I recently moved to a neighborhood with many apartment buildings, a bit of outdoor recreation, and plenty of shopping opportunity. I thought I'd blend in with the woodwork, not really be seen as I toodle around hither and tither. Just another Common Man, apple in the face and all, walking and shopping among the masses, unremarkable, nondistinct. Who would've thunk that they'd be hanging around Trader Joe's, milling in hair product stores, or sitting idly on park benches heads up, watching?
There they are: the singlets, the women who shop while scanning who's behind them, the ones with eyes seemingly on the backs of their heads, or maybe concealed in their oversized watches or Timbuktu biker bags.
I've been walking around my neighborhood lately, occasionally purchasing products, often pawing a cup of Peet's that ignites my system. Once in a while, I find an open stool there upon which I place my watchful self, and there I plop and view the world that strolls by on the sidewalk. The families are plenty, single dads and moms, buddies who yammer over a slice of pizza across the street, or the homeless dudes who hold out mottled Street Sheets and an empty donation Starbucks cup. Even the occasional EMTs or police officers all hot and confident in their deep blue wool and shiny leather uniforms saunter the street and nearby cafes embuing us with that sense of protectiveness and precautionary safety. Those who are women in uniform are often ensconced in conversation with their uniformed brethren. They are not the ones with the eyes.
It's the women, the chix, the bespectacled woman with the wandering eye who I see scanning the crowds, the aisles of cereal, the card shop's humor section, the rows of hair products before me. They are the watchers. I know this sounds paranoid, but it's happened on a number of different occasions.
It's like a porn movie without the cheesy chika-bow-wow music: she's taller than I, a page-boy cut brunette clad in a navy waist coat, hipster jeans and cool Adidas shoes. Her skin tells me she's younger too, none of the crows feet age lines that carve up my eyes. She reaches up, over her head for a 24 ounce bottle of Biolage spray and examines its contents like it's a nutritional chart. Then, as she replaces it, she tilts her head slightly in my direction; is she wondering if I need to pass by, is she really reading labels, or she peering in my direction?
I'm searching for a mousse, preferably Paul Mitchell; all the white bottles look alike to me and because I'm officially in the reading glasses age, I squint to read what each 12 point font indicates upon the labels. As I see her cocked head, I worry the product I seek will be near her and I'll have to interact. I sniffle from unease. From my sketchy peripheral vision, I see that she's reached towards a hip-level shelf and withdraws some other brand, some other type of bottle, this time it looks like a molding gel. Far from the spray she originally sought.
I find my product, look in her direction and see that she's smiling. I give the ole 'up nod, sniffle and turn. She smiles again. I'm uncomfortable. This is a hair product store. I pay and leave. About eight paces beyond I hear the tinkling bell of the shop; she's leaving too.
I went for a run the other day and saw in the near distance sitting on a park bench a solo chik. She was cool too, with her dark her pushed up into a peak - she needed a haircut - oversized jeans, boarder sneakers, and a black leather jacket with yellow hoodie poking out behind her neck. Her eyes were partially concealed by sun-shade glasses; nerd glasses I like to call them (only the nerdy kids wore them, even if I do understand their practicality). Beside her was her reusable TJ's bag and in her hand some sort of multi-purpose phone, perhaps a Droid, maybe an iPhone. She stared at its shiny, black face; her own bland, sealed lip expression demonstrated her boredom or dismay with it. It appeared as if she wanted it to ring or do something significant like expand into a tool, a skateboard, or a piece of cake. Young enough, cake would not affect her metabolism or weight. She glanced up as I rhythmically huffed towards her. She watched me plod by.
As I passed by, I hoped that she didn't call someone to report that she'd spied a lezzie sporting tights and a mismatched long-sleeved shirt jogging around the lake or that she wanted to hang and see if I'd return. I didn't want to know that the glance she gave me as I approached followed me as I curved the edge of the lake. About 30 minutes later, when I rounded the final corner, she was walking opposite me. She looked up, gave me the up nod and smiled. I breathed a 'hi' and kept going. Despite my fatigue, I actually quickened my pace.
Tonight, I encountered one outside my building. I haven't lived here long, but in the short time I've never seen anyone but my landlord hover in the perimeter of my building; he lives in Fresno, a land far, far away from this dwelling. I worked late and approached my walkway with the same nonchalance as always: I never see anyone so I'm not usually on alert. The sensor lights illuminated before I approached my door's steps which I thought odd. They're sensitive but not that sensitive. As I plodded up the walkway, I was mildly startled by the presence of a tallish blond, wrapped in a thick, western leather, sheepskin coat, the kind the Marlboro man would wear. Sky blue scrubs and clogs covered her legs and feet. She appeared as surprised as I to see someone approaching; she croaked into her cell phone, "Hey, it's me. What's up? You okay?" I didn't know if I should've said hello in that moment or ignore her. Seemed an odd place to be having a rather personal phone conversation, unless of course she was really speaking to me. She stood, head downcast on the walkway just beyond my front steps, between the two rose bushes where the pathway light shone upon her plastine shoes and cast a eery glow upon her face. She lifted her head as I stepped up the steps. Ill at ease again, I of course pulled out my key which unlocks my office door. This does not fit into my lock. After taking a moment to stare at its incapacity to open my door, I swung the appropriate key around my finger, slid it into the lock and entered.
I didn't know what amazed me more, that there was another human who lived here in this building or that she's a chik, like me, or so my gaydar tells me.
These women, these ogling singlets with their sidelong gazes imbalance me. It's not the same nervousness I get, those crazy swarming butterflies when there's whoosh! beauty before me. Oh, no, that's one of those blushing sensations and I do my best not to stumble and fall all over myself with an introduction. That's an okay feeling.
These are different, like a visual Craigslist Personal ad, without the aggravating text script ("U r 1 hot bayb") or self-aggrandizing descriptions that often result in a well worn self-help book summary or an external appearance not unlike those wacky, wobbly fun house mirrors. These are the ads on the sleeves by way of the furtive, coy glances, the pawing of same-brand products ("I like peanut butter stuffed pretzels too!"), and cupped hands around half empty containers of chai tea while peeking through their mod glasses. These are singlet chiks, singlet women and they are everywhere - as I discovered before - but now I'm noticing that they are in places I least expected: where I shop and live. And I feel funny around them, awkward.
It's funny, but now that one has spotted where I live, not that I'm famous or anything, but just that I'm another in the statistic of a few, I feel like I'm going to have a little Yelp numbered pin poking out of my building that denotes An Older Chik Lives Here! Marked for all to see and discover.
And I thought I was anonymous among the masses.
Showing posts with label Dating for Lesbians. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dating for Lesbians. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thursday, February 19, 2009
O-40 Lesbian Dating Final Thoughts
Two women --one about refrigerator height, the other's eyes were even with the former's shoulders -- walked together along the tree-lined trail, small streams of rainwater erased each footstep their sensible hiking boots created on the muddy path. This was a planned "date," to Go For a Hike. Their online matchmaker determined that they both liked Fresh Air, Laughing, and Open, Honest Communication. It was the first time they'd ever been together.
Shoulder-length brunette wore a crinkly, azure Gore-Tex jacket, faded jeans, and black gloves. Her wooly socks crested the tops of her boots and folded to the second eyelet. Shorty wore her soft, curly black hair to mid-neck, a thick orange scarf surrounded her throat and hung over her thick blue sweater. It was one of those hand-knitted types with a melding of autumnal colors, blues, browns, and yellow speckles which hung over her small hips. She also wore sensible low-cut hiking boots with green socks. Her mud brown pants were a bit too short, like they'd been in the dryer far too many minutes and far too many times.
They walked along maintaining a 'safe' distance between each other, you know, about 6 inches, careful to not touch, but close enough to demonstrate that simple 'You'll do,' attraction to the other. More than six inches often implies platonic desire. Of course, in the world of women-seeking-women, this is how the fire is flamed.
Each inquisitive sentence began with a look at the boots, the path, and a sideways peek, "So, do you...?" Their responses, equally as tentative and repetitive started with a quick glance at the other, a search towards the clouds for an answer, eyes forward to trail ahead, then "Well, I usually...." Boots, path, peek, "So do you...?" Glance, clouds, trail, "Well, I usually..."
Shorty dug her hands into her pants, withdrew a tissue (the air was indeed, nose-dripping cold) and took care of business. This little action prompted a change in conversation. "Do you have allergies? I mean everything's in bloom," Refrig asked, sweeping her arm in the air to show her awareness of all the budding shrubs, flowers, and trees. "Oh, a little," Shorty said, "I just got a little chilled." Before I knew it, not 200 yards into our first date, Refrig put her lanky arm around Shorty's shoulders and rubbed Shorty's left arm in one of those comfy, warm-up moves.
Smooth move. Very subtle.
Gracie, Basco (see his cute pix in the margin), and I followed them for about 1/4 mile, until I couldn't handle the eaves-dropping any more. Besides, Gracie was about to explode from not running hither and dither and Basco just wanted to run up and meet the women ahead of him. He's blind, so he tends to bump into people as a means of introduction.
The dating scene. I applaud you who've ventured beyond the Over-40 Lesbian Speed Dating scene. I mean, talk about cut-throat! Of course, these two could have written down each other's number on their 3x5 cards and this is their official First Date after the "O-40LSD".
Sounds like an illicit drug, doesn't it? (Chamomile, mint, chai, and non-caffeinated teas don't count in this category).
****
Terry's been through a bit of the online flaky-dyke scene these past few months. She took the big step of putting her photos, profile, and ideal-match desires up for all girl-to-girl searchers to peruse. She's poked, elbowed, or nudged a few Lookers, and a few have nodded in her direction.
E-mails have exchanged, phone calls dialed with elongated discussions, even a couple coffee dates with eye-to-eye dialogues, and one movie. (I wouldn't suggest Marley & Me as a 1st date flick, btw). She's discovered, though that there are a lot of tentative women out there, not really wanting to respond to e-mails or make the plunge and get together, or as she discovered from one woman, She Just Wasn't Ready. Some women just aren't aware of themselves enough to get to know or accept another.
Aren't the early stages of dating, i.e., the first few months supposed to be those moments of putting the Best of Ourselves out there? By this chronological point, I'd expect that many women have a good idea of Who she is, What she wants, and How to achieve happiness in her life which, when she shows her great side(s) obviously includes mating/dating another.
Suggestions for you potential dates:
<>Learn to not spit (at least not while on a date).
<> wipe your mouths when eating red sauces.
<> to show up on time (or just show up).
<> to call when it's stated a call will be made, to not wear tooooo much perfume or extra scent,
<> and to be quasi-honest and, well, nice (aka, friendly, ) to the other. Generally speaking, being snarky and mean are a bit of a turn-off whether you're on a 1st,2nd, 5th, or even 10th date, or happen to be long-time friends and/or lovers/wives/mates.
Maybe the slow-mo, chain throwing, let's-get-our-energy-in-sync, O-40 Lesbian Dating Scenesters (not to be confused w/O40LSD) want this to be the penultimate One. Not a scene, per se, but a series of single events with just one person who's going to be la última for the remaining rounds of life. Hence, Coorda's touchy-feely, deep breathing sensory introduction serves some sort of purpose for the non-first impressionists out there.
It's tough, I tell you that much. Since we've all been through enough of life to know what does/doesn't work, let alone a greater awareness of those toreador red flags, when it comes to hooking up with the 'right' (or better?) someone the bar has been set far higher than the early 20s-discovering-who-we-are, 'you'll do in a pinch' limbo bar. Then there's a lot of horizontaling and drama. Now, in this O-40LDS (no religious affiliation, of course) there's quite a bit of horizontaling but it tends to show up after a few hiking, biking, coffeeing, yogaing, motorcycling, hand-holding, book-reading, kayaking, art museuming dates. Gawd, what happened to that First Kiss, that total connection and all that wild, real energy there? Lost to the Goddess of Process.
It's all a big ass process. Ugh. I suppose it's -- as they say in all the 12-step groups -- Process, not Perfection; or on a more Zen-ish plane, the Path not the Prize. Or, in a BossyBeeHive world, you have to dig through the weeds to find the flowers. Still, any flower that's technically a weed is really just a wild flower, right? And, many weeds are quite pretty (except Oxalis) so where does that leave the O-40 Lesbian Daters? I'm quite fond of the Prize, if you must know. Probably started when that awesome Black History television series Eyes on the Prize came out. No, it has nothing to do w/O-40 LDS, but the title certainly suited me
For all you O-40LDS chix, enjoy the discovery and steer clear of that glossy, lush Poison Oak while you gather and discard the pretty, the contrasting, and the coordinating colors of your dates & mates.
Who knows? Maybe there'll be a 4-leaf clover in the mix (and not just the blue clovers found in a box of Lucky Charms).
I think Shorty and Refrig are busy plucking flowers at this very moment.
Shoulder-length brunette wore a crinkly, azure Gore-Tex jacket, faded jeans, and black gloves. Her wooly socks crested the tops of her boots and folded to the second eyelet. Shorty wore her soft, curly black hair to mid-neck, a thick orange scarf surrounded her throat and hung over her thick blue sweater. It was one of those hand-knitted types with a melding of autumnal colors, blues, browns, and yellow speckles which hung over her small hips. She also wore sensible low-cut hiking boots with green socks. Her mud brown pants were a bit too short, like they'd been in the dryer far too many minutes and far too many times.
They walked along maintaining a 'safe' distance between each other, you know, about 6 inches, careful to not touch, but close enough to demonstrate that simple 'You'll do,' attraction to the other. More than six inches often implies platonic desire. Of course, in the world of women-seeking-women, this is how the fire is flamed.
Each inquisitive sentence began with a look at the boots, the path, and a sideways peek, "So, do you...?" Their responses, equally as tentative and repetitive started with a quick glance at the other, a search towards the clouds for an answer, eyes forward to trail ahead, then "Well, I usually...." Boots, path, peek, "So do you...?" Glance, clouds, trail, "Well, I usually..."
Shorty dug her hands into her pants, withdrew a tissue (the air was indeed, nose-dripping cold) and took care of business. This little action prompted a change in conversation. "Do you have allergies? I mean everything's in bloom," Refrig asked, sweeping her arm in the air to show her awareness of all the budding shrubs, flowers, and trees. "Oh, a little," Shorty said, "I just got a little chilled." Before I knew it, not 200 yards into our first date, Refrig put her lanky arm around Shorty's shoulders and rubbed Shorty's left arm in one of those comfy, warm-up moves.
Smooth move. Very subtle.
Gracie, Basco (see his cute pix in the margin), and I followed them for about 1/4 mile, until I couldn't handle the eaves-dropping any more. Besides, Gracie was about to explode from not running hither and dither and Basco just wanted to run up and meet the women ahead of him. He's blind, so he tends to bump into people as a means of introduction.
The dating scene. I applaud you who've ventured beyond the Over-40 Lesbian Speed Dating scene. I mean, talk about cut-throat! Of course, these two could have written down each other's number on their 3x5 cards and this is their official First Date after the "O-40LSD".
Sounds like an illicit drug, doesn't it? (Chamomile, mint, chai, and non-caffeinated teas don't count in this category).
****
Terry's been through a bit of the online flaky-dyke scene these past few months. She took the big step of putting her photos, profile, and ideal-match desires up for all girl-to-girl searchers to peruse. She's poked, elbowed, or nudged a few Lookers, and a few have nodded in her direction.
E-mails have exchanged, phone calls dialed with elongated discussions, even a couple coffee dates with eye-to-eye dialogues, and one movie. (I wouldn't suggest Marley & Me as a 1st date flick, btw). She's discovered, though that there are a lot of tentative women out there, not really wanting to respond to e-mails or make the plunge and get together, or as she discovered from one woman, She Just Wasn't Ready. Some women just aren't aware of themselves enough to get to know or accept another.
Aren't the early stages of dating, i.e., the first few months supposed to be those moments of putting the Best of Ourselves out there? By this chronological point, I'd expect that many women have a good idea of Who she is, What she wants, and How to achieve happiness in her life which, when she shows her great side(s) obviously includes mating/dating another.
Suggestions for you potential dates:
<>Learn to not spit (at least not while on a date).
<> wipe your mouths when eating red sauces.
<> to show up on time (or just show up).
<> to call when it's stated a call will be made, to not wear tooooo much perfume or extra scent,
<> and to be quasi-honest and, well, nice (aka, friendly, ) to the other. Generally speaking, being snarky and mean are a bit of a turn-off whether you're on a 1st,2nd, 5th, or even 10th date, or happen to be long-time friends and/or lovers/wives/mates.
Maybe the slow-mo, chain throwing, let's-get-our-energy-in-sync, O-40 Lesbian Dating Scenesters (not to be confused w/O40LSD) want this to be the penultimate One. Not a scene, per se, but a series of single events with just one person who's going to be la última for the remaining rounds of life. Hence, Coorda's touchy-feely, deep breathing sensory introduction serves some sort of purpose for the non-first impressionists out there.
It's tough, I tell you that much. Since we've all been through enough of life to know what does/doesn't work, let alone a greater awareness of those toreador red flags, when it comes to hooking up with the 'right' (or better?) someone the bar has been set far higher than the early 20s-discovering-who-we-are, 'you'll do in a pinch' limbo bar. Then there's a lot of horizontaling and drama. Now, in this O-40LDS (no religious affiliation, of course) there's quite a bit of horizontaling but it tends to show up after a few hiking, biking, coffeeing, yogaing, motorcycling, hand-holding, book-reading, kayaking, art museuming dates. Gawd, what happened to that First Kiss, that total connection and all that wild, real energy there? Lost to the Goddess of Process.
It's all a big ass process. Ugh. I suppose it's -- as they say in all the 12-step groups -- Process, not Perfection; or on a more Zen-ish plane, the Path not the Prize. Or, in a BossyBeeHive world, you have to dig through the weeds to find the flowers. Still, any flower that's technically a weed is really just a wild flower, right? And, many weeds are quite pretty (except Oxalis) so where does that leave the O-40 Lesbian Daters? I'm quite fond of the Prize, if you must know. Probably started when that awesome Black History television series Eyes on the Prize came out. No, it has nothing to do w/O-40 LDS, but the title certainly suited me
For all you O-40LDS chix, enjoy the discovery and steer clear of that glossy, lush Poison Oak while you gather and discard the pretty, the contrasting, and the coordinating colors of your dates & mates.
Who knows? Maybe there'll be a 4-leaf clover in the mix (and not just the blue clovers found in a box of Lucky Charms).
I think Shorty and Refrig are busy plucking flowers at this very moment.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Lesbian Speed Dating?
Speed Dating for 40+/year-old Lesbians? Isn't all of this a simple oxymoron? I mean, MOST over-40 lesbians don't do anything speedy, except for drive. And even then, with our doggies, adopted, shared, and birthed children on board our Subaru wagons, the 'speeding' really is just what's in our minds, right? Subarus really aren't noted for their velocity, after all.
So my buddy, Terry does this Over-40 Lesbian Speed Dating. The name alone is a bit of a red flag, right? Okay, so it's scheduled for the Day of Love: Valentine's Day. Ooooo, cupid's in the air! Arrows flying, chocolate, oysters, and lube. Maybe there's something to be said for planning this on such a fabulously love-ly day.
Starts at 4:00pm. 4 o'clock in the AFTERNOON! What date, other than coffee or sex actually begins at 4pm? Oh, my. Lesbians and our early evenings. Stay tuned.
She arrives at the appropriate early bird hour, ready to do the number, card, 3-minute Q & A and hopefully meet up with some chix. A dance is scheduled to follow, so there's great potential for her to write down a few numbers (you know, it's all anonymous, each person's known by their positive integer only) and jig a bit with the lovelies afterward.
Terry's plan and the Coordinator's --we'll call her Coorda -- ideals do not mesh. Lesbians being lesbians and all, Coorda gathers the group of 60-70 dykes together and directs them to gather in two circles, one inner, one outer (like opposing games of duck-duck-goose or a slowed, lesbian, not-very-fun version of the Virginia Reel) and decides to steer this Lesbian Speed Dating vehicle onto the road of Everyone Feels O.K. Way. See where this is going?
Coorda says, Gaze into the eyes of the woman opposite you. Hold it for at least a minute.
What? Okay. I'll let this go.
Now, Coorda says, hold the hand, shake the hand, hug, or place your hands on the shoulders of the woman in front of you. Feel the connection. We're all nervous, she says, so let's all ease into this discomfort and share the energy. Keep gazing. No speaking! This is all about our energy not our voices. Let our breath, our touch, our energy be our speech!
omg. lesbians and energy. I digress. Did I mention that there is no alcohol served at this sunset special? By this time I'd be fermenting fruit in my coat pocket if I could.
Coorda then directs the group to release hands or hugs or breast holds. Inner circle, she says, turn your back to the outer group. How do you think this makes your partner in the outer group feel now that you've directed your attention away from her? Turn back and face her, now outer group you turn your back to the inner group. Do we all feel the discomfort? The sense of being shunned or ignored? Coorda directs them to face each other again, then Terry's circle rotates one-step right and the whole thing repeats. After a while, which is "about an eternity too long," my buddy says, Coorda directs the group again. Let's all take a deep breath and release all those toxic insensitivities, she says. Let's shake out our nervousness and have a peacefully good time, Thank Goddess.
Terry rolled her eyes and muttered to her inner circle elbow mate, "this is so screwy." At the least. Touchy-feely? Sensitive to each others' feelings and needs? Grounding? Breathing?
Come on. It's Speed Dating! It's all about first impressions in 3 minutes. You've either got good breath or bad breath. Your number is marked on a 3x5 card or not. Move on. Someone might like you or not. Everyone should be nervous and sweaty palmed. But hugging, holding hands, breathing deeply? Come on. It's Speed Dating. It's Shallow Hal and all about picking and choosing, like tomatoes, autumn leaves, or scraps of ribbon. You either want it in that moment or you don't.
When the Official Speed Dating finally commenced -- btw, the venue was too small for the number of women who showed up: not enough chairs/tables -- it wasn't a one-on-one deal, 3 minutes, talk, leave. It was a group of three women, much like a panel who sat on the outside and fired off questions to the passing babes. That's not an uncomfortable feeling, getting interviewed by a small posse of women.
However, it wasn't a dialogue. Oh no. Coorda kept hollering over the excited women There's No Talking! Give only One-Word answers! If you're asked what you do for a living, like you work for UPS, then you say "Driver," and that's all.
Again, Terry rolled her eyes. Fuck that, she said to her two other panelists, we'll call them L and T, who Terry did not know prior to this event.
Down the circle way, two women got up and left. On the way out the door one said to the other, "This blows." Even 40+ lesbians know when something like overly controlled Speed Dating is lame.
The single-word dialogue was not working for Coorda, though. The women were talking, laughing, having a good time.
After about 15 minutes, the conversations rumbled to a small, multi-worded din and Coorda couldn't yell over the voices to get the women to rotate right. She solved that problem by throwing a two-foot piece of chain onto the stage. The contented crowd silenced from the thundering clatter. Coorda hollered, One-word conversations only! Now, switch!
No gentle bell tinkling. No four-toned wind chime or wooden train whistle. A chain. Coorda used a chain to lasso their peri-menopausal attention. The same kind of linkage used to lock up 8-foot fences or tithe trailers to semi-trucks.
The afternoon-evening continued like this, the pleasantly hurled chain marked the time to rotate to the next panel of interviewers. A cluster of three to four women side-step in front of Terry, L and T. T asks a question of the cluster. Each woman answers. L asks a question. Each woman answers. Terry gets to ask a question. Each woman answers. The chain is thrown down. Time's up! Rotate right and the next clump of women saddles up. T questions, gaggle answers, L questions, the blob answers -individually, of course - and Terry questions, the lump responds. Metal pounds the hollow wooden stage. Rotate!
By the second hour, Terry's panel mates began to change their occupations and residences. Not out of spite, moreso because it meant that they weren't following Coorda's litany of lesbian speed dating rules. These rule-breakers were admonished; Coorda lurked around Terry's panel as they frequently broke out into laughter and allowed the passers by to give three-word responses, such as, 'I am tall,' or 'I like movies.' They were frequently chastised: One Word ONLY. Terry was raised in Catholic schools. This was not unfamiliar.
Alas, Terry wrote down only a few numbers of passing women, since the one-word, panel-interview session didn't allow for much exchange of a person's first impression opportunity.
The Chain was thrown three times, not unlike when a whistle is tooted three times when we're lost in the wilderness. Here it meant to stop this fabulous Speed Dating opportunity. Chain drags again off the floor, it is about 10 pounds, after all, and thrown down again. It's time for a short break, Coorda declares. Terry scoots off to the restroom.
When she returns, the inner circle is no longer in the room -- they've been sequestered elsewhere -- and the outer circle remains. However, the roundish formation is gone. It's now a free-for-all, essentially everyone's in a big crowded, elbow-bumping gaggle, with the notion that the specific circles can now intertwine with their own. Women are just yelling out random questions and anyone can answer from anywhere in the room. Good luck getting her number.
They were finished by 7:00pm: just in time for the dance to start (and finish by 10pm when everyone could go home and cuddle up!). Cards lableled with the interviewers own headlining number and noted desired numbers were thrown into a box.
Terry and I are going to create our own, not-just-single-word- answer Lesbian Speed Dating opportunities. We may throw in some patchouli oil deep breathing exercises just to let everyone feel comfortable, in the event they enjoyed Coorda's techniques. However, our plan is to actually do a real 3-minute speed dating thing without all the Lesbian Processing of Feelings and Emotions.
I'll post more here when this launches.
-BBH
So my buddy, Terry does this Over-40 Lesbian Speed Dating. The name alone is a bit of a red flag, right? Okay, so it's scheduled for the Day of Love: Valentine's Day. Ooooo, cupid's in the air! Arrows flying, chocolate, oysters, and lube. Maybe there's something to be said for planning this on such a fabulously love-ly day.
Starts at 4:00pm. 4 o'clock in the AFTERNOON! What date, other than coffee or sex actually begins at 4pm? Oh, my. Lesbians and our early evenings. Stay tuned.
She arrives at the appropriate early bird hour, ready to do the number, card, 3-minute Q & A and hopefully meet up with some chix. A dance is scheduled to follow, so there's great potential for her to write down a few numbers (you know, it's all anonymous, each person's known by their positive integer only) and jig a bit with the lovelies afterward.
Terry's plan and the Coordinator's --we'll call her Coorda -- ideals do not mesh. Lesbians being lesbians and all, Coorda gathers the group of 60-70 dykes together and directs them to gather in two circles, one inner, one outer (like opposing games of duck-duck-goose or a slowed, lesbian, not-very-fun version of the Virginia Reel) and decides to steer this Lesbian Speed Dating vehicle onto the road of Everyone Feels O.K. Way. See where this is going?
Coorda says, Gaze into the eyes of the woman opposite you. Hold it for at least a minute.
What? Okay. I'll let this go.
Now, Coorda says, hold the hand, shake the hand, hug, or place your hands on the shoulders of the woman in front of you. Feel the connection. We're all nervous, she says, so let's all ease into this discomfort and share the energy. Keep gazing. No speaking! This is all about our energy not our voices. Let our breath, our touch, our energy be our speech!
omg. lesbians and energy. I digress. Did I mention that there is no alcohol served at this sunset special? By this time I'd be fermenting fruit in my coat pocket if I could.
Coorda then directs the group to release hands or hugs or breast holds. Inner circle, she says, turn your back to the outer group. How do you think this makes your partner in the outer group feel now that you've directed your attention away from her? Turn back and face her, now outer group you turn your back to the inner group. Do we all feel the discomfort? The sense of being shunned or ignored? Coorda directs them to face each other again, then Terry's circle rotates one-step right and the whole thing repeats. After a while, which is "about an eternity too long," my buddy says, Coorda directs the group again. Let's all take a deep breath and release all those toxic insensitivities, she says. Let's shake out our nervousness and have a peacefully good time, Thank Goddess.
Terry rolled her eyes and muttered to her inner circle elbow mate, "this is so screwy." At the least. Touchy-feely? Sensitive to each others' feelings and needs? Grounding? Breathing?
Come on. It's Speed Dating! It's all about first impressions in 3 minutes. You've either got good breath or bad breath. Your number is marked on a 3x5 card or not. Move on. Someone might like you or not. Everyone should be nervous and sweaty palmed. But hugging, holding hands, breathing deeply? Come on. It's Speed Dating. It's Shallow Hal and all about picking and choosing, like tomatoes, autumn leaves, or scraps of ribbon. You either want it in that moment or you don't.
When the Official Speed Dating finally commenced -- btw, the venue was too small for the number of women who showed up: not enough chairs/tables -- it wasn't a one-on-one deal, 3 minutes, talk, leave. It was a group of three women, much like a panel who sat on the outside and fired off questions to the passing babes. That's not an uncomfortable feeling, getting interviewed by a small posse of women.
However, it wasn't a dialogue. Oh no. Coorda kept hollering over the excited women There's No Talking! Give only One-Word answers! If you're asked what you do for a living, like you work for UPS, then you say "Driver," and that's all.
Again, Terry rolled her eyes. Fuck that, she said to her two other panelists, we'll call them L and T, who Terry did not know prior to this event.
Down the circle way, two women got up and left. On the way out the door one said to the other, "This blows." Even 40+ lesbians know when something like overly controlled Speed Dating is lame.
The single-word dialogue was not working for Coorda, though. The women were talking, laughing, having a good time.
After about 15 minutes, the conversations rumbled to a small, multi-worded din and Coorda couldn't yell over the voices to get the women to rotate right. She solved that problem by throwing a two-foot piece of chain onto the stage. The contented crowd silenced from the thundering clatter. Coorda hollered, One-word conversations only! Now, switch!
No gentle bell tinkling. No four-toned wind chime or wooden train whistle. A chain. Coorda used a chain to lasso their peri-menopausal attention. The same kind of linkage used to lock up 8-foot fences or tithe trailers to semi-trucks.
The afternoon-evening continued like this, the pleasantly hurled chain marked the time to rotate to the next panel of interviewers. A cluster of three to four women side-step in front of Terry, L and T. T asks a question of the cluster. Each woman answers. L asks a question. Each woman answers. Terry gets to ask a question. Each woman answers. The chain is thrown down. Time's up! Rotate right and the next clump of women saddles up. T questions, gaggle answers, L questions, the blob answers -individually, of course - and Terry questions, the lump responds. Metal pounds the hollow wooden stage. Rotate!
By the second hour, Terry's panel mates began to change their occupations and residences. Not out of spite, moreso because it meant that they weren't following Coorda's litany of lesbian speed dating rules. These rule-breakers were admonished; Coorda lurked around Terry's panel as they frequently broke out into laughter and allowed the passers by to give three-word responses, such as, 'I am tall,' or 'I like movies.' They were frequently chastised: One Word ONLY. Terry was raised in Catholic schools. This was not unfamiliar.
Alas, Terry wrote down only a few numbers of passing women, since the one-word, panel-interview session didn't allow for much exchange of a person's first impression opportunity.
The Chain was thrown three times, not unlike when a whistle is tooted three times when we're lost in the wilderness. Here it meant to stop this fabulous Speed Dating opportunity. Chain drags again off the floor, it is about 10 pounds, after all, and thrown down again. It's time for a short break, Coorda declares. Terry scoots off to the restroom.
When she returns, the inner circle is no longer in the room -- they've been sequestered elsewhere -- and the outer circle remains. However, the roundish formation is gone. It's now a free-for-all, essentially everyone's in a big crowded, elbow-bumping gaggle, with the notion that the specific circles can now intertwine with their own. Women are just yelling out random questions and anyone can answer from anywhere in the room. Good luck getting her number.
They were finished by 7:00pm: just in time for the dance to start (and finish by 10pm when everyone could go home and cuddle up!). Cards lableled with the interviewers own headlining number and noted desired numbers were thrown into a box.
Terry and I are going to create our own, not-just-single-word- answer Lesbian Speed Dating opportunities. We may throw in some patchouli oil deep breathing exercises just to let everyone feel comfortable, in the event they enjoyed Coorda's techniques. However, our plan is to actually do a real 3-minute speed dating thing without all the Lesbian Processing of Feelings and Emotions.
I'll post more here when this launches.
-BBH
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