Singled Out: Searching for San Francisco's Lesbians

I thought about it really, really hard and after careful consideration I came to the decision that I need to break up with my super sexy former therapist.
Actually more than a decision, it was the logical conclusion to remedy this agonizing mental malaise that was not quite sitting well with me since the commencement of our steamy self-fabricated dating relationship.

Yet, the final verdict was not at all triggered by the fact that I usually make it a rule of thumb not to date a client – because let’s face it, I am too much of a kamikaze to legitimately be considered an asserted personal trainer – nor was it motivated by my moral ethics to not take advantage of a poor little hottie in a state of utter desperation to satiate my crush.

No, I called it quits because per the strong recommendation of Tracy, my SheWired editor, if I opted to train my super sexy therapist, I had to fire her and, to be politically correct, affix the adjective “former” in between “super sexy” and  “therapist.”

It wouldn’t have been a problem if it was just a matter of semantics but to me it meant more than a word. “Super Sexy Therapist” is a nickname I custom-designed for my jaw-dropping shrink and one I’d grown accustomed to using. It’s my signature trademark, my Karen Walker in Will and Grace, my Elaine Benes in Seinfeld, my...well, you get the point! 

Frankly, I just couldn’t go through with it, and I was losing an unaffordable amount of sleep over it.  So I broke up with her -- in my mind.  Then, of course, I immediately phoned her up to schedule an emergency therapy session to overcome the psychological pain of the separation.  If anything, I can rejoice over the fact that for once it was a no-mess drama free breakup because just like she was unaware we were dating, similarly she doesn’t know we broke up. And now at least I got my super sexy therapist back and my singleness too.

Being a free bird again, my visiting European boys – my Belgian cousin and his Belgian boyfriend – decided to put my bootie back on the market. And they did so literally because by “market” they actually meant Market Street as in San Francisco. So just like that, we packed our bags and hit the road…oh and so did Georgie, my little -- very smelly -- puppy.
On that note, there’s definitely something to be said about being trapped in the mountains along the coast on PCH for eight hours with an unventilated canine – I believe the word is hazardous!

But we made it to San Francisco safe and sound, without any dramatic incidents of asphyxiation – because the packs of nicotine sticks we collectively chain-smoked don’t count. I’ll skip the touristy parts of our trip and jump right into the main course of our outrageously entertaining northern California pilgrimage, namely our nightclubbing adventures.

Somehow the boys came up with this genial idea that if I were to meet any girls who could potentially qualify as girlfriend material, a nightclub would be the most suitable place…well, maybe in Europe but not so much in America. But because I didn’t have the energy to argue with them, I quietly went along with the plan.

In good clueless tourist fashion, we limited our search to the Castro. Armed with a San Francisco traveling guide for gays (made in Belgium) that my cousin’s boyfriend had the genial clairvoyance to bring, we commenced our bar/club hopping expedition. We started at Boy Bar on Market Street where after an hour and a couple of drinks later, it finally dawned on us that the closest thing to a feminine looking lesbian we would find was the petite male go-go dancer in a leopard print thong who was giving more love to the dancing pole than I.

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Our next stop – as suggested by the Belgian guide - was “Chaps” on Folsom Street.
Ok, we should have paid more attention to the name of the club, but in our defense it somehow phonetically resonated with Chapstick as in “I kissed a girl and I liked it.”
Not so much! There were no Katy Perrys in sight but rather a hundred versions of The Village People’s leather man whom no doubt thought I was either a transvestite or just a very skinny feminine looking boy. Suffice to say, I didn’t really take the time to conduct a survey to find out, and fearing mostly for the safety of my boys more than mine, moved our party elsewhere. I can’t quite remember how we ended up in Badlands in the Castro, but we did.  

The club was obnoxiously super packed and we couldn’t circulate without having to rub ourselves against the mass of repulsively sweaty bodies. As for the dance-floor, more than the expected circus, it was a dog and cock – no pun intended --fighting ring. But at least the joint offered more of a mixed palette meaning visibly identifiable women – albeit the colors were limited to oily butch or pastel straight.

While the boys were busy perusing the ladies for the potential lucky winner of the grand prize – that would be moi - I was catching up with my music video viewing. What can I say? I don’t ever get to watch VH1 anymore and since early on I knew there was absolutely no one remotely close to my liking, I opted to use my time productively and update myself on the latest choreographies of my girls Janet, Bey, Ga Ga, and Britney.

Then suddenly one of the few girlie girls who was, until that point, and with quite impressive skills, shaking her derriere on the dance-floor, took a break and stepped aside next to me. The only problem was that she was standing in front of me and blocking my view.
I immediately informed her of her inattentive rudeness and kindly demanded she cleared my field of vision.

Thank Goodness she obliged, but she somehow felt it necessary to engage in a conversation with me. We chatted for what in club time I consider a long while – at least one entire song – and was admittedly very much excited at the fact that we seemed to click rather well. Yet just when I thought that the next logical move would be an invitation to dance or the ritualistic phone number exchange, she started to grill me about the legitimacy of my gayness. Miss know-it-all had randomly decided that I was not gay. She somehow justified her argument based on the fact that a) I was hanging out with two gay guys which essentially qualified me as a fag hag; and b) I didn’t have the typical lesbian look, attitude and vibe - excuse me, since when do we have to wear a uniform to be gay?
 
This whole incident made me come to one gigantic realization: I am totally screwed.
Let’s review: I like girls who look like girls but these girls like girls who look like boys; the boyish/dykish looking girls want nothing to do with me -- quite frankly it’s fine with me. The girlie girls who miraculously develop a thing for me almost immediately run the other way. They call me liar, they call me “not really gay” -- drag name Mona Lisa -- always the same – “That’s not my name!

Meanwhile, ironically, now that I am REALLY gay I get more men hitting on me than when I was straight. So now what?
I guess I either get a complete make-over and an entirely new wardrobe or I just quit women – not!

Perhaps I should just go back to calling her my super sexy “former” therapist?
Hmm …That’s not her name!