“So. How do you, um, do it?”
I could, honestly, start a thousand stories with this exact quote. This particular situation was identical to one I had sat through innumerable times. He was the same as all the other random men who had asked previously: Shirt so tight that you could see his nipples, backward hat pulled down to his eyebrows, a tribal tattoo. His only visible muscles were in his biceps. I assumed that’s where his brain was, too.
It had started as just a friendly, drunken encounter on my one night out that week. I can only handle so much glitter and Ke$ha, so my visits to the gay bar are infrequent, and I had decided to go with my girlfriend to the charming hole-in-the-wall that is within walking distance of my apartment.
She makes fun of me because, in the 10 months we’ve dated, it’s the only bar I’ll go to. I like the scene there; it’s a lot of hipster-esque kids and tie-dye T-shirt wearing regulars through the week. However, the weekend draws a much different crowd -- the type of crowd that can be found on any given night at any given bar in the city of Toledo, Ohio: Midwestern "Jersey Shore" wannabes.
My girlfriend and I are a sight to see. She’s as femme as they come, and while I don’t consider myself “butch” by any means, let’s just say I haven’t worn underwear that weren’t boxer briefs in the last two years. She sticks out in public situations because she’s gorgeous. I stick out because I could probably pass for a 16-year-old boy. Needless to say, when we visit the bar on a Friday or Saturday night, we get approached.
This particular guy really thought he was being slick. Wrapping his arm around my shoulder, he offered to buy us a couple beers. I knew his intentions, but I don’t pass up free booze. After about 10 minutes of his absence, I thought we had lucked out and had gotten rid of him, but he returned with a beer for each of us. The chatter seemed friendly and basic, and I sipped my free drink casually, until I noticed he was no longer listening to me, but, rather, staring off into space, as a terrible grin spread across his face.
That’s when he asked.
How do I do it? Without a penis, that’s how. Google it, if you’re really that curious, dude. I’m sure you’ll find a plethora of articles about cunnilingus and strap-ons. I don’t approach random people at the bar, asking them about their sex lives. That would be rude, wouldn’t it?
I’m pretty sure if I walked up to some random straight couple at the bar and asked, “So, how big is it?” I’d get a slap across the mouth, instead of an answer. I understand that I do things a little differently in the bedroom, when compared to most of the population, but I don’t sodomize animals, and I’m not sleeping with my cousin, so I’m not sure why what I do is so crazy that it warrants intimate questions from strangers.
I’m only going to say this once, to hopefully put an end to these questions. Please, stay calm. I’m about to explain the most common lesbian sexual activities that I’ve been exposed to in my 6 years of being part of this elusive community. Also, I’m not going to tell you which ones of these I do or don’t do. You're welcome, Mom.
1. Oral Sex
It’s really the tried and true way to get any woman (straight or gay) to orgasm.
I hate this word, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t a more eloquent, less graphic way of saying it. It generally accompanies number 1.
They’re really not just for porn. I have a male friend who tells me, “You’ve made your bed. Now, you have to lie in it,” in regards to using one, but this is one of the few ways that lesbians can actually make eye contact while doing the dirty.
When I tell people that this actually is a common lesbian sex act, they usually assume I’m joking. Yes, we do it.
I ignored the stranger (Jeff? John, maybe? Some “bro” name that really suited his image), lit a cigarette and made a ridiculous facial expression at my girlfriend. She burst into giggles, and the distraught stranger mumbled a few words that I couldn’t hear and then the word “threesome.”
By this point I was intoxicated enough to be obscenely condescending, so I patted him on the shoulder and said, “Look at me. Look at my haircut. This shirt is from the men’s section. Do you really think I’m interested in anything like that?”
He slumped his shoulders and walked away, like I had hurt his feelings. I’m aware that two wrongs don’t make a right, but I was definitely not going to apologize for being rude to someone who was rude.
I’m not a man-hater. Even though I don’t sleep with them, men seem to be doing okay, for the most part. But, if I had to guess, I’d say 99% of lesbians have been asked at some point about how they do the dirty. In my two years of actually going to the bars (I’m 23), I can’t remember a night that I didn’t get asked at least once.
When I first started getting asked about the semantics of my sex life, I assumed it was purely out of curiosity; however, the older (and possibly wiser) I become, the more I’m noticing the link between this question and the suggestion of a threesome. No, I don’t want a threesome with you. I’m not in college anymore, and I’m not interested in sharing my girlfriend with anyone, whether male or female.
If you are, however, asking for educational reasons, just stop. I hardly even talk to my friends about their sex lives. In fact, I really only ever hear about this topic if the sex is mind-blowingly great or a disaster. So why do complete strangers find it appropriate to ask me about mine?
I have infinitely fantastic sex. Unless you’re my friend, that’s really all you need to know.