What Happens at Dinah, Stays at Dinah. Part 1.

Dinah Shore.  Two of the sweetest words a young lesbian can hear.  Two of the sweetest words she can experience.  And until she has experienced the Dinah, it seems like a mythological creature that has to be impossible: completely too good to be true.  Palm Springs heat, resorts full of hot, wild, and willing lesbians, pool parties, party after party after party, celesbians galore, live concerts by the likes of Gaga and Katy Perry....yeah right.  Well I hate to pop your bubble but...no I don’t hate to pop it.  This is all true.  Delightfully, wonderfully, outrageously true.

And so the first weekend in April, early on a Friday morning, we smashed our luggage into the trunk of Kim’s ridiculous yellow Mustang convertible and piled in, with mugs of spiked coffee and mimosas respectively.  Leah swiftly jumped into shotgun position with a mischievous smile through her mirrored aviators, her tattooed arms quickly buckling the belt, arresting any argument.  Ruth, Cecilia, and I squished into the back seat, with me in the middle aka. bitch.  About three hours later, after some epic sing-alongs, we pulled up to the Hilton  (where all the main pool parties were to take place).  Walking up the palm tree lined path to the hotel, there were lesbians everywhere.  Every.  Where.  Leah practically strutted up, stopping to do a full U-turn to check out a group of scantily-clad chicks prancing past.  When she caught me watching her, she grinned and held out her arms, We’ve arrived.  

Music was already pumping; Rihanna’s voice causing the sidewalks to throb with heat and promise.  We eagerly checked into our poolside suite, which we entered after making our way through throngs (THRONGS) of women in bikinis and other various states of undress (i.e.. heart shape stickers on their tits and boy shorts (!)).  

In the slightly tacky suite we threw our stuff down on our beds, Ruth and Cecilia having offered earlier to share one because of the odd number.  I had raised an eyebrow at this since I still not forgotten the infamous, not-to-be-spoken-of, Christmas party hook-up of ’07, but they ignored me while making plans not to “vagblock” each other.  I donned my canary yellow Chloé bikini and Louboutin espadrilles, Cecilia was in ruffled Marc Jacobs, and Kim’s skinny body slid easily into the barely there knit Missoni.  Ruth was label free, as per usual, but I spotted Leah’s sleek black Gucci string bikini a mile away.  She toned it down to her style with long ripped jean shorts.  I couldn’t help but let a corner of my mouth curve in approval.

Kim turned on “Imma Hot Chick” by the New Boys at full volume and started gyrating, while Ruth laughed and started ridiculously shaking her ass. Leah pulled a bottle of Patron out of her Diesel bag shouting Shots shots shots shots shots like the LMFAO song.  C cleared her throat, calling us to order, and gave her standby toast Here’s to looking good and being bad!   We all made faces but then happily obliged, downing multiple tequila shots.

After a proper in-room pre-game we left for the pool, where we stumbled into a wet t-shirt contest in progress.  Of course we immediately began nudging each other and pointing like overexcited teenage boys.  And then my jaw found its way to the floor.  There, in all of her wet, now transparent white shirt glory, was my boss, Margot.  Leah caught it at the same moment and turned to me, mouth also open and eyes wide.

Holy shit thats not your--

Yes.  Yes it is.  I replied, not taking my eyes off Margot as she shrieked and then let a equally soaked blonde pour rum down her throat.  Leah shook her head as if to clear it.  Kim, Ruth, and Cecilia had stopped dancing and stood, stunned into a freeze.  Kim provided the excellent commentary of Oh. My. God.  Margot tossed her short black hair and continued to bounce around the stage, her barely concealed breasts joining her in the party.  And then her cat-like topaz eyes fell on me in the crowd.  She grinned jauntily and kept dancing.  Leah chortled next to me.  Babe if you don’t hook that up...I just might have to.

To be continued.  Clearly.

Always,

Louise