Thursday, March 29, 12:30 a.m.
I’m a bit rusty when it comes to lesbianism. College is a good seven years behind me, as are the debaucherous, mead-driven cast-party trysts with fellow thespians, the ones where the lines of camaraderie were blurred almost as much as my vision. To say the least, it was a very liberal liberal arts experience.
At the brick-y, gated courtyard entrance to the Fruit Loop’s Piranha nightclub complex, a slender doorman in bespoke suiting offers to hold my purse while I dig around for my ID. Experience with past gay and lesbian bars tells me that I will be one of few ladies toting a clutch. This is one of many details I considered before heading out; I discarded both the Free Kitty T-shirt and the Playboy Bunny one before opting for plain black. I also made the mistake of letting a very bisexual friend know of my intended itinerary for the night. “Make out!” her text implored, forgetting momentarily that is takes two to tango. At least! Trudging trough the dusty dirt parking lot I begin rethinking the mock-croc heels that will have me towering above most of the women in the club.
At the 8 1⁄2 Lounge’s darkened bar I meet up with my wingwoman, Liz, who looks relieved to be stolen away from a new friend she says is a tad too “aggressive.” We give up the lounge’s low-key feel, its pool table and the Aggressor for the thumping Piranha nightclub.
“This is like seventh grade,” Liz observes, acknowledging the division of the sexes. Ladies to the left by the bar, men to the right, beyond the go-go boxes on the dance floor. “Yeah, but I don’t think they’re going to mix as much,” I suggest, shocked to see this many men at a lesbian party.
Saturdays, Krave on the Strip hosts Girl Bar, but Orchid, the brainchild of DJ Lisa Pittman—also of Studio 54—offers ladies a mid-week party op. Pittman is not only a mighty fine turntablist, but she is also a machine behind Studio 54’s bar, putting out the drinks like a sharpshooter picking off targets.
If, as they say, every woman has a lesbian inside her, than I suppose mine pines away for Nelly Furtado or Shakira, neither of whom would I kick out of the bathtub. But uh oh, someone is still pining for Liz. The Aggressor returns, bellying up to the bar next to us.
“Just say the word, and I’ll be all over you like white on rice,” I declare as my bravado spilleth over the rim of my second drink. “Word,” she confirms. I nod and sip. “No, WORD!” With that, my hand flies fast to a low spot on her back just north of her butt. Had I made it to another cocktail, I might perhaps have gotten carried away and aimed lower, but for now I stand in a strange ballroom dance attitude, trying to look nonchalant as the Designated Girlfriend. It’s not working.
Inspired, our friend orders a couple of brews and slinks closer. Is she buying us a round? Heineken in one hand, Newcastle in the other, she clinks our glasses. Nope, both are hers. She toasts us, the happy couple, and moves on.
In the center of the dance floor, two curvy go-gos in American Apparel legwarmers, tanks and undies dance the night away to Pittman’s scratching and mashups, surrounded by the grrrls and bois who are in fact mixing. From Eminem to Lady Sovereign, Pittman bounces while ads for her appearance at Dinah Shore Weekend—excuse me, “The Dinah”—flash on the TV screens.
Just then a quick battle erupts to a mix of Akon’s “Smack That” and the Pet Shop Boys’ “Girls and Boys” between a slender, ripped girl with a long ponytail and a tiny crop-haired girl. “Italians do it better,” the latter’s oversized T-shirt avows. She performs a split while elsewhere, a girl is curiously on the floor doing crunches. Incidentally, if you ever find me on a nightclub floor, just ignore me. I probably need the sleep.