lez and the city

Farewell and Hello

2011-06-08T00:25:00.000-07:00

Hi friends. Those of you who have stuck by me...well you are just plain amazing. Clearly I have done some major moves and now I am on to another (me being me...not Louise). What started as a fictional blog about a San Francisco lesbian named Louise turned semi-autobiographical as I brought her to Los Angeles. Now I am moving to New York and I think it is time to just be real. So if you liked Louise or you like me please continue to follow the adventures. I have moved to lezandthecity.tumblr.com and will chronicle my true adventures there. Louise lives on inside me and I always aspire to be that rad. Thanks for your loyalty and love. I hope you like me as much as you like her! Also be sure to add the twitter (@LezAndTheCity) and find me on facebook, etc. Love you guys. Wish me luck in the big apple!

Author's Programing Note

2010-06-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Hello my lovely faithful and/or semi-faithful followers! On this glorious sunny day I am coming to you from the Abbey in Weho (aka West Hollywood, CA) where I live along with our heroine Louise. I must apologize for the gaps and now lengthy pause in the lezventures of our girl. Long story short (not an interesting long story anyway) life got in the way, but now it is no longer (I don't have a life? It got cooler? We shall see). ANYlezzy, you can expect many more regular posts and the like. Thanks for sticking with me, and Louise!

Here's to a ridiculous and fabulous summer. Look forward to a new update very very soon.

Yours,

Anna

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

2010-04-18T14:32:00.000-07:00

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

Back in Black (and Gold)

2010-04-07T19:56:00.000-07:00

I know I know I know. It has been almost four long months. I bet you never thought you would see me again. That I had been lost in the abyss that is LA. Happily, I can inform you that I am alive, if not a little the worse for wear. I am back for keeps this time. So much has happened a full recap would be excruciating. So here it is in brief: the highlights:

JANUARY

After the episode with Margot my head was a mess. I confessed all to Cecilia and Ruth while I was in Northern California for the holidays. Where do I go from here? Ruth was adamant that I talk to Margot, explain that it just wasn’t appropriate, and although I was very attracted to her, I just couldn’t go “there” because of work. Cecilia was less black and white I could tell but she didn’t want to rock Ruth’s boat. In any case, neither were very helpful.

I wanted Margot. That was that. But there was something I saw in her eyes that night, the eyes that initially drew me to her. When she talked about “sleeping my way to the top” it didn’t seem like a joke. There was something sinister in her eyes...even malicious. I saw a darkness that could easily chew me up and spit me out, both physically and emotionally. And career-wise. Yet I knew I was already in too deep. I couldn’t quit my job. I couldn’t even quit Margot.

Originally I had planned on doing a San Francisco New Years with Ruth and C, except after a week up North I was suffocating. So I convinced them to do a mini vacation. We bumped my flight to LA up earlier and bought them last minute cheap seats, and hopped a flight, a heavily sedated Cat Called Wanda in tow (yes she finally made the move, I convinced the roomies!). When we arrived at LAX New Year’s Eve morning it was about ten degrees warmer, and I was able to breathe ten times easier.

The girls checked into their penthouse at Chateau Marmont (I know right? the beauty of Cecilia’s absentee parents is the guilty money they fling at her each holiday season). What then followed was of course a ridiculous weekend with the girls as well as Kim, Leah, and even the usually M.I.A. Andi.

I finally returned to work after a long vacation. Things where awkward with Margot. I couldn’t look her in the eye...which probably was for the best. She was utterly professional however, and pretended the whole thing had never happened. However, I have once again been relegated to silent coffee fetcher and reader, much to Karen’s delight. I have been keeping my head down and doing my work. There is unfinished business here but I just can’t deal with it at the moment.

FEBRUARY

For once in my life I got off work early. Ruth was in town (minus Cecilia) for a work conference. When I unlocked the door I was greeted by Kim (of course) who flung herself immediately into my arms, tears streaming down her cheeks, A Cat Called Wanda in her arms. A muffled meow rang out in protest between our bodies. Ruth was close behind her.

Oh jesus Louise I am so glad you are home early! Andi left! She just fucking left! We are over! Like WTF? Kim blubbered.

Her face was red and blotchy; her light blue eyes huge, the whites tinged pink as she looked at me, glazed over in sadness.

What happened Kim?

She just said she was done! She said she wasn’t happy. I don’t fucking know. She already moved her shit. How will I even afford this place without her? I am so fucking fucked!

Ok calm down. We will figure out the money. We will figure this out. You were too good for the bitch anyway. Here is what you need to do: go get in the bath. I am bringing you booze. Then come with us to Voyeur, and we are going to paint the town pink with Ruth. Ok?

Kim sniffed and nodded. I took her hand, leading her down the hall to the first bathroom, where I turned on the hot water in huge claw-foot tub while pouring in a generous amount of bubbles.

Get in. I’ll be back. I went to the bathroom and grabbed a bottle of Stoli out of the freezer, and three glasses of rocks. Ruth followed me, smiling slightly.

What are you all happy about?

Oh I got promoted today. But it means I have to move. To LA.

I set down the glasses abruptly. No shit!

And it looks like you are going to need someone to take up the slack in rent...

NO SHIT! Ok and you know this means Cecilia is going to be down here in a heartbeat.

Exactly. Okay 5 second celebration and then let’s go take care of Kim.

We jumped up and down screaming silently, holding hands like little girls and then stopped, took deep breaths, and returned to the bathroom. Ruth took a seat on the toilet and I leaned on the edge of the sink. Kim was in bubbles up to her chin, sniffling still, but the hysterical tears had stopped. I poured her a generous vodka, and smaller ones for myself and Ruth.

Where’s Leah? I asked, never knowing where the enigmatic roommate had gone.

She went home to New York last week (ahh makes sense!) but she is back. I don’t know where she is though.

Does she know about you and Andi?

Kim sniffled (oops!) No. It just happened this morning. I woke up and....and...she was already packed! Kim burst into another round of sobs and I pointed to her glass of vodka which she obligingly drank from deeply.

The front door banged open. Speak of the devil. Leah’s heavy motorcycle boots pounded the wood floors as she made her way down the hall to the open bathroom. She peeked her head around the corner, a hand over her eyes.

Coast clear?

Clear. I told her. She uncovered her eyes and took in the vodka, me and Ruth, and bubble covered tear-stained Kim.

What the fuck is going on?

Andi....Andi....dumped meeeeeee! Kim wailed and then took another gulp of booze.

What? Damn. Heavy. Leah came over and and sat on the edge of the tub, grabbing the vodka bottle from the floor and taking a swig. She choked slightly and pulled out her Marlborough reds. Mind? I shook my head and stuck out my hand for one.

I want one too. Kim warbled, pulling a prune-y hand out of the bubbles.

You don’t smoke. I said surprised.

I fucking do now. Leah? Leah shrugged and handed her one. We all lit up and let out sighs.

Women, man. Muttered Leah. Succinct and wise, that one.

We are going to Voyeur tonight, interested?

Yeah why not. I was going to drive to Vegas but I’m over it. Hotter chicks here anyway, Vegas is a bunch of amateurs. This elicited a giggle from Kim. Which was a good sign, even if it was a slightly tipsy giggle.

Voyeur was another whirl of epic breasts, strong drinks, dancing, and we managed to get Kim to bring home a girl that can only be described as a tall drink of champagne.

MARCH

The green month found Ruth fully ensconced in our apartment, and Cecilia in a ridiculous condo in WeHo, lazily job hunting, much preferring to girl hunt.

SO much more to come. Promise. Better deets in the future, and a full recap of Dinah Shore weekend....

Always,

Louise

Champagne Wishes and Career Dreams

2010-01-04T13:22:00.003-08:00

A triangle of light blue sky piercing grey clouds with a white burst. Steel ocean and thick foam; rocks cutting through at points like aggressive barnacle covered whales. Moss covered cliffs meeting the sea in a kiss of spray. Waves rolling in an impossible rhythm, shouting with a muted fury, a thundering roar of the gods. Humans, just specks on fragile fiberglass boards, braving this, attempting to conquer this.

I flew back to Northern California in all of her rugged glory, for the holidays to spend time with the twins, who were home from school at UC Berkeley, and my mother. Ruth and Cecilia came from San Francisco to join us by the beach as per usual. Ruth’s family, conservative, old-school Asian American Christians, disowned her back when she was a rebellious and angry baby dyke and Cecilia’s parents, divorced, never seem to live or be anywhere closer than ridiculous European locations. Both girls grabbed me in a tight hug when we reunited in Monterey and Cecilia whispered Welcome home! in my ear. I didn’t say it out loud but I no longer felt this was home.

Christmas was quiet and stormy; Mother Nature having decided to wash the earth clean getting a head start on a fresh beginning for 2010. We had a lovely family dinner on the covered balcony, heat lamps blazing and an ocean mist swirling. I was entirely distracted the entire time, replaying a different dinner in my mind. Dinner with Margot Whitney.

She arrived at my door promptly at 8PM. Kim answered the door and for once couldn’t say much. Tripping over herself she ran down the hall to my room. She found me sitting on the edge of my new wrought iron Italian campaign canopy recently purchased from Anthropolgie, staring at the Fendi booties I resurrected from the Paris trip.

As Kim burst in she giggled Ms. Whitney here to see you!

I laughed and grabbed my turquoise alligator clutch, heels tapping as I followed her out of the room. Margot was waiting for me in the living room. Of course she looked incredible, dressed in a black Prada tux-style jacket, her long legs clad in Rock & Republic brushstroke skinny jeans, startling eyes rimmed in smokey liner. Leah was stretched out on the couch, a cigarette behind her ear, unabashedly checking out Margot. Navy eyes followed me as I crossed the room, and Leah winked, the left corner of her mouth curving up and her dimple deepening with pleasure at my blush.

I said awkward goodbyes to the roommates and followed Margot’s perfect ass out the door, down the winding stairs to her 1956 black Porsche Spyder (yes my jaw dropped). I slid into the leather seat, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly through my mouth. The butterflies were wreaking havoc on my stomach. We sped off, Sam Sparro’s Black & Gold filling the silence.

I don’t really do small talk. I don’t believe in it...I don’t really believe in wasting time. Margot finally said.

I agree. I replied, relieved she had said something and turned on at the same time by her incredibly easy bluntness. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, that bright topaz tiger eye, and grinned.

Arriving at the London in West Hollywood, valets immediately opened our doors, greeting Ms. Whitney who shook their hands, tipping each of the bumbling men generously. As we made our way through the sleek and chic white lobby to Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant, this continued--everyone knew who she was.

We were immediately escorted to a private room, which was elegant and at the same time opulent in its gilt, mirrored, and marbled decor. A bottle of Veuve was waiting, chilling in a silver bucket.

Margot dismissed the host with a casual flick of her head and we were left alone. She popped the champagne herself and gave me another one of her penetrating gazes.

To Louise Laurent, and her complete lack of fear.

I gulped down a sip from the crystal glass, unable to look away.

So you are a writer Louise. You are here to make it happen, live the dream, etc etc. Correct?

Correct.

Well I want to help make this dream come true. I have no idea about your talent but you have something almost better: balls. The way you interrupted today was...unusual. Do you have anything I can read?

I worried for a moment when I pulled out my samples I had been keeping on hand I would have to literally dust them off from all the time they had been just sitting in my bag. Luckily I didn’t have to suffer this. I passed my work to Margot.

Excellent. I will read it tonight. Now tell me about you. I am fascinated to know more.

And so we wined. We dined. We went through the entire Chef’s tasting menu but time seemed to stand still. Margot was interesting and dynamic and funny and sexy and completely intoxicating.

After dinner Margot grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the restaurant to the elevator. Tipsy from the champagne and wine I stumbled slightly behind but didn’t question where we were going. She hit the button for the roof and grinned at me mischievously. I wish I could say that confined to the small space of the elevator I said something charming or clever, or that I became a sexual beast and shoved her against the wall, kissing her with wild abandon. But I didn’t. Instead I stared at her, drinking her in, quietly watching the way her black eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks each time she blinked.

The elevator made a bing and once again Margot grabbed my hand, pulling me onto the deserted rooftop deck. If I was speechless before, now I became positively mute. I stood still, watching her walk with an easy and sexy swinging pace past a glittering aqua pool, roaring fire, and white cabanas. Panoramic views of LA surrounded her as she leaned on the glass, the only thing separating her from a steep free fall to the city below. Arms spread, gripping the glass, she turned to smile at me over her shoulder. This was a smile that literally just dripped sex. I felt mesmerized, as though she was the charmer and I was the cobra, as I was pulled--rather than walking--to her. When I finally closed the gap, which seemed an endless and slow journey, her topaz eyes pierced me. Margot took my hand and an electric current arced through our bodies.

She lightly ran her hand up my arm leaving goosebumps in its wake. Her hand, strong and sure, continued its journey to my shoulder where she tugged down the thin strap of my flimsy top, while looking at me and smiling a very small, very coy, smile. Continuing on, Margot’s hand grasped the back of my neck and pulled my face to hers. While her other hand climbed my buttons, slowly releasing them from their confines she bit my bottom lip.

This is wrong... I said on a sigh into her mouth.

I know. Doesn’t that make it feel even better?

Her hands tangled themselves into my hair and she pushed me against the glass barrier, the LA city lights twinkling brighter than stars all around me. My shirt, now completely unbuttoned, fluttered in the cool breeze and her hands snuck expertly inside; one hand on the small of my back pushed me against her tall length of body, while she bent her head to lay her lips on my neck.

Wait... I tried again more firmly Wait. I can’t sleep with you...you’re my boss.

Haven’t you ever heard of sleeping your way to the top? She smiled but there was an edge of darkness in her bottomless eyes, pupils dilated with arousal.

I can’t...I don’t want to do it this way. I just...I have to go.

And I ran. My heels clicked as I quickly escaped, rapidly buttoning my shirt and jumping into the elevator. I took a deep breath as I punched the lobby button several times. When the doors reopened I sprang out and hustled out the front door where a valet quickly hailed me a cab. I jumped in sighing with relief. The old driver asked with a heavy accent if I minded if he smoked. We both rolled down our windows and lit up, and I let out a gust of breath on a plume of smoke, letting the cold air hit my face hard. I pondered the Northern California waves, and their violent and repeated crashing against the cliffs...

So work might be a little awkward when I get back from my holiday break.

Always,

Louise

Sweet Dreams are Made of Shes

2009-12-16T16:32:00.004-08:00

I met her while I was at work.

Despite always arriving on time, kissing some major ass, and keeping several copies of my screenplay in my Chloé bag (just in case), my job as assistant to the assistant consists mainly of fetching Coffee Bean and Spago’s to go. I have not so much as lifted a pen to paper the past month.

Los Angeles decided to become freakishly cold and one morning I rushed to work, my nose cold and cheeks pink after the ride. As I was taking off my leather jacket and sitting down at my miniature desk--which I seem to be sharing with someone’s Maltese puppy--the actual assistant, Karen, hurried over. Side note: Karen is thirty-something and takes her job very seriously. She wears only black, probably a remnant of her days working backstage during high school theater productions. Heavy black eyeliner, red lipstick applied liberally, and a generous spritzing of Bath and Body Works Vanilla Noir are all hallmarks of the look. Karen is faux-easy going, still prefers cassette tapes to “compact discs,” knows all of the Hollywood gossip but is a part of none of it, and has a picture of her pet parrot, Gregory, on her desk. As I was plopping down in my red swivel chair Karen swooped in and grabbed my arm--not a totally shocking move as she is oddly touchy-feely.

I need you to sit in on a meeting today. I need you to not draw attention to yourself. I need you to bring the Coffee Bean order. I need you to take notes. I need you to absolutely not speak unless you are spoken to. Can we do this?

Yes we can. I said, keeping the sarcasm internal, and looking her solemnly in the eye. I was also doing a little dance in my mind. Finally. Something!

That is how I found myself a few hours later handing out non-fat soy lattes and green tea ice blended things. I took Karen’s rules to heart and kept my head down, trying to be as discrete as possible. Then I handed over a ridiculous holiday raspberry hot chocolate and the hottest hand (yes hand!) took a firm hold of the paper cup. My head slowly raised to look at her face and suddenly I was drowning in these cat-like topaz eyes, fringed by long black lashes. She arched an eyebrow at me and I coughed and scurried away.

Here is the thing. I have been playing it cool as a cucumber the last few months, juggling girls, phasing them out after a night or two, and generally being in charge of celebrations. Despite the level of attractiveness, and amount of fish in the sea, no one has left me tongue tied. Not like her. The butterflies were flying around my tummy with wild abandon.

After taking my seat, slightly behind Karen, I thought it would be safe to look up again. Wrong. She was looking back at me, sitting straight across the table. Then I did something I have not done since...I don’t even know when: I blushed. The blood rushed to my head and all of a sudden I was in a slow motion movie sequence. Zero 7 played something sexy and slow as she licked a little bit of whip cream off her lip. My heart thundered in my chest and then stopped beating for an eternity. Her eyes held mine and I tried to blink breaking the penetrating gaze. God those eyes. They screamed sex and desire and passion and artistry and torture; her warrior eyes assaulted me.

I guess everyone else arrived for the meeting: a smattering of suits and writers. I didn’t really register anything until she broke my gaze and then shocked me further by calling the meeting to order in an authoritative and throaty voice. Obviously I should have known--she was in charge. And therefore, that made her Margot Whitney, creator of the series and head writer. Holy shit.

The meeting began and the suits and writers argued back and forth over minute details. I forced myself to focus on the task at hand and take notes, rather than staring at Margot’s incredibly luscious mouth as it formed words. They began to argue over one character “Clara,” and where they wanted to go with her storyline.

She’s boring. She is totally boring. We have heavy hitters vying for these parts. This isn’t the fucking Disney channel!

What if she gets pregnant?

That has been so done! So done!

Eating disorder? Drugs? Bisexuality?

Warmer warmer...

For some reason I forgot that I was an outsider. I forgot Karen’s rules, and all of sudden it was creative word vomit everywhere. From my second row seat I put in:

What if she leaves her boyfriend--say a hot player type--for a chick? And not just any chick but a full on dyke. That stuff is really now, you know? It would be shocking. And you get say a Blake Lively type or some other pretty little starlet looking for an edge. People would eat it up...

I trailed off looking around the room at surprised faces. A little bald man glared.

Who the fuck is she?

Karen, wide-eyed and practically shaking tried to move her chair further in front of me. Sorry Dale, that is no one, just my assistant, she didn’t mean to interrupt, maybe we should take a quick ten? I really don’t--

Shut up Dale. Everyone turned and looked at Margot. I stared at my laptop and where I had stopped taking notes when I busted into the meeting. Waiting.

It is fucking brilliant. Daring. Interesting. Bold. Different. What’s your name?

Louise. Laurent.

Thank you Louise.

Since I am not an utter moron, I managed to keep my mouth shut the remainder of the meeting. When it was over I quickly tried to escape, fearing for both my job and my life, either by Karen’s hand, Dale’s, or both. I had just made it to the door when one of those sexy hands grabbed my elbow. Walk with me Louise. Margot steered me down the long hallway into a massive glassed in office looking out on the city. She shut the door behind her, and then sat at a long sleek desk, gesturing for me to take one of the leather seats opposite her.

You’re new aren’t you?

I choked back a nervous laugh Yeah.

New is good. It is fresh. We need fresh here. I am tired of all the inhibitions. You don’t have any do you Louise?

Actually...well...very few.

I knew it. I want to pick your brain, if I may. Dinner tonight?

It took me about fifteen seconds to register what she was asking.

Absolutely.

Perfection. Have Karen email me your information. I’ll pick you up at nine.

Leaving her office in a daze, I wandered back down the long hallway wondering what exactly had just taken place. I returned to my desk where Karen was waiting for me, tapping a clunky heel.

You are so lucky this time Louise. SO lucky. Don’t ever ever EVER do that again! DId you completely forget the rules? What the hell?

Unable to help it, I smiled.

Karen, could you please email Margot my contact information? Thanks.

SO to be continued...

Always,

Louise

Ex Marks the Spot

2009-11-15T17:47:00.006-08:00

I am going to go out on a big limb here and say something that I never thought would come out of my fingertips. San Francisco was one of the best cities in the world, in my humble opinion. But these days...it can’t hold a candle to LA, at least in terms of the lesbian scene. There. I said it. My heart will always be in San Francisco but Los Angeles is completely taking another little piece of my heart (now, baby).

That was the reflection portion of this program. And now. Wow. Drama big time. Because I broke all of the rules of singleland.

It has been about a month and a half since the move and I am already becoming a permanent fixture at every single lesbian event possible. I may or may not be back up to my old tricks that I had temporarily sworn off in SF when it started to all catch up with me. In reporting home to Ruth and Cecilia I have left out some minor details because basically...I really am not in the mood to be lectured. Kim is happy to have a partner in crime since Andi is such a homebody and Leah is somewhat of an enigma. Plus Kim is a perfect wingman, which is good for me. Honestly, it is as though I have had one of those makeovers you see in films. I got a Melrose haircut at Rudolph’s, I spent almost all my savings on flimsy tops, killer shoes, and ridiculous lingerie, and when I step out at night I feel...powerful.

And so it was with these delusions of power, sex, and glory, that I walked into major trouble last week. We went to APO at Rockwell, a more mellow cocktail party for the lezzies in Hollywood. I got checked off the guest list, with Kim nipping at my Chanel encased heels (yes I know, die), and Leah aloof as over, all smokey eyes and spiky mohawk.

RULE #1: If you are single DO NOT try to make friends with a couple of your same sexual persuasion. (Broken, check)

After mingling around and saying our hellos I got pulled away from Kim and into a conversation with a very attractive couple. Everything I said was apparently hilarious, and next thing I knew they were buying me shots of something fruity and delicious and deadly. The blonde of the couple, a tall femme with killer legs, seemed particularly interested in everything I had to say, and insisted that we must hang out sometime soon. She did seem to be coming on a little strong but the more champagne I had the less I really cared.

RULE #2: Don’t get pulled in. Don’t let your guard down. Don’t get drunk and forget the rules. (Broken, check.)

The music was great, the drinks were flowing, and Leah was even cracking a smile (which should seriously be illegal--way too hot). I had two new best friends and I didn’t want the party to stop.

RULE #3: DO NOT invite the couple over. You just met them you moron! (Broken, check.)

I invited them back to our place. We piled in Kim’s car, and I was squeezed in the back next to Blondie. Her hand was on my thigh. Shit. I awkwardly tried to move away only to be pressed up against the Brunette girlfriend. Shit and shit, but no it is okay I was drunk drunk drunkkkkkkk.

We got back to the apartment and Kim poured screwdrivers for everyone. Andi even came out and downed one, although she didn’t look totally pleased about the late night partying. Leah put on some of her angry dyke music, and I went to the kitchen for a refill. Blondie followed me.

RULE #4: Don’t encourage it even a little bit. Don’t encourage it at all. (Broken, check.)

You’re really cute Louise.

Oh. Thanks ______.

Yeah. this is kinda bad isn’t it?

What is? What is bad?

Blondie smiled, catching her lower lip with her white teeth, looking up at me from under heavy lids. Oldest trick in the book man. Oldest trick. I laughed nervously, but my guard was still down. I was drunk I didn’t give a shit.

RULE #5: Don’t go there. Just DON’T go there. Don’t go to the bathroom! (Broken, check.)

I have to go to the bathroom. I told her and semi-stumbled away. She was following me slowly, I could feel her. I could feel her eyes on my ass. She wasn’t being even slightly discrete. The party had moved to the living room and Brunette was laid out on the couch semi-conscious. Kim and Leah were doing lines of coke (where the hell did that come from?) and Andi had seemingly disappeared back to her room. It was all blurry and surreal as I walked down the hall. I could hear her heels clicking behind me. I pushed open the bathroom door and her hands were on my waist all of a sudden and she shoved me onto the marble counter, and her tongue was in my mouth and my brain was shouting STOP and my body was in complete disagreement.

It all happened extremely fast. The door flew open. There was Brunette. FUCK ME!!! Screamed my brain. Blondie let go of me and raced after her, tears already running down her face: I can explain...

I sat on the counter frozen. Shit shit shit. I grabbed my drink and downed the rest of it in a quick clean swallow. Then I jumped down and walked into the living room. Leah and Kim sat on the floor confused. They looked up at me.

What the hell just happened? Kim exclaimed her blue eyes wide, pupils dilated from the drugs.

Dude, Louise do you know who you have fucked with? You have to learn to keep it in your pants.

Did they leave?

Yeah. Want a bump?

Yeah. Yeah, I do.

I sat down on the floor next to them, shoved some white powder in my right nostril, and coughed, staring at the ceiling. Leah rubbed my back and Kim squeezed my hand. Thank god for the solidarity of my roommates. I had already screwed myself and a decent portion of the LA lesbian population--the last thing I needed was to lose the few friends I had.

And so I have entered into drama I never meant to enter into. I am officially a part of the LA scene and not necessarily in a good way. I need to go back to following certain rules of engagement. I like trouble. I don’t like drama. But I will be out again at the next party, causing something I am sure.

Always,

Louise

Lucky be a Lady

2009-10-27T16:00:00.005-07:00

This will be brief, and for that I apologize, or else, you're welcome. Firstly, I managed to let it pass without making mention so: Happy Anniversary to me. It has been a whole year since I began reporting my adventures (October 7th officially). Thanks for sticking with me, or if you are just now joining...well hello!

I have been pounding the pavement trying to get a writing gig. Living off my meager savings will not last for long. And so I shook myself awake about 6AM and stole to the shower before any of my roommates could. I threw on what I judged to be a writer-ly little Theory blazer, skinny black pants and tall flat boots. I was going to brave Pinky for the first time and head deeper into Hollywood. Amazingly, I had lined up seven interviews for personal assistant and writing assistant positions. Shocking, I know.

Shoving a fiber-health-disgusting-cardboard bar in my mouth I grabbed my bag and opened the front door. There was a package there. For me. How did everyone miss this yesterday, coming in and out?

It was fairly large, so I reversed back inside and threw down my bag. I used my keys to tear the thick tape, looking at the label with handwriting I didn’t recognize. After digging through styrofoam peanuts and bubble wrap I got to it. A big red box. Shit.

A Les Ateliers Ruby motorcycle helmet. Only the most expensive, most chic, helmets possible. I have longed for one for ages but couldn’t throw down the cash. Shit shit shit. I opened the box and moved the black tissue away gently. It was perfect. Black with white polka dots, and pink leather lining. Totally cute and vintage and me. This was custom too--Ruby helmets usually have dark red lining. Shit. And inside a card; loose handwriting, heavy black ink:

You could have said goodbye.

Be safe.

Maybe this will bring a little luck too.

Missing you,

Fiona.

SHIT.

So I grabbed my bag again, grabbed the box full of packaging, and slammed the killer helmet on my head. Hell I couldn’t return it, could I?

I took the stairs two at a time, stopped by the recycling and tossed the box, and headed to Pinky. This was one hell of a good luck charm.

And as luck would have it, ten interviews later, I had a job as a peon assistant to an assistant (yes, two assistants in there) writer for an HBO show that was in the pilot stages. I officially have been inducted into Hollywood. Let the hazing begin.

Halloween adventure recap to come soon...

Always,

Louise

Tigers in the Fire

2009-10-11T16:10:00.007-07:00

So before we get to anything juicy, you are probably (maybe? maybe not?) wondering two things:

1. What happened to Pinky the Pink Vespa?

2. What happened to my cat called Wanda?

Well let me put your mind at rest. Wanda is currently ensconced in Cecilia’s apartment for the time being. The plan is that I will win my roommates over with my fierce loyalty and lovely sense of humor and seduce them into the idea of having a cat called Wanda on the lose in the apartment. Foolproof plan.

As for Pinky, I simply forgot to mention that she made the trip down with us in the back of the Ruth’s pickup. You don’t want to know how we got it in and out of there (we may or may not have had to stoop to a medium low and ask for man-help). However, I am still not sure how I feel about riding her on the rough and tumble streets of LA. I am going to ease into that one.

Well what else is new... perhaps my attitude. I am working on a take no prisoner approach to life right now. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Let my inner bitch out a bit more. It helps if you buy a new pair of Alexander McQueen origami snap boots. (Whatever, it is my welcome to your new home gift to myself...thats what plastic is for).

Saturday evening I was all self-loathing and wallowing in a certain amount of homesickness slash self pity while decorating my massive bedroom. The vintage chic from San Francisco needed to be revamped and modernized for my LaLa Land digs. I paused and stepped onto my balcony, to lounge on one of my new black iron chairs and smoke a cigarette and brood about my abrupt decison making issues. I could hear Leah’s angry Riot Grrrl music bumping even outside. I pictured her in her room sullenly drinking cheap beer and creating aggressive messy art. She is an artist by the way. She is also dangerous--I need to watch myself around that one; I could easily make some very poor decisions.

Kim burst in on my musing with an open bottle of champagne and a huge grin.

No sads Louise we are going OUT!

Kim it is only 7 o’clock.

Exactly. Time to sip some champy and get ready. Wear the McQueen boots. Drink.

She shoved the bottle at me and I shrugged and took a gulp of the bubbles. I got in touch with my inner punk fashion-wise, throwing on skinny grey jeans, a cropped black leather jacket, and Marc cuff for good measure.

And so the roommates scooped me up, forced me into something stylish and lugged me downtown to a hole in the wall club. You gotta get outta WeHo once and a while Lu Andi explained (and now she has said a total of 12 words to me since my move).

So it was a hole in the wall. Literally. Outside looked like someone just hammered out a hole. Inside was a different story though. The entire place was white, like stepping onto a set for a fashion shoot, with high ceilings, and Louis XIV style moldings, alongside swaying blue and magenta track lights. A band called Love Grenades played while hipsters swayed coked out and mesmerized. Dancing in the middle of this was the lead singer--an urban Katy Perry, gyrating and bobbing in a gold lamé unitard, her effervescent voice carried to the ceiling:

Let's play tigers in the fire

I know this is just desire

So won't you stay with me

Oh, if you stay, you'll see

You've changed

Nothing is the same...

I can screw anyone that's nice, then walk away

Put your hands on me, we can make sweet love in the winter breeze

I can do anything that I like

I can screw anyone that's nice then walk away...

A drag queen stood to the side taking it all in, while I took in her tribal gown and serious afro. She would later grab the mic and shout in a husky falsetto O M fucking Geeeee!

Leah’s mohawk bobbed through the crowd ahead of me. The hipsters moved about--young skinny chicks teetering in impossibly high vintage YSL heels, gay boys with ironic mustaches holding hands and sharing cigarettes (yes inside)--a sea of vintage, plaid, flannel, and lace. I blended in but I didn’t belong. My clear drink was glowing blue and I sucked on the tiny straw while trying to sway a bit as some girl grinded behind me provocatively. I gingerly disentangled myself and went stand near a fan and some bored gogo dancers.

Transplant? I turned. A tall androgynous brunette leaned over me, her skinny lithe body curving close. I smiled.

Completely. I feel a little like an alien.

You’ll get used to it. It grows on you. Kind of like a fungus.

Lovely.

She laughed. You’re cute.

Gee thanks.

She laughed again. That came out wrong. Sorry. So you aren’t much of a dancer?

Not at the moment. I glanced at the dancing and tried not to visibly cringe. She caught that too and laughed harder.

So let me guess. San Francisco?

Bingo.

Yeah, the leather and little look of discomfort are what give you away. But its not a completely wicked town. I’d like to show you things a little maybe...if you are interested.

I eyed her and raised an eyebrow. Are you coming onto me?

She smiled but turned serious. I can if you want me to.

And then I did something completely inappropriate and totally out of character (HUSH!): I leaned in slowly, towards her mouth but shied away to her ear and whispered I’d love that.

I pulled away and she was grinning, her green eyes twinkled at me. What’s your name?

Louise.

Corrine. Pleasure to meet you Louise.

Ok things are getting interesting here. It is amazing what a pair of McQueen boots can do for a girl.

Always,

Louise

Off to see the WeHo, the wonderful WeHo of LA

2009-09-27T16:00:00.002-07:00

Toto, I don’t believe we’re in Kansas anymore.

Ruth saved me from a UHaul and offered her truck services, despite her misgivings about my decision. Riding into West Hollywood, the old Toyota packed to the brim with as many shoes and and furniture pieces I could fit, there was a picture of Dorothy’s ruby slippers on a lamp post. I don’t know if this was a welcome for “friends of Dorothy” or a sign that there is no place like home, but either way it was oddly reassuring as I asked myself repeatedly if this whole plan was a gigantor mistake. I sat in the back seat (which if you have ever ridden in that spot from SF to LA you know the pain), peering around a vintage lamp, craning my neck for a view. Cecilia remarked cynically that Los Angeles was the darkest sunny place she had ever been and it’s not too late to change your mind...we can turn around. I shook my head but have to admit that it was not the most convincing no. Admittedly, I was feeling the pain of my abrupt decision and I had forgot to pack my heart when I was leaving San Francisco.

We finally pulled up to a chic apartment building. My apartment building. I fell ungracefully out of my cramped position, narrowly catching the lamp before it crashed to the ground along with me. Immediately, I was slammed in the face with a hot Santa Ana wind and the smell of garlic plants, which are everywhere in LA. Of course my brow immediately broke out in a sweat--I am a Northern California heat wimp after all. Ruth and Cecilia decided to wait at the truck with my loot while I got into my new place.

I climbed a wrought iron winding staircase to the top floor and knocked, more aggressively than I meant to. My hand may or may not have been shaking a little.

After what seemed a lifetime (in which I fully considered the price to my bank account as well as pride if I took Cecilia up on the return trip), the door swung open. Leaning casually in its frame was a very tall, very thin girl, with huge navy eyes and a black mohawk. Her entire right arm was covered in a tattoo of a 50‘s pinup. Wowsa.

Leah. You must be Louise.

You win this time Leah (I thought) and said Hey yep.

Welcome to Los Angeles Louise. Come on I’ll show you the place.

I followed her lanky gait down a narrow mahogany floored hall into a large modern living room. Two girls sat on a long orange couch drinking beers and listening the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

The blonde immediately jumped up and hugged me.

Louise! You’re here! Yay! I’m Kim! That’s Andi! she pointed to her girlfriend sitting still. Andi saluted me with her bottle of Stella. Let’s go see your room. Where are your friends? Ohmygod are you just so excited? I am so glad you are here it is gonna be great you’re gonna love it here, I just know it. We are going to Truck Stop tomorrow you have to come I already put you and the girls on the guest list. Where are the girls? Come on you have to see your room!

Wowsa.

Kim grabbed my arm and pulled me through the room, past an incredible urban kitchen of stainless steel and all state of the art amenities. Maybe I will learn how to cook. She dragged me down the narrow hallway, which had tall ceilings and skylights with white light streaming through. We passed three bedrooms that were a blur in her her rush, as well as two bathrooms I would have to investigate later. My room was last in the series. And it left me speechless.

The ceiling was extremely high with different angles jutting into one another. One wall consisted entirely of floor to ceiling windows, off of which was a balcony. It was white, elegant, and completely 21st century...the opposite of my tiny vintage apartment in San Francisco. I literally moved into a fresh slate.

Amazing right? Love it. If it wasn’t the smaller one Andi and I would have totally grabbed it. (Small? I laughed to myself). I think it will be just perfect for you Louise you are going to fit right in you won’t believe it.

Kim kept up the high paced dialogue with herself as we walked back down the hall. She followed me outside to fetch C and Ruth who were at once highly amused and taken back by her incessant chatting.

My new roommates helped my old friends and me dump the contents of my life from the truck to my room. Evening came and it was time to go out on the town and check out the scene. My first night in Los Angeles. Truck Stop in WeHO (aka West Hollywood, gay and lezzie central).

I walked in. And I was alive. I felt on top of the world...a euphoria usually only achieved through great triumphs, amazing sex, or recreational drug use. Girls akin to pussy cat dolls danced on the bar. Women in designer clothes, butch, femme, and everything in between danced....the most sexy women...style that was just beyond. I stood in a corner sipping champagne and pondering myself when a tall blonde grabbed my wrist and said NEW GIRL and pulled me onto the dance floor, which was a sweaty writhing mass. All of a sudden I felt like my Louboutins grew wings and i was flying and Shit. LA felt like a world away from San Francisco. An alternate universe. One that I was going to have to learn how to navigate and figure out but damnit I was going to.

Toto, we most definitely are not in Kansas anymore. We may have arrived.

Always,

Louise

Gonna Make A Brand New Start of It.

2009-08-07T16:35:00.005-07:00

Oh ye of little faith! Fear not, I have returned after a mini hiatus. Currently I am coming to you from New York on vacation at the Plaza hotel with extreme visions of grandeur.

Things have been hectic to say the least--such is summer. Pride came and went in typical fashion: a blur of booze, lights, girls, and very little sleep. Ruth, C, and I were a chaotic whirl the whole weekend, as expected, however it remained fairly drama-free, ie. no bar brawls, terrible decisions, or hook-ups.

Speaking of which...Fiona has been in my peripheral vision playing a great game of hard to get. But I seem to be too distracted for games. Or rather, I am playing so many games right now it is exhausting (although exhilarating!). It just seems like the same shit. She is a vivacious, gorgeous, intriguing woman, just like the cute little bartender at the Lex, the redhead in the studio apartment below mine, the tattooed vixen I see at coffee every morning, and the girl with the long bronze hair that rides a bike with a basket past Modern Times daily. It is all fun and games until someone gets bored. That someone being moi. Which has led to my most impulsive decision in a long time--one that will especially piss off my ever faithful Ruth and Cecilia. I am breaking up the three musketeers over this. I am moving to a place that I love to hate: I am leaving my beloved San Francisco and moving to Los Angeles.

Here's the breakdown: Paris is too extreme, New York too far and too cold, Miami is too hot and too Florida, and so as Goldilocks wisely said, Los Angeles is just right.

I found a place via Craigslist in West Hollywood; a three bedroom full of lesbians - a couple in one room, Kim and Andi, and a single in another, Leah. I haven't met them, just seen pictures of a clean, modern, LA place that is totally unlike my vintage Mission lair. I already put down the deposit and first month's rent. I quit my lame-ass job. I'm set to rent a UHaul in which to pack my prized possessions including Pinky and a freaked out Wanda (hopefully she won't claw my eyes out). I cancelled my gym membership, redirected my mail, and email alerted my mother (in Seattle) and the twins (at CAL). I've quickly been ticking off the to-do list. I got down to the hardest to-do of all though: telling Ruth and Cecilia.

I had pondered having them over for dinner at my place but I realized that would have freaked them out even more-between whatever monstrosity came out of my kitchen and the announcement-it would be too much. So instead I told them at one of our drinks dates, at the newly reopened Cafe in the Castro.

It was a beautiful evening. One of those perfect, rare San Francisco August nights: a light warm breeze, a clear sky, a slow sunset. I tried on about five different somber black outfits before I ended up in a magenta pocketed mini skirt and Charlotte Ronson top dotted in gold stars and my new Miu Miu croc platforms. As always, I was the first there and my heavy bangles clanked nervously on my wrist as I eagerly sipped a champagne cocktail. I was seated at the bar (witnesses in case of a neck-wringing) and several girls tried to snag the two seats I was saving on either side of me before Ruth and Cecilia finally arrived, thankfully, at the same time.

And....that is a whole other story for another (soon!) time. But I wanted to update a little. From New York City where it seems all things are possible and fabulous and nothing is too big for me. More to come.

Always,

Louise

Hook Me Up

2009-06-11T14:54:00.017-07:00

"It's the hap-happiest season of all..."

The rainbow flags were blowing in the chilly breeze today as I walked down Market Street. My heart skipped a beat in excitement when I noticed.

Yes. Pride is upon us. That wonderful time of year where everything is just a little more extreme. That weekend where, in celebration of ourselves, we are a little inappropriate, a little intense, and not the least bit inhibited. It is in opportunity to throw convention to the wind, to wear more sparkle than the Land of Oz on crack, to give the finger to bigots, and to party like you are 18 years old for 72 hours.

Oh I know. Pride is about so much more than sparkles and partying...but let us save that for fifteen years from now when no one wants to see my cleavage and I actually wake up for a Sunday Pride Brunch (without the help of recreational drugs).

So. With the knowledge that in a matter of a few weeks I needed to look fit and fabulous (versus flabby and frumpy) I embarked on a crash fitness regime and roped Ruth in for some bunny chasing at Crunch in SOMA. Cecilia made her excuses, calling us frat boys and sticking to her normal (insane) 7 mile city run. Thus, dolled-up in my recently purchased motivation gear (Nike's, matching teal spandex Capri’s, a black beater), with an iPod strapped to my bicep, and calorie counter/pedometer at my waist, I took Pinky and met Ruth on New Montgomery. As I parked and removed my shabby helmet she charged at me, carrying an enormous Nalgene jug of water, proudly sporting the hot pink American Apparel "Legalize Gay" t-shirt.

Let's do the damn thing! We have 17 days. No pain, no gain, Flabby. She growled and slapped my ass, reminding me of an Asian Jackie Warner.

Shouldn't it be no pain, more gain? I moaned.
Whatever. Let’s find some bunnies.

We entered the gym, delighted to find it was not a total sausage fest that eve, and honed in on some attractive ladies marching side by side on Stairmasters. We hopped on the treadmills behind them and Ruth winked at me, grinning. Mission accomplished, Flabby.

I am not enjoying this new nickname, I grumbled and started upping the speed on my mill until I was rapidly jogging with my eyes on the prize. Her bleach-blonde ponytail swished back and forth rhythmically and shoulder blades, tattooed jauntily with angel wings, flexed in time. I got into the zone and turned up the volume on the Veronicas. I pondered the various Pride event possibilities and plans and let my mind drift as the sweat began to drip and calories began to burn.

When I get into the zone I get into the zone. I must have been staring, fixedly, at Ponytail because all of a sudden tan arms were waving in my face and I had to blink and push the emergency stop button.

Fiona. Yes. Sometimes I so love the tininess that is San Francisco. And of course she was looking smokin’ hot: sculpted arms exposed in one of those effortless chopped up ratty white t-shirts, calves flexing anxiously in her cross-trainers. She grinned at me, navy eyes twinkling. Enjoying the view? she asked, nodding to Ponytail.

What view? I asked with faux innocence, leaning on the side of the treadmill, pulling out my ear buds. Fiona laughed her pretty laugh and ran a hand through her short crop of dark hair.

You, Louise, are trouble with a capital T. Trouble on a pink vespa.

I shrugged and winked at her, slowly sipping some of Ruth’s water. Meanwhile, Ruth ran, pretending to be more into her workout than ever, even occasionally punching the air while sneaking side-eye glances at us.

So I have given up on the cell phone and bought a new one. A fancy one. That one was a piece anyway.
Oh god I’m sorry, I should have gotten it back to you sooner!
Hey NBD, it was time for an upgrade.
Yeah upgrades are…good. I said lamely. I had never felt less clever in my life.

Yup. Well the number is still the same. She paused and looked me up and down. Well I probably should get back to my workout. See you around?

Yes. For sure. Yes. Fiona gracefully made her exit. I kept eyeing her the rest of my workout and Ruth kept nudging me back into the real world with shouted remarks about my flab and improper ass slaps. I managed to end the torture finally and send her on her way. My timing was dynamite and I was sitting on Pinky, putting on my helmet, when Fiona exited Crunch.

Want a lift lady?
I am not really a back of the bike kid of girl…
I have an extra helmet and I promise to get you home in one piece.
That sounds…not scary I guess.
Whereabouts? I leapt on it.
Castro.
Interesting interesting…
And then meet me? Later? She leapt on it.
And undo all the good I have done tonight? I demanded (hopefully) impishly.
Exactly. Lite beers at the Pilsner Inn?
Absolutely.

I tossed her the extra helmet I kept in the seat and she hopped on behind me, wrapping slightly sweaty, strong arms around my waist. It felt great. We sped off into the sunset like the cheesiest of romantic comedies and I felt more happy and excited and hopeful than I had in ages.

Seriously. Pride is the most wonderful time of the year.

Always,

Louise

We interrupt this broadcast...

2009-05-26T17:06:00.003-07:00

Of course San Francisco’s answer to the record breaking heat wave was to strike back with record breaking lows. On a three day weekend. Great timing weather gods! But perhaps it was only fitting as a prologue to this morning’s disturbing events with regards to a little asshole named Prop 8.

To be honest, I cannot simply recount my charming lesbian adventures today—my chatty and catty episodes as the three queer musketeers with Ruth and Cecilia, my close encounters with the same kind, my ridiculous femme fashion extravagances, or my almost bar-sexual sororstitute-like beer goggled faux pas—all of which I stand by. However all of these must take a backseat on my pink vespa. For the moment.

The truth is, I am not totally political or even slightly PC (if you hadn’t already guessed). I never wanted to, nor thought I would need to, put these things on the back burner to talk civil rights. I took these civil rights (the few I had) 100% for granted in my big gay San Francisco bubble. And so, I sit here now, on my sparkly soapbox, with my bubble busted into a big sudsy rainbow mess. Truth be told, it is not about a wedding. And actually, I think I may speak on behalf of many a homo when I say I am not even sure I would want to get married were it not for Monique Lhuillier, Vera Wang, and Luke and Laura (General Hospital helllooo). But it is not about the wedding. It is not about Tiffany and Cartier (but thanks Marilyn), and it is not about flower arrangements, cake, champagne, and an organ playing what seriously resembles both “Happy Birthday” and a funeral march. It is about none of these things.

This is about one human being loving another human being. This is about those two human beings making a life long commitment to this love. This is about having the commitment recognized legally and humanely by the state. This is about dignity and respect and freedom and the basic pursuit of happiness.

And that is about as eloquent as I can get on the topic, because as Harvey Milk put it simply (and eloquently) “I’m angry!”

I am angry that I had to interrupt this mindless and (I admit!) selfish twitterpation to remind folks about being humane.
I am angry I can’t get a Monique Lhuillier gown and go to City Hall. I am angry that my wedding would have to be somehow less “real” than Britney’s 48 hours in Vegas.
I am angry that justice is perverted.
I am angry that homophobic pricks win. Again.
I am angry.

Always,

Louise

2009-05-12T09:46:00.007-07:00

A few Mondays ago, despite having taken the day off for a “personal holiday,” I rose early. Wanda protested this move, clawing at my legs, purring while stretching leisurely, and putting her best paw forward. But I was awake and ready to start the day, although I had no particular plans in mind, except a vague idea to finally check out the Warhol exhibit at the de Young. I took my time putting on my favorite old ripped up Levis and gnarly hoodie circa high school in the late 90’s. I skipped the elevator and bounced down the five flights of stairs, my heart pumping happily.

Taking a deep breath of the slightly polluted but brisk Mission air, I strolled to Ritual on Valencia (a few blocks from my place) for a cappuccino. Walking a few yards away from me was an old woman, probably in her eighties, wearing a teal chiffon kaftan. She was walking backwards. She had a cane and a purse and walked slowly but otherwise as though it was perfectly normal that she was moving in reverse along the cracked pavement. I didn’t know what to make of it, and am not one to ask questions of strangers. But the image stuck with me through my order from the magenta-haired barista, on the way home, and back in my apartment where I sat on the miniature wrought iron balcony multi-tasking: nibbling an orange scone, sipping my capp, and smoking a cigarette.

Why would one walk backwards, and how would this affect every day life? Your view of the world? Relationships? Politics? It must become completely topsy-turvy. Was I reading too deeply into this? Most likely yes. But maybe we are the ones going though life backwards. While she may not see what is ahead on the horizon, she is not missing anything she passes. Literally, life cannot pass her by. Does this old lady have it right?

Speaking of life passing by, I suppose you are wondering what happened with Fiona. After I ran into her, she regained her balance and planted her hands in the back pockets of tight (hot!) jeans, tan arms flexing, eyes wide and amused. Were I more gutsy, I most certainly would have asked her out, ignoring the fact that I was standing in the middle of the street, slighty tipsy and soaking wet, having just almost plowed right through her, also not even knowing if she played for my team. However, I am not that kind of girl. Instead I blushed a brilliant shade of scarlet while Fiona openly laughed (even chortled) at my appearance. It was useless to attempt any sort of suave pick up.

Been playing in the neighbor’s sprinklers?
Sorta, I guess you could say…it’s just really hot out…
You know, I have been trying to get a hold of you for ages. You are impossible to track down apparently. You still have my cell phone.
Oh shit, I know I’m sorry—I was in Paris and then…
Yeah yeah yeah. Save it.
She said this with a smile. Flirting.
I know you have been holding it hostage, taking advantage of the poor thing.

I blushed again. I had given into temptation and perused it a bit, managing to find out that her ringtone was the “Piña Colada Song,” she talked to her mom every Wednesday morning, she could not work the T9 function, and she liked to take pictures of random street signs throughout the city.

I was not about to admit this. Instead I told her
I would never take advantage of an innocent. Anyway, I am on my way home right now, for a quick pit stop. I am just down the street if you want to come grab it.
Yeah that would be great but I am actually running late. To a date.

Okay buzzkill. And slightly awkward.

Oh. Okay then. Well I live off of Valencia and 20th. And you have my number.
Yeah from your funny bizarro messages!
Yeah…god sorry, I’m really bad at leaving voicemail. But you should be able to track me down a little better now.
I sure hope so.

We stood there and kind of looked at each other. Then
Well I really am going to be late. Hopefully I see you soon and there are no ransom demands coming my way.
She winked a navy blue eye at me and I am pretty sure my heart stopped beating for a second. I am also pretty sure I have never felt such a sensation in my chest. Fiona flitted away and I continued my wet slog home.

Wanda sat on the toilet, black tail twitching, and watched warily as I showered, did hair and make-up in front of my old Hollywood-style lit mirror, and tried on six outfits. If she could talk, most certainly I would be getting a lecture of some sort at this moment. But I ignored her judgey eyes and threw on a slate gray James Pearse tank, my skinniest skinny jeans, some bangles, and put-me-in-debt Jimmy Choo watersnake sandals.

Voila! C’est bon, non?

Wanda ignored me, pretending not to understand, and I sashayed out the door to El Rio. For once in my life I beat Ruth and Cecilia there; they had managed to land a perfect spot on the back patio, and had an ice cold Stella waiting for me. I cheers-ed them and filled the girls in on the events of the last hour. They were properly horrified (by my lack of clever banter and waterlogged state) and intrigued (by Fiona’s light teasing and tight jeans). And then the inevitable discussion: lesbian, bisexual, curious, barsexual, or straight? Ruth maintained that Fiona was straight, clueless, and nice. She also took the opportunity to rib me incessantly for having a crushy-poo on a giiirrrllll! Cecilia of course disagreed, noting the evidence I had brought up: short nails, short hair, wide standing stance, and the flirting, ie. the wink, and argued that Fiona was
Clearly a lesbo!
Ruth was quick on her toes though, having just finished her last year of law school at Hastings, and shot back
Short nails are in, everyone in the Mission gets that haircut, and maybe she used to play sports.
I also reminded them that she had been rushing to a date, but C rebutted me with
She didn’t say a date with a boy, did she? True. You should have asked her if she likes Tegan and Sara or Uh Huh Her. Ruth rolled her eyes at Cecilia and shook her head.

This line of conversation continued and morphed into something else entirely through several rounds of drinks. At this point the music was louder, El Rio was packed, and it was still sizzling hot despite the night air. Too hot for me to join C and Ruth and the masses of bodies packed on the dance floor. I leaned back in my seat, drinking in the scene and my beer. That is when I heard her laugh, mingling with the din of music, talking, and movement. She was sitting across the patio, under an overhang laughing. A lithe curly haired chick had her arm draped casually around Fiona’s shoulders. I watched her—tried not to stare—but she noticed almost immediately. She smiled and inclined her head and then it was as if I did not exist.

My heart did the thing again.

Cecilia and Ruth stumbled back towards me, sat down, and filed my eye.

Told you so. Cecilia smirked. I attempted to put my eyeballs back in my face and compose myself as someone heartbreakingly cool and collected. Fiona didn’t look at me again the rest of the night, even during a last ditch attempt when I flirted with some young buck just a few feet away.

When we finally staggered out of the bar at last call, Cecilia, Ruth, and I attempted the walk home backwards. We failed miserably on that count, but I was certainly not allowing life to pass by.

Always,

Louise

Heat Wave Burnin' In My Heart

2009-04-17T11:01:00.022-07:00

Well hello there stranger! I have returned to my City by the Bay, and one upped my previous rose colored lenses with clear shades. And damn, it feels good to be back. I swear, Judy Garland is singing in my ear right this moment:

San Francisco, open your Golden Gate

You'll let nobody wait outside your door

San Francisco, here is your wanderin' one

Saying I'll wander no more!

A couple of weeks ago San Francisco experienced record heat. Dripping sweat, sweltering, sun soaked, steaming pavement heat. In fact, the city had not experienced such a high temperature, 93°, since 84° in 1987, at which time I was 3 1/2, and most likely decked out in a neon and watching Thundercats. Needless to say I am ill-equipped for such weather, but love it nonetheless, for several reasons.

Reason Number One: The View.

The women of San Francisco are beautiful. Granted, they don't have the same reputation as toned and tan ladies of Miami, perfectly polished Los Angeleans, or chic and diverse New Yorkers--and this is starting to sound like a Beach Boys song--but San Francisco women are, uniquely and effortlessly, beautiful. It was hard not to admire the sparkling ladies, and as hot air rushed past me, it seemed as though life was moving in a glorious slow motion. Women walked down the street, hair shining and swaying, legs exposed in stylish summer skirts--that had before been hanging uselessly in closets--gracefully navigating wide, smooth, city streets.

Reason Number Two: The Water.

To celebrate the homecoming of the prodigal friend Cecilia and Ruth met me in the Castro at Catch for mango martinis and oysters. They filled me in on missed drama (post-brawl at the Lex the Blondes are no longer welcome, however my bar stool is still mine. Phew!) and I filled them in on Paris (never go to Unity Bar, absolutely go to George V). They admired my new Gaultier babydoll dress and I admitted to my insane splurges, which included a YSL tuxedo jacket and Chanel cuff. We laughed our faces off and got slightly sappy during the reunion, and finally it was time for some trouble. I left Pinky parked in the Castro and we swerved our way onto Muni. It was twilight: the sky was clear blue velvet, and sweat slid easily down the curve of my spine.

We arrived at Yerba Buena Gardens drunk and happy, running excited as little girls to the fountain, ignoring confused tourists and relaxed locals. Flinging our precious shoes into a careless pile, we grabbed hands and plunged into the water, knee deep in the happy current, howling at the coolness and giggling at one another. It felt absolutely luxurious. Ruth splashed her arm through a sheet of water running down beside her and the droplets hit me and Cecilia. This set us off, of course, into an all out water battle, until each one of us was a drenched mess. We sloshed our way to the side and sat, tears streaming down our faces, unable to contain ourselves over the wonderful hilarity of it all. I felt fantastically happy and complete in that moment.

Instead of riding PT in such a state we decided to stroll back to the Mission, clean up at our respective apartments, and reconvene for more drinks (and ridiculousness) on the patio at El Rio. We split off, and I made my way up Valencia, still wet as a dog, making squishing noises in my gladiator sandals.

I was looking down at said sandals, silently willing my feet to stop it when OOMPH I ran straight into a woman coming around the corner.

Reason Number Three: The Women.

It was Fiona. The woman that got hit by a car. The woman whose cell phone had been sitting in my apartment for a couple of months. The woman who was clearly hurt, but smiled at me. The incredibly beautiful Fiona.

And here I was. Soaking wet.

San Francisco, I'm coming home again,
Never to roam again, by gum San Francisco,
I don't mean Frisco
San Francisco, here I come!

Always,

Louise

Lez Chronicles de Paris, Part Trois.

2009-04-15T09:38:00.008-07:00

To be totally honest, the trip went by quickly and ungracefully like a child learning how to walk.

I went to the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise and sat by Colette’s grave waiting for a lightening bolt of literary genius to hit me between the eyes. I found Gertrude and Alice’s apartment on the Rue de Fleurus and stood by the door, thinking about the cobblestones beneath my feet and the sturdy writer woman who once probably stood in the same spot. I went to the 3WKafe on a busy Friday night, appropriately dressed down this time having learned my lesson. I watched the 19-year old baby dykes with interesting teeth awkwardly make out, dance, laugh, argue, and drink, just like 19-year old baby dykes in San Francisco, or any other city or town. I ate a warm Nutella crepe under the Eiffel Tower, watching the snail/escargot line curve slowly to the elevator. I rode a bateaux mouche down the Seine, freezing in my coat, trying to ignore the loud Italians sitting too close behind me. I walked up and down the Champs-Elysees, Boulevard Saint Germain des Prés, Boulevard Saint Michel, Rue de la Paix, Rue de Rivoli, Avenue Montaigne, and Boulevard Montparnasse. I rode back and forth on the metro. I smoked cigarettes and drank framboise at Les Deux Magots with wild abandon. I window shopped at Hermès, Chanel and Dior. I waited (and was cut) in lines at the Louvre. I took pictures in the Sacré-Cœur and got scolded Ne prenez pas les photos ici Mademoiselle! I sat in the Jardin du Luxembourg, Jardin des Tuileries, Jardin des Plantes, Jardins de Versailles, and watched the sun slowly set over young couples and old couples holding hands and pondering the future.

Through all of this I was outside, floating above myself. By the end of the trip I simply moved through the city. I glided.

I was not sad to leave. I felt oddly disconnected. I had in fact not spoken to a soul in the entire city for two weeks, beyond generic ordering in cafes, and other mundane speeches along those lines. I will always think of Paris one way and my trip did not affect the way I see the city. This is a romantic, la vie en rose, perfect vision of the place, that will never ever change.

No humorous stories, no anecdotes, and no awkward run-ins this time around. Just me, a café au lait, and a pen.

Always,

Louise

Lez Chronicles de Paris, Part Deux.

2009-04-10T12:16:00.009-07:00

Merci Vicodin. You made the flight far more tolerable.

I arrived in Paris early in the morning, none the worse for wear after the insanity that was my last night in San Francisco, and the mad dash to the airport as a result of the aforementioned insanity. As the plane bounced around on turbulent winds I gazed out the little window at France, heart pounding out of my chest. As soon as I managed my way through customs and baggage claim I burst out the door of the airport, and leaning against my massive pink suitcase, took a deep breath of the damp, smoky, Parisian air.

Home.

It was drizzling lightly but I was not bothered by the rain. It felt like I was arriving to a clean slate. The world, in that little moment, was my oyster, or rather mon huître. I came back down from that moment then and fiendishly smoked a cigarette. Fourteen hours smoke-free was brutal on a body.

For the trip I had rented an apartment in the “gay Marais,” similar to SF’s Castro district. Not exactly lez territory, but friendly stomping ground nonetheless. I braved the expensive French cab (metro was SO not happening with my luggage situation) and arrived at the quaint building after curving down many cobblestone, entirely un-drivable streets, which the driver took great joy in cussing about.

From there, the check-in and elevator ride were shockingly seamless. It was like being in an alternate universe where things were suddenly going my way. The apartment itself was cozy and delightful; a stylish little art deco loft, with a view of the cafés below, as well as The Wolf, a bar for bears* who enjoy leather. I would not be bored at this spot.

Knowing that succumbing to the mind-numbing exhaustion would only mean doomed sleep patterns for the rest of my stay, I forced myself into the shower, into a posh get-up, and into a café, where I felt free to suck down my café au lait, smoke like a chimney, and glare at completely un-offending strangers, sans apologies. I was getting into Paris mode. Pen to paper, I stayed in my seat for hours, as I eventually began to feel human again.

That is when it occurred to me: this trip should not just be a self-indulgent, vainglorious, hedonistic vacation. I mean it should to a certain extent...but it should be something more too; more than mindless boozing and screwing, which I would then normally label as artistic and tortured. No. This trip had to be something more. Something deeper. I needed to do something I have been afraid to do for a long time. Two things lesbians love most in the world, and I had attempted to steer clear of: soul searching and processing.

Ugh. Two words I vowed never to let grace these pages. But there you have it. I was on a personal journey, and this was not a one way trip. I was thousands of miles from San Francisco and the d word (starts with a d, ends with a rama), with no phone, internet, friends, or lovers. It was time to take advice that even La Lohan could give (gasp!): it was time to focus on myself.

Jet lag does crazy things to the soul.

And so, high on caffeine, psychology, and life in general, I made my way to one of the lesbian bars I had discovered in some trusty guide book: l'Unity Bar. I was going to talk to fabulous French women! I was going to find my creativity, my depth, myself!

Oof. I sauntered into the bar, trying to maintain an air of casual confidence, despite the fact that when I opened the door and put one Fendi peep toe bootie** inside I swore I heard a ripping record followed by crickets. I looked around surreptitiously at the blank faces framed by buzz cuts. It was a sea of Adidas track pants paired with flannel. L'horreur. Now don't get your boxers in a bunch mes butchies. I have always loved, admired and respected you. However, this was just...shocking. I don't think I have even seen track pants in the White Horse in Oakland. Needless to say, this is not what I expected to find in a Parisian lesbian bar. I as operating under a far different notion. But c'est la vie. I was not to be deterred.

I ordered a Stella, pasted on my best apathetic face, and let out a massive sigh.

This was going to be harder than originally planned...

Always,

Louise

*just in case-- bear: A term used by gay men to describe a husky, large man with a lot of body hair. http://www.urbandictionary.com/

**so now. http://www.saksfifthavenue.com/main/ProductDetail.jsp?PRODUCT%3C%3Eprd_id=845524446210808&FOLDER%3C%3Efolder_id=282574492709197&ASSORTMENT%3C%3East_id=1408474399545537&bmUID=1239408377496&ev19=1:24

Lez Chronicles de Paris, Part Un.

2009-04-08T16:37:00.008-07:00

My last night in San Francisco, the eve of my journey to Paris, should have been mellow. Of course, this was absolutely not the case. I should have packed at home, leisurely, taking my time, perhaps enjoying a glass of champagne, savoring these hours, where the toughest decision I have to make is whether to bring both pairs of Louboutins, or if the one studded pair would do the trick.

Instead, I get talked into a last night out, with the promise that I will have plenty of time to pack later!

Right.

I obviously have zero spine and completely cave to peer pressure when it includes promises of free booze, time with my friends, and girls girls girls--Cecilia and Ruth have my psychology down. Thus, on Saturday night, I ended up at some hipster pseudo-artistic event in the SOMA where I had way too many red headed sluts (the drink you perv) and checked out girls' asses with some random dude. From there I skipped over to the Lex with double trouble (C and Ruth). We ordered a few rounds of tequila shots, spoke of our undying love for one another, and made vows to give up monogamy for Lent! as well as other typical drunken banter.

We all know its fun and games until someone loses an eye. Into the bar walked the two blondes from a few weeks ago (you may or may not recall...I do only vaguely).

I did my casual eye contact/nod/dismissal and returned to theorizing about monogamy, praying they don’t approach. Of course, being blonde, they did.

Cecilia could hardly contain her laughter, hands clasped over her mouth, and Ruth just shook her head, rolling her eyes, somewhere between disbelief, disgust, and jealousy.

Hi… I wavered thinking NAMES NAMES NAMES!

Hey Lu… semi-unison, non-semi drawl.

Hey...

I’m Ruth.

Cecilia.

They could care less about Ruth and Cecilia but smiled vapidly, eyes attached to me.

Serena.

Kelly.

Saved. Awesome. We all stood there, looking at each other. I felt ridiculously drunk but Ruth and C looked to have sobered up slightly. Or maybe it was my imagination because endless drinks and five rounds of tequila shots do not a sober girl make. All of this (this being standing and making zero attempt at conversation) proved to be exhausting for Serena and Kelly.

I’m thirsty pouted Kelly with a face I assume she thought was adorably irresistible. Though drunk, I was not stupid and ignored the bait. The power butch standing next to us, with a perfectly coiffed fauxhawk circa 2006 and a stud in her chin, did not, and immediately took over the situation, getting cosmos for the girls. I took this opportunity to slink away, friends in tow. We erupted into giggles and Ruth grabbed me.

I’m thiiiirsty she whined in a baby voice and then bursts into a belly laugh as Cecilia batted eyelashes over astonishingly vacant eyes and shimmied her cleavage.

To celebrate the disentanglement, I think, we ordered several more rounds of tequila shots. Perfect idea.

At some point, in my tequila covered fog, I recall Serena returning to our corner and leaning on my arm, kissing my neck sloppily. The next thing I know, Kelly has arrived on the scene, and shit, she is not amused. And then neither is PBWF #1 (power butch with fauxhawk). Um crap. Back up? Can I call in some back up? Someone just shoved me from behind and now Kelly has Serena by the hair, and wait did PBWF #1 just punch me in the stomach? SHIT SHIT SHIT!

I covered my face with one hand NOT MY FACE! NOT MY FACE YOU CRAZY BITCHES! and grabbed Ruth's hand while Cecilia sandwiched my other side. We shoved our way out of the Lex, the brawl spilling out to the streets behind us. I stared, shocked and fascinated, as Serena and Kelly screamed at each other. Then I saw PBWF #1 storming towards me and did what any strong, independent, powerful woman would do: ran the hell away.

And so.

I woke up an hour before I had to leave for the airport. This led to a shove fest: I shoved the rest of…everything… into my suitcase. Anything forgotten could be bought in Paris. Finally I grabbed water, vitamin water, sbucks, a mega dose of aspirin, a vicodin for the plane, and jumped into a cab. I was off.

A bit later, as I sat in my tiny seat on Air France flight #917 trying to relax away the mayhem of the past 24 hours, everything quickly faded away. What was left then, were two things: the knowledge that I was embarking on the greatest escape of all--Paris--and that crazy bitch didn't get my face!

Always,

Louise

from paris with love

2009-03-31T13:38:00.003-07:00

I fear I have been absent far too long, running around Paris. Unfortunately I do not have the time currently to share my fabulous stories of les lez Parisienne...but I promise to return soon. Promises promises I know...but I mean it!

Toujours,

Louise

pussycat pussycat where have you been?

2009-03-13T15:26:00.004-07:00

I've been busy.

Last week was a blur of avoiding certain chicks, entertaining others, keeping an eye on Paris fashion week, trying to make it to work on time, and celebrating Ruth's 26th birthday.

And her.

I left her a message on her phone. I figured out the number, and called it with my own, and left a message. Yeah, I could have called someone in the history....but I didn't have the energy to try and figure out the appropriate person to contact, and frankly, if someone had my phone, I wouldn't want them calling folks willy nilly. So now it is her move. Hopefully she is checking the messages.

Her name is Fiona.

And now to a dark place.

There has also been a pause here. Somehow I can barely make my fingers move across the keys. I have reached an absolute standstill, in life, in general.

Sometimes when I look in the mirror I don't even recognize myself. I know its me because...well obviously... but it scares me when i start to look into my eyes. I mean really look into my eyes. Where it goes beyond the color. Beyond the deep sea of green; a frightening ocean with rip tides and white foamy caps and a terribly heavy pull. Looking into the pupils my eyes become a separate entity, a black hellish depth that I don't know.

Perhaps it is better not to look beneath the surface.

And then I start to think: not who am I, because how cliche do you really want me to be? And not what am I doing here, because that's almost more wretched.
What I start to think is: how endless is the black and how deep is the green and will it ever not hurt and do I have any control?

And then I swim to the top, break free of the dredges of cold water. I allow myself to be bathed in the warmth of friends, alcohol, lovers, accidents, drama, laughter, rain, and wonder.

I have survived another week. That is where this pussycat has been.

Always,

Louise

So Late

2009-02-27T09:28:00.013-08:00

7:24

I was so late.

I was getting ready for another mundane day at the office and for some reason I couldn't decide between grey or black pants--a mind-numbing conundrum. Already I had snoozed my alarm clock about four times too many and I hadn't had time to put in my eyes (contacts) or wash my greasy hair. All in all, I was a glorious mess of grogg by the time

8:07

I stumbled out the front door of my building.

While I had not had time to spend on making myself decent, I was making time for a cappuccino a la Ritual on Valencia. It was necessary to my life if I was ever going to make it through the day.

8:13

I got my usual and glared at the innocent pierced barista in my normal morning grumpiness. I was immediately punished when I took a huge gulp, burning the roof of my mouth. An annoying bubble rapidly formed. Cappuccino sloshed out the mini sipping hole onto my good MJ coat and I cursed the Caffeine Gods.

8:21

Finally, capp in one hand, handles in the other, I jumped on Pinky (my Barbie pink Vespa), and set off on my journey from the Mission to FiDi. I have shocking multi-tasking skills. As I zipped along I checked my watch only to stare at a bare wrist. I groaned, and looked up just in time for the four way stop, when

8:26

FUCK! There is a beautiful woman, a completely un-pedestrian pedestrian, sprawled in the the street, limbs at awkward angles. It wasn't me--I didn't hit her. Some ass in a silver Mercedes Benz hit her. Apparently. Forgetting about time, work, my stained Marc Jacobs and burnt gums, I pulled over and leapt from my bike, feeling like an avenging superhero. I shouted something about knowing CPR (which isn't even true. I know the Heimlich maneuver, and I learned it back in high school). I reached the woman's side, but was afraid to touch her, in case her neck was broken or something.

She stared back at me. Huge eyes: endless, dark, oceans of blue.

Are you in shock? I asked stupidly.

I don't think so. She replied, still totally still.

I blinked, trying to break the spell and then my brain started to function a little more normally, while my heart thundered in my chest. My gaydar was going nuts. Why did I have to look like hell today?

Fumbling in my massive bag for my tiny cell phone, I told her I would call 911. After watching me dig, flustered, she, thoroughly calm, directed me to her phone in her bag which had fallen a few feet away. I dialed quickly, fingers trembling, and got a busy signal. WTF.

She laughed--I hadn't realized I sad that out loud--and then groaned. Her hands clung to her ribs. At this point, having ascertained his Benz was a-ok, Asshole wandered over.

Get away dickwad! screamed some strange creature inhabiting my body. And she shushed me. Shushed me! I couldn't believe it. I loved it.

Asshole douchily tried to smooth things over with me but I wasn't having it. Words were exchanged and despite her pain, the woman was highly amused. Somewhere in there an ambulance came blaring through; she was strapped to a stretcher and doors slammed shut, effectively blocking me from her. It was a total blur, of cops and paramedics and lights. I was interviewed, Asshole was interviewed, and eventually everyone was gone

9:18

leaving me standing with Pinky, late to work, and wondering what had just happened, and who that intoxicating woman was. And oddly glad to have snoozed four times.

9:47

Finally at work, where I gave the most far fetched explanation for tardiness known to woman, I heard my cell ring. And then I realized the cell I pulled out of the pocked of my MJ coat, vibrating vigorously, was not in fact mine. It was hers.

Always,

Louise

photo cred: ~Solutus, deviantART www.deviantart.com/deviation/38506306/

Blurry

2009-02-18T15:35:00.013-08:00

I didn't go to Cockblock looking for sex but somehow I found it.

Joe, the old doorman that has been working women's parties for ages, was warning two dudes exactly what type of event they were trying to enter, as I made my way to the front of the line. Queer. Dykes. He was abrupt but chortled after he made this statement. Yep we are allllll lesbians aren't we? Joe continued jovially. I smiled at this comment as he eyed my shiny ID.

I had arrived somewhat fashionably early, to stake out a good spot on the second floor, a perfect cocktail, a coat check, and delightful tipsy-ness by the time Cecilia and Ruth arrived. I leaned over the balcony ledge and stared out at the shadowy, blue-lit sea of women, waiting.

Cecilia and Ruth showed up together, laughing about something as they pushed their way through the newly formed crowd of women. Ruth rolled her eyes as Cecilia immediately pointed out her new cobalt suede Louboutin's. I gave the desired shrill reaction to the stunning pumps while watching Ruth easily wink at a petite dark haired femme floating past us.
Cecilia and Ruth. They couldn't be more different. It is not just skin deep either--although Ruth has an easy butch-ish hipster look and Cecilia is strikingly Vogue. Oh I know what you're thinking. And the answer is yes of course. They got drunk last year at our fave homos Mark and Dan's Christmas party and did the nasty. Did the nasty...okay I just can't say screwed with Cecilia and Ruth in the same sentence. Both of them refuse to discuss it, and pretend it never happened. The only reason I know about all of this is because I walked into the bathroom (yep. bathroom.) at a very inopportune--or opportune, depending on who you are--moment. Only Cecilia saw me, as she perched on the on the sink, her back pressed against the mirror, skirt around waist, and hands tangled in Ruth's hair. Her eyes were green slits, that widened when they met my own owl-like shocked stare. I abruptly shut the door, fled the scene, and grabbed another egg nog.

I returned my gaze to the packed first floor. That is when I saw her, beneath me. She was looking up, but I couldn't tell if she was looking back at me. Blue and pink strobe lights blurred my vision. A hot brunette with huge breasts was dancing around her provocatively, but she didn't really seem to notice or care. She walked away without a word, disappearing into the crowd and leaving Big Boobs disappointed.

Ruth had caught me staring and shook her head.

No no no no no.
What?! What'd I do?
Oh you know what you are doing. Let's bring the boil down to a simmer, k?

We have had this conversation countless times.

Cecilia came back from the bar--I hadn't even noticed her departure--and shoved a pink can of champagne at me. This was advice I could take. The neon straw went straight into my mouth and I took a long sip of the bubbles.

A clump of chicks beside us were arguing about Lindsay Lohan's sexuality and we took this as our cue to change locations. Climbing down, the metal stairs echoing under my heels, I let myself get lost in Katy Perry's barsexual song as I stepped onto the dance floor. The girl on the dance floor moments before was easily forgotten.

Zoom into the throngs, flashing lights and video screen. Fast forward: sweating, dancing and drinking limitless champagne. Moving with Cecilia and Ruth, losing them in the crowd, finding two tall stunning blondes, drunk or high, writhing perfectly to the pulsing base. Fast forward further.

Somehow I stumbled into a cab and got myself--and the blondes--back to my place around 2 AM. Who said three's a crowd?

Somewhere during dawn, as the sun rose and the sky turned from grey to pink, I had my fill and was done with the anonymous women giggling, still drunk, in my Egyptian cotton sheets. I kicked them out with a vague excuse about work (on a Sunday? it didn't matter). I spent the rest of the morning drinking coffee and trying not to feel guilty for my sins, looking into the fog resting outside my window. I thought about the girl on the dance floor and wondered if she was awake yet.

Always,

Louise

photo cred: moi

I have a secret

2009-02-06T14:59:00.009-08:00

I think Amy is smokin' hot. That's not my secret. I just wanted to mention that first. Amy is a bartender at the Lex, the local dyke dive bar. Pretty much everyone thinks she is hot, so I am not unique in this observation. Amy is this combination of 1950's pin-up girl glamour and grungy tattooed lesbian. Yeah of course everyone thinks she is hot. Anyway, I was at the Lex last night with Cecilia and Ruth after work. As per usual Ruth was bitching about her creepy boss, which had Cecilia chuckling. I scanned the dimly lit red room that is supposed to feel effortlessly hip. (I can see a clear effort being made in the thin layer of dust and this month's artist display of expertly yellowed Polaroids). The new M.I.A. song came on along with a chorus of excited coos--if you can call any sound at the Lex a "coo."
I wasn't paying attention to Ruth not because she isn't hilarious--she is--and not because I was pondering my minor and generic crush on Bartender Amy--I wasn't, really. I was not paying attention to Ruth's antics because Julie had just strutted in the door.
And when I say strut I mean strut. Julie doesn't go anywhere that she doesn't strut.
Okay. Let me let you in on a little well known secret (still not the secret): San Francisco is a small city. Mini. You are bound, by some wretched law of gravity, to see people you don't want to see, frequently. And usually at your frumpiest. Now take this a step further; narrow the city down to 20-something lesbians. You just laughed out loud didn't you? Yeah, now your San Francisco is honey-I-shrunk-the-kids status. What does all of this mean? You will see your ex. How can you avoid this? Don't leave your apartment. Ever again. Or move.
Neither appeal? Well then you have to grin and bear it.
Where was I?
Julie just strutted in the door. Julie my ex.
This is the part in a movie where the music slows down, the outside noise becomes a blur, the extras on set are finding something uproariously funny in the background, and the "it" girl's hair seems exceptionally shiny and swing-y.
Ruth and Cecilia caught on when I shrank down in my chair and feigned sincere interest in one of the aforementioned Polaroids (they aren't completely slow). They looked at me expectantly, waiting for a reaction.
Of course I brushed them off. I was fine, whatevs, no biggie, o-ver-it! and took a big gulp of my gin & tonic...tried not to make a face.
I ignored Julie the rest of the evening while she flirted obviously with the door girl in my peripheral vision.
After all that I ended up calling it an early night (it was a weeknight anyway) and wandered home, smoking a cigarette (I WILL quit). I curled up with my cat called Wanda, slightly tipsy, and stared out the window at the grey drizzle, cozy in my melancholy.
Here is the thing: I wasn't upset because I was sad or jealous or crazed seeing Julie. I was sad because the opposite was true. I didn't miss her, I wasn't slightly jealous, and crazy called out sick. Apathy seemed to have flooded my brain.
Since when did I become so numb? I am not that cynical, jaded girl--I thought.
My secret. There are lots of them. But on the subject: I break hearts. I don't get heartbroken.
At least not so far.

Always,

Louise

parisphile

2009-01-30T10:28:00.010-08:00

In case it is not apparent from the tossed in French words or the title of this "blog," I am obsessed with Paris. As the infamous Gertrude Stein said, "America is my country and Paris is my hometown."

That being said, I am going home in 51 sweet days. On March 23rd I finally get on a plane and return to the most fantastic place I know. I am escaping from chaos, as that seems to be the theme of 2009 thus far: chaos and destruction, utter sadness, and betrayal. Of course, hope springs eternal for this one and I am not going to cry (anymore).

Always,

Louise

photo cred: Giuseppe Finocchiaro http://www.flickr.com/photos/giuseppefinocchiaro/

Bienvenue

2008-10-07T12:09:00.007-07:00

Bienvenue (weclome).

My name is Louise, and this is my blog. When I think of something worth saying I will say it. In the meantime, glad you could join me for my travels and travails.

Life in the fast lane? I prefer a chauffer.

Always,

Louise

photo cred: www.kristopherdukes.com/category/pump-shoes