My friend Scintillectual recently wrote about her first experience with a woman. I thought about doing that. Until I remembered how scandalous my first experience was. I decided against it.

Instead, I have a story for you of my misspent youth. It’s something that until a year or so ago, I’d totally forgotten. I’m pretty sure The Ex never heard this story and my friend M, who I’ve known for at least 12 years, hadn’t heard it til last year either.

So here we go.

I have this idea of the perfect lesbian. It isn’t an idea, actually. It’s a real woman. Whose goddamned name I don’t even know. Because if I did, I’d track her down for sure.

Pretend it’s 1988. For those of you who weren’t born yet, you’ll have to bear with me and believe me when I say things like “there were no cell phones”.

It is what should have been my junior year of college and it’s spring formal time. My friend C’s boyfriend’s roommate didn’t have a date for the formal and he was a senior. They asked me if I’d go along. I checked with First Girlfriend who was fine with it. We were all friends, it wasn’t date-like at all. The plan was that First Girlfriend would drop me off at C’s who would later drop me at Radclyffe Hall, which was the local lesbian bar.

Radclyffe had a reputation. This was a bar where the dyke bouncers generally looked as if they’d tear you limb from limb if you looked at them cross eyed. There were not a lot of fights and the usual Dyke Drama one finds in a lesbian bar.

Remember it’s 1988, okay? I am all of 21. It was the 80s and I looked it: big, wild, out of control curly hair, shiny red lipgloss, black and white eyeshadow, black eyeliner and lots and lots and lots of mascara. And the dress. Oh, GOD, that dress was to die for. I wish I still had it. It was a navy silk sheath dress that was probably about 2” above my knee. From the front, it looked very conservative. Then you saw the back. Which was a Grecian swoop that ended right at the curve of my ass, so that my entire back was open. I wore scads of fake pearls in the back. (remember, y’all it was *1988*!!) I had on fabulous, amazing shoes that I had gotten a couple of years earlier in New York on vacation. 4” heels, which weren’t that easy to find back then. I was in fashion nirvana that night.

Radclyffe also was known for not letting in straight women or men at all. I wasn’t alarmed by that given that a) I’m a lesbian and b) I’d been there more than a few times in the past.

I waited in line, ID and money in hand. While I was waiting, I was totally cruising the dyke at the door. You know the sort, I’m sure. She was sitting in one of those stools that have a small back, one leg propped on the rung, one sprawled out in front of her, desultorily checking IDs. She was wearing Doc Marten-ish boots, faded and ripped jeans, a white men’s V-neck Tshirt and the ubiquitous flannel shirt. (aside: People give Kurt Cobain credit for starting grunge but it was really Midwest dykes. Just sayin’.)

She was physical perfection. She was at least 6’4 (I’ll tell you how I know that in a minute), skin the color of cocoa and jet black hair, which she wore in the spikey dyke cut that was so popular then. She must have been mixed race – probably native or Hispanic and white. Her lips were full and red and an invitation for kissing. But her eyes? Her eyes gave away her mixed race because they were deep, sapphire blue and almond shaped. Huge. Curly black lashes that every femme in the world would die for. (I’ll tell you how I know about her lashes in a minute.) Under that flannel shirt were muscles that you only get if you have a very physical job. (I found out she was a welder.)

Here’s what else I found out about her: she was not only strong, she was smart. She had been a corporate attorney but she hated it so as soon as she paid off her law school debt, she went back to welding, which is what she’d done during college. She was sort of an artist – she made fancy wrought iron gates and things like that.

Can you see the attraction?

Anyway, when it’s my turn to give her my money and ID, she just looks at me. No, that’s not right. She starts looking at me at my shoes and very, very slowly she looks up my body until she gets to my eyes. For a second, I’m flattered until she says, “You know this is a lesbian bar, right?”

Y’all, I panic. I am sure she isn’t going to let me in. There were no cell phones. I have on 4” heels. My house is an hour away. The keys to our car are in the bar with First Girlfriend. In about 30 seconds all of this flashes through my mind. I have seen them be less than nice to straight chicks trying to cruise the lesbians so I know that she is not likely to believe the “My girlfriend is already here” bit, right? Knowing First Girlfriend, I decide to make a scene. Why? Because First Girlfriend will not be able to resist coming to see what the scene is all about and she’ll get me in.

I take a deep breath.

I step up between her legs and say, “Well, I guess” (as I put my arms around her neck) it’s a good thing (as I wrap one leg around her waist) that I am a lesbian then(as I wrap the second leg around her waist), isn’t it?” And I kiss her. I didn’t stop to think that having my legs wrapped around a perfect (perfect!) stranger was going to mean my garters were gonna be showin’ and who knows what else. :eyeroll: I was 21, you know. And now you know how I knew that her eyelashes were long and curly.

She kisses back. Perfectly. Per-fect-ly.

The bar is going berserk. Lesbians are cat calling. I pull away from her kiss but it was *hard.* She says, “um. Yeah. I guess you can go in.” To which I reply, “Sugar, I’m wearing 4” heels. I can’t get down on my own.” And she stood up, my legs still around her waist, so that I could stand up. Do you have any idea how little I wanted to unwrap myself? (And now you know how I know she was at least 6’4”. In shoes, I was 6’ and she had to put me down.)

I was right about First Girlfriend, though. She had come to see what was going on, so she came to get me. She wasn’t too alarmed that she’d seen me making out with a woman so hot as to be illegal in 17 states. All she said was, “Great. Now every woman in the bar knows what kind of underwear you’re wearing.”

She didn’t mind it so much, though, when we didn’t have to buy a single drink the rest of the night.

I didn’t get Bouncer’s name. She had one of those silly nicknames but I never found out her real name.

What did they call her?

Sapphire.