they aren't dykes, too.
EVENT: DYKE MARCH
SPONSOR: LESBIAN AVENGERS
LOCATION: DOWNTOWN PORTLAND, BABY!
all started on a sweet, summery Saturday morning in
my cramped, smelly NW P-Town apartment. My friend
Dave and I have gathered for the weekly meeting of
our NW Friends of Lesbians Group, an organization
"dedicated to educating ourselves about the lesbian
community with the hopes of exploiting it for laughs."
For the time being, Dave and I are the only two members.
In the past, the Friends of Lesbians have sponsored
such events as Portland's Lesbian Chili Cook-Off,
the All-You-Can-Eat Lesbian Lumberjack Flapjack Breakfast
and Sausage Feed, the Lesbo Indian Leg Wrestling Tournament,
the I'm Down With Dykes Demolition Derby, and our
notoriously unsuccessful First Annual Carpet Munch-Off.
During most Northwestern gay festivals, Dave and I
can also be found in our friendly little booth, serving
up our famous Lesbian Sno-Cones.
this recent Saturday morning, I open the "discussion"
segment of our meeting with a burning question: "Hey,
Dave--what the hell have we done for the Lesbian Community
lately?" Sure, in the past we've done such coalition-building
things as sitting on my front porch in our boxer shorts,
plastered beyond comprehension on 40-ouncers of Big
Bear Malt Liquor, catcalling lesbian passersby in
an attempt to make them feel attractive and worthwhile.
We've also submitted positive reviews of lesbo porn
such as Dorm Dyke Bonanza Part IV, Clit-Hungry
Whores, and Fist Me, Myrtle to local magazines
such as Just Out, but they never responded.
beyond such good deeds, I'm drawing blanks. When all
is said and done...when the shit hits the fan...when
push comes to shove...when all our beans are counted...when
the price of tea in China goes up...when the Day of
the Rope comes...the sad, misshapen, oddly plump fact
is that we've really done nothing for dykes at all.
there we sit on the porch, wiping our chins free of
malt-liquor foam, belching, farting, and pawing at
our balls, stricken with a sudden sense of anguish
that we haven't done enough to support our sisters
who weren't attractive enough to be heterosexual.
Dave takes a thoughtful tug on his forty-ouncer, I
thumb through one of those free weekly local rags
that think they're all cool and stuff. "Ships ahoy!"
I suddenly exclaim with barely concealed excitement.
"This is our chance, Davey boy! Today is the City
of Roses Dyke March, sponsored by a group of cool-sounding
broads called the Lesbian Avengers! What could possibly
be cooler than marching along with them?" Dave smiles,
then screams at the top of his lungs, "Let's go as
a dyke couple!!!" I shriek back with delight as we
clap our hands and jump up and down on my porch like
a pair of Girl Scouts on a trampoline. Once we're
able to contain our excitement, we gallop into my
apartment and began to prepare ourselves for this
learn quickly that becoming a dyke takes a lot of
work. But if I became tired, I was sure that it would
be a GOOD kind of tired, the kind of fatigue that
comes with a job well-done. I don't mind getting my
hands dirty. It doesn't bother me if I have to use
a little elbow grease. Portland dykes are worth the
trouble. Portland dykes mean that much to me. As we
prepare our dyke costumes, Dave and I swear to each
other that we'll become the Bosom Buddies of Portland's
Female Homosexual Community, even if we risked our
careers and reputations in
prepares himself first. His chosen dyke persona is
"Sporty Dyke." He wears a tasteful blue polo
shirt, blue soccer shorts, and a snappy beige visor
hat. He uses gel to spike his hair in the accepted
spiky lesbian fashion. He finishes the ensemble with
HOT red lipstick. Now THERE's a "lipstick lesbian"
if ever I saw one. Meow!
choose to be "Butch Dyke." I roll my jean cuffs
up to my calves. Keeping with the spike-positive dyke
aesthetic, I wear a spiky leather belt. I doff a pair
of sensible red tennis shoes, wrap a vulva-pink bandana
around my head, and top it off with a red flannel
cutoff shirt which teasingly hides my wifebeater T-shirt.
In order to ingratiate myself with the lesbian community,
I scrawl SHOW ME YOUR TATERS on the wifebeater using
are now the Hottest Lesbian Couple in Portland. We
can't wait to mingle with other dykes.
and I pause to chuckle at our outfits, and chuckle
we do. But we are also filled with an overwhelming,
all-consuming, slightly itchy sense of compassion
and understanding for the women out there who were
too ugly to snag boyfriends and were thus driven into
a life of same-sex debauchery and shame, not to mention
an almost-certain afterlife groaning in agony amid
hell's deepest pits. Tears nearly well up within our
drunken, bloodshot eyes as we mull over all those
lonely lesbians who couldn't find dudes! No hot cocks
to tap those asses! None of the rewarding feeling
that comes with knowing you're healthy and normal
instead of some sick pervert who should be dragged
into the woods and shot in the head!
we pull up to the Park Blocks in downtown Portland
and catch sight of a bevy of roughly two thousand
lesbians grazing on the grass, Dave becomes visibly
nervous. Beads of sweat dot his vaguely feminine forehead
and begin to drip down on his lipstick, smearing it.
Like a typically domineering butch dyke verbally abusing
my weaker partner, I begin yelling at Dave for this
unfortunate cosmetic mishap that threatens to destroy
his skillfully applied lip liner. Suddenly we snap
ourselves out of our little domestic squabble and
turn our gaze to an eternal, never-ending Sea of Dykes.
We behold thousands of hairy sea cows, grunting, snorting,
and sunning their behemoth tum-tums. It is the most
terrifying vision I've ever seen.
overcomes us. We decide to pound down a few more shots
in order to loosen up. We first go to a fag bar called
Embers. All eyes are on us as we sashay inside. A
kindly old queer begins to laugh, breaking the ice.
"What the hell are you boys doing?" he lisps behind
a yellowy row of semen-stained teeth. We explain our
mission and he doubles over in laughter, sympathetic
to our cause. He agrees to snap several whimsical
shots of us in our dyke gear as we preen and mince
outside the bar.
now, Dave is visibly drunk. My trusted correspondent
and co-founder of NW Friends
of Lesbians is slowly slipping into an alcoholic coma.
He attempts to French-kiss me, planting a wet smooch
on my lips at a moment when I am unprepared to fend
off his advance. This is all the encouragement I need!
With that, we march on down to the Park Blocks, stinking
of gin and ready to schmooze the girl-beasts.
brazenly push our way to the crowd's front, where
two fat dykes on Harleys rev their engines and scream
incomprehensibly. Dave and I, drunker than twelve
Indians, clasp each other's sweaty hands, yelling
and chanting along with the ocean of lezzies. A fat,
bullhorn-toting female rhinoceros drives the crowd
into a spiky-dykey frenzy.
Next thing Dave and I know, we're surrounded by topless
dykes. We begin pointing out all the flabby pink taters
to each other and pay little attention to the speakers
and their boring political rigmarole.
Portland police escorts, most of whom appear to be
dykes themselves, then lead the parade onto Broadway,
marshalling an endless procession of sweating, mannish
women. The parade's most stunning float is a red convertible
featuring an actual bearded lesbian held in captivity.
And all along I had thought
the Bearded Lesbians of Madagascar were just an old
wives' tale! Dave and I walk slowly together, clutching
each other's hands for dear life. "Please don't leave
me, Josh!" Dave begs me at one point. We stroll along
side-by-side, fearful that at any moment we'll be
rat-packed by a swarm of murderous lesbians.
we make our way past Mary's strip club, the liquor
really starts kicking in. Dave and I start our own
us your taters--it's not too late!
scowl at us. Dykes laugh at us. Dykes look at us and
then walk away. "Hmm," I think. "So this is what it's
like being a dyke. Being a dyke sucks ass!" The dykes
march onward, oblivious to our needs, dragging their
knuckles, making hog noises, and flashing their fat,
sagging jugs to the crowd's horrified delight.
fists are raised in unison, blocking the sun. Counter
to the "lazy, shiftless" stereotypes that Dave and
I had gleefully entertained, dykes are actually a
well-organized militia, crouching in the bushes and
coiled to strike. Wake up to the threat, Portland!
the parade's end, Dave and I feel at home. We drunkenly
wave at spectators. I unveil my hairy, ample man-breasts
and wag them at the crowd. It's exciting for all of
this point, Dave's bloodstream is saturated with alcohol.
Wobbling around, he says he needs to piss. Instead
of pissing while he was walking like I suggested,
the closet homo insists on pissing in a bar. So we
bid a fond adieu to the Portland dyke march. But we
are forever changed for the better. We hold Portland's
lesbians captive within our hearts and vow to never
set them free again.
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