Of Pride and Prejudice

I am such a fucking stuck up, snobby, butch-loathing lesbian.

Unfortunately, I think all this says about me is that I hate ... myself.

Bubba and I are down on the waterfront at Portland's queer Pride festival this afternoon, and both of us are a bit dismayed with the women.

Walking around, we bump into a male classmate we are surprised to see at the festival. We had no clue he was family. (And, yes, we know that mere attendance at such events is not an indicator of being queer. But knowing our shared secret language is.) I text-message Dr. M to tell her who I spotted. She rings back immediately with an, "Are you serious?"

There is a brief discussion before she asks a devastating question. "Are there any attractive women there?"

What do you think? I respond, humorlessly.

All around me is a sea of overweight butch lesbians in Birkenstocks, cargo shorts and t-shirts reading things like, "Lesbos: A man's fantasy island." There are mullets EVERYWHERE. Periodically, a "boi" will pop up in the crowd, getting Bubba's attention. But those good old femmes? In the literally THOUSANDS of people packing the festival grounds, there are but a tiny handful. None of them look available.

But it doesn't really matter, does it? Because I'm not on the prowl, I'm on the lam. I'm RUNNING from the stereotype as fast as I can, right? Not fast enough, though, because there I am in the middle of this: an overweight lesbian in cargo shorts. I don't think I'm especially "butch," but the truth is that if they weren't giving me blisters, I'd have been wearing my Keene's, cousins of the Birkenstock.

I don't have a mullet -- thank the heavens -- but if I ever accidentally grow one, I expect one of my friends to kill me and use the "Death with Dignity" act as a justification. I can't even begin to express how much I *hate* mullets. Especially on women.

Actually, what I hate is that there is such a stereotypical look in the lesbian community. And I hate that I somehow manage to share it. There's so little DIVERSITY. Every once in a while, to Bubba's great relief, there is a black woman. She found an especially pretty one in the crowd today. It was an, "Oh look! There's one..." moment.

Otherwise, I find myself wondering, What the fuck is it with this scene? Why are the men typically so beautiful and the women generally such ... I hate to say it, but ... such dogs?

Now mind you, I've got no evidence of my special-ness, no empirical validation that I'm even "cute" -- so who the fuck am I, right? -- but I am *not* a butched-out, mullet-sporting dog. Like many other people, I'd like to have a mate who's actually better looking than me.

I'm thinking this is where Dr. M cuts in with her typical advice: Lower your standards. (She also recently told me that if my shorts were too loose, I should "Stop hiking so much and eat more." So let's just say her advice is suspect.)

See, the thing is: I can't lower my standards. I happen to like what I like and want what I want. As with pornography, I can't define it very well, but I know it when I see it.

And, as your not-so-humble, uber-snotty, anti-mullet, find-the-butch-blase lesbian, I saw nothing even remotely pornographic. Just a bunch of boring old dykes in bad clothes and comfortable shoes.

I felt like getting a bullhorn and shouting, Would it *kill us* to get a little style, ladies? Would it be *such a fucking crime* to look like women? And why do I have to hate myself -- to seem to be denying my very proud inner feminist -- for wanting that? That and some shaved legs, some shaved pits, some attractive hair. (And I'll make myself laugh (ruefully) here by adding that some sexy little sling-backs would be a nice alternative to the old Birks.)

And then there's the part where I want the woman to be intelligent and witty, too.

Anyone got a cyanide pill or two? I mean ... really.