I have a theory. And if my theory proves correct it may change the landscape of lesbian dating forever. Or, at the very least, it offers me the opportunity to get felt up by complete strangers countless times this summer.
I developed my theory last night while dressing for a big gay party in Minneapolis. I drove to Minnesota from Chicago that morning accompanied by my best friends Stacy and Desi. They are my favorite accessories and I rarely go anywhere without them. They are like those small dogs that ride around in the handbags of starlets and debutantes—yippy, high-strung and demanding creatures that are always ready to give me a comforting lick when I need it most.
So, there we were, in our hotel room, primping for the party. We were all slightly anxious and trying not to show it. You know the feeling—it's that combination of hope and edginess that comes from not knowing what the evening holds in store. Will you meet some fetching girl who pins you against a bathroom stall and shoves her tongue down your throat, or will you arrive home hours later with nothing to show for your careful grooming but a head foggy from cheap beer and eyes stinging from smeared mascara?
Stacy and Desi each possess artistic temperaments and like to dress the part. For the party, they slipped into clunky eyeglasses and clothing that was the color of dying leaves—outfits designed to showcase their big brains. I, on the other hand, pulled on a tight, cheerful green blouse meant to showcase my big breasts.
Unlike many women, I have few complaints about my body. In fact, earlier that day, I spent several minutes admiring my naked self in the hotel room's enormous bathroom mirror.
'Stacy, I think I'm attracted to myself,' I announced, exiting the bathroom in only a skimpy towel.
'Well, just remember to take the relationship slowly,' Stacy said, not bothering to look up from a dense and deadly dull biography of a German philosopher whose name I can never manage to pronounce. 'Try not to sleep with yourself on the first date.'
My breasts are my favorite part of my body. They have never given me an ounce of trouble over the years and I like to reward them for their good behavior. So, I house them in expensive lingerie and select clothing that will show them off to their best advantage. For this evening, I chose a clingy lycra top that promoted my breasts while still protected the suburban sensibilities that prevent me from dressing like a tramp.
Then, just before we left the room, I attached a small pin above my left breast. The pin was emblazoned with a portrait of a wide-mouth sock monkey.
'What's with the monkey?,' Desi asked.
'I have a theory,' I explained. 'I believe that women will feel compelled to touch this pin tonight, and in the process, they will graze my left breast.'
Stacy and Desi struck a wager with me. If a woman touched my monkey pin that evening without any prompting from me, I'd win. But, in the interest of science, which demands that a theory be validated through rigorous testing, I suggested we extend the wager through August. So, ladies, if you encounter a woman with devilish good looks, raw animal charm and a monkey pin attached just above her left breast, reach out and touch the monkey. I'll keep a record of the number of incidental breast strokes I receive and will report my findings at the end of the summer.
