|WAXING OFF: A LONG WEEKEND ON THE ISLE OF LESBOS .|
|Kelly Mills, Jen Hubley, Emily G., Rachel Kramer Bussel, Claudia Fuchs, and Lea Storry||
Since most of the Black Table editors are male, we've no idea about the concept of a girl crush. In fact, most of us have trouble deciphering what the word “crush” actually is. “Crush”, in and of itself, is a girly word. It’s usually an unrequited fantasy, but one that gives you that fleeting, take-your-pants-off-on-a-roller-coaster-feeling that is very rare. And crushes are usually associated with professors, kick-boxing instructors, or movie stars. Guys don’t get crushes. We just like to bang things.
But girls, regardless of their sexual orientation, have the unique ability to crush their same sex and not feel at all uncomfortable about it.
Our ladies this month delve into their darker side of girl crushes—and sometimes who they have them on is downright startling.
I have impeccable gaydar. Either that or, as I've mentioned here before, I make people gay. Every time I get a crush on a budding star she at a minimum makes out with a girl. I tagged both Anne Heche and Portia De Rossi before Ellen thought to buy either of them a Frappucino. Drew Barrymore? She had barely wrapped E.T. when I eyed those rosy cheeks, and she says she's done plenty of women. Crazy Angelina Jolie found time to be bisexual in between making out with her brother and Brad Pitt. Photos of Jessica Alba tonguing a lady friend should surface any day now. I'm just saying that when I crush, there's fire. So my weird obsession with Today Show anchoress Ann Curry should probably give her husband some cause for concern. It certainly gives me cause. I hate anything TV newsy, and morning shows are obviously vile, with all that information-lite and pathetic anchor banter. Ann is passive-aggressive, vacuous, and simpering. And, somehow, super-hot. I'm not exactly sure why I love her so much. Maybe it's the contrast with perky little Katie, in a Mary Ann versus Ginger sort of way. The sweater sets and pearls make me long for a sight of her wearing latex and a dog collar. She has that ambitious girl I'll-rip-your-throat-out anger just below the surface, she doesn't seem especially bright, and the combination of the two- that's sex gold. I love her carefully styled hair, her bright red lipstick, the way she furrows her brow slightly and tilts her head when she's pretending to listen to the person she's interviewing. When her voice switches from concern to chipper in less than a second, I think, ‘I want her to tell me incredibly nasty things just like that.' Ann, tell Matt Lauer to move his fat ass- we're taking over the couch.
Swoon…Reba McIntyre. Your musical voice. Your country twang. Your television show that makes me erupt into laughter. You could make me erupt several other ways if you pleased.
You're all country while I'm all city. You're all homespun charm and grace while I am urban chic. But I would never, ever let my Jimmy Choos' step on your cowboy boots.
Tell me how you do your hair. Do you tease it? Like you always do to me? Is it naturally red? Would you give me the chance to find out? I know we're both really into men but how about just one night together? One hour? Forty-five minutes?
By now you must know that you are my number one girl crush. Someone who I can fantasize about, dream about, drift away about when I'm stuck in between tall buildings and rough masculine arms. You see, I know you're all heart and soul. Tender. Yet your impish smile implies more, much more. I think you bite.
I love the way you tuck your t-shirt into your blue jeans. It's like you're wrapped up in a shapely woman package-- a matronly gift; a frumpish present for me to unwrap in a green field under the stars.
Do you need to relax after strutting your stuff on the stage? Tie on your apron and we'll hit the kitchen. We can bake bread together! Heat up some grits even. How about tasty muffins morning, noon and night?You're so feisty, girl. So sarcastic. So honest. You know, I'll respect you in the morning and give you all the "Room to Breathe" you need.
As far as girl crushes go, Amanda Palmer of the Dresden Dolls may seem like a funny choice. She has a habit of being photographed menacing her band-mate with an antique sword, for one thing, and for another, well, she makes herself up like a mime before performances. She has calligraphy squiggles instead of eyebrows and a husky, blow-out voice like Billie Holiday after a three-week bender. We'll probably get married someday, especially since that's legal now in our mutual hometown of Boston.
Only problem is, I am definitely not cool enough to woo Ms. Palmer. In recognition of this, and because I am a goal-oriented person, I have devised the following multi-step plan in order to win her heart:
Step 1: Shave off every hair on my person, except for the hair on my head, which I will have to stop washing, and the hair under my arms, which I will have to grow out.
This may seem like a lot of trouble to go for a girl crush, but I assure you: My dedication is real. It may take a while to convince her, but I am certain that when she comes around, we will have a long and happy life together. At least until she stabs my eyes out with an errant E-string or cheats on me with a butcher. Anyway, it'll have to have a more cheerful ending than my last tragic imaginary lesbo love affair -- with Squid from the Lunachicks.
From 1985, I lived in shame. While all of my friends blossomed from schoolyard innocence into the blood lust of junior high adolescence, I held back. No experimental French kissing with the boy from across the street; no spin the bottle with my 6th grade class. Instead, I stayed inside and with the only friends I felt I could genuinely trust: the Golden Girls.
Sure, every remotely sentimental woman with half an ovary has a special place in her heart for those crazy Floridian retirees, but my experience was decidedly different. Unlike most women, my years of sexual exploration didn't occur during late nights with my pretty college roommate. No, it happened much earlierin my pre-pubescent youth, in front of my parents' television, with Rue McClanahan in her career-defining role as the carnal goddess Blanche Devereaux.
I'll never forget when I first saw Blanche breeze into that chic Miami living room, her silk robe flowing around her impressive figure. She embodied sex as I always hoped it would be: cultivated, roguish, and Southern. At that point in my life, I wanted nothing more than for Lady Devereaux to scoop me up in her arms and whisk me away into her boudoir as another victim to her womanly charms. Together, we would break the bamboo furniture.
In 1992, NBC stopped airing the show. Not having cable access to Lifetime reruns, I stopped fantasizing and learned to live with a dream deferred. That summer, I got my first period and met Adam Laster, my first kiss. I never forgot Ms. McClanahan, but it was time to move on.
Rachel Kramer Bussel
My weirdest, most maddening crushes haven't been on a specific girl, but a type of girl – straight girls. My straight girl crushes are usually girls with wild hair and an even wilder personality, artists who are more than happy to stay out all night, pierce various body parts, flirt shamelessly with everyone around them, and live to cause trouble. The kind who I'd say lead me on, if they didn't sometimes make out with me, like my former neighbor. We spent countless nights closing out bars and having the most rambling, crazy conversations, but it wasn't until she moved to L.A. that we wound up making out outside Yamashiro after many chocolate martinis. The celebrity version would be, of course, Monica Lewinsky, someone who's clearly into guys but you just get the sense that, late at night, she might go there if the circumstances were right. Why do I crush out on straight girls rather than, I don't know, girls who have a history with other girls? I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with their elusiveness, the way I can tell myself they'd never be interested even though in my fantasies we're doing it all over town.
Straight girls have a special way of driving me crazy, because while it would seem obvious (hey—they're straight), nowadays anything goes, and today's straight girl could be banging her best friend tomorrow faster than you can say "bi-curious." But trying to read those signals, especially between drinks, confessions and many-hours-long phone calls and frenzied emails can be tricky. And once you wind up making out, what happens next? It's enough to make me feel like the quintessential guy and want to scream "Women!" while shaking my fist in the air in exasperation. But that doesn't stop me from finding new, adorable, totally-unaware-of-my-crushes straight girls to fall for.
I went to a college that was populated almost exclusively by lesbians. I'm not talking about I-like-the-Indigo-Girls –So-Maybe-I-Like-Girls-In-General LUGS, I'm talking about Real Lesbians, some of whom were so real that they didn't even consider themselves lesbians – they were trans, or bois, or gender-queer. They all dressed exactly like J.D. Samson from Le Tigre. Many of them had facial hair and big muscles. They hated: girls who, hee hee, had totally hooked up with a girl once because they were like sooo drunk! That kind of thing offended them in the same way that I imagine Muslims are offended during Ramadan by people who talk about when is lunch I'm totally starving! The Real Lesbians did not want you borrowing their struggle.
I had a thing for this…this individual in one of my writing classes, who I'll uncreatively call Jane. She was a big girl who prided herself on drinking a lot of Bushmills. She had a very adorable tiny nose and a big moony face. We would get drunk after class and she would tell me about what a faker I was, and how she completely did not take me seriously or have any interest in me whatsoever. Needless to say this increased a millionfold my need to win her over, if not to actually make out with her (I had a boyfriend, and I also did not want to substantiate her belief that I would suck at doing it with a girl).
One night, after Jane's fourth or fifth whiskey, we got into one of those flirtatious play fights that are somewhat OK to get into with boys because boys won't actually hit you very hard. Whereas Jane kept punching me in the arm really, really hard and saying stuff like "You like it, don't you!" "I bet you think it makes you a dyke well it DOESN'T!" I was (I was like sooo drunk) and I actually did sort of like it. I liked that she was flirting with me for sure; I felt like it meant that I'd won. The next day, however, I woke up to go to my waitressing job, which required me to wear a logo'd tank top, I realized that I had a huge, deep blue, completely inconcealable bruise on my upper arm that was basically like having a tattoo that read "Ask me about having been beaten!" Every day at work for the next three weeks, women gently pulled me aside and whispered about 'a safe place to go where he won't be able to find you.' They sadly shook their heads when I denied being in an abusive relationship, which of course just convinced them further of the Lifetimeyness of my scenario.
I guess I pretty much stopped hanging out with Jane after that.
Hey Ladies! If you would like to be included on the Waxing Off mailing list for possible inclusion in next month's section, please email managing editor A.J. Daulerio and we'll make some magic.