Friday, November 6, 2009

Kentucky Dirty

Hi sluts!

I'm here in Louisville, Kentucky, where the ladies are a little more…ladyish.

I was expecting this. Most stereotypes have at least a teensy original kernel of truth in them – that’s why they’re funny and/or painful.

And the ladies in the South are delivering on stereotypes. These women are funnily, painfully Southern. They really do have Big Hair. They really do say, “Y’all, come ovah heeyah and get chy’alls books for the seminar from thisheeyah girl.”

They all have acrylic, manicured nails. These are painted in soft shades of rose, coral, pink, or…pink. Every single woman I've seen has these nails.
Even the lesbians.

Today, I’m staying at the Galt House, the fanciest hotel in Louisville, and fuck if I’m not completely underdressed.

Usually, in whatever city I get sent to for work, the women who attend my seminars go, “Ooh, cute boots!” or, “Ooh, I like your pretty little scarf!” in the morning when they’re checking in, just to have something to say to me.
I’m used to this. I have a nicely swelled ego from all these fake compliments.
So I was not surprised when a Southern Lady, as she was signing in for the seminar, reached across my registration desk and touched me. (Middle-aged women have even hazier boundaries than I do.) She ran her fingers through my hair.

I wasn't concerned - this has actually happened before. I sat still, like a spaniel, waiting for my compliment-treat. The Southern Lady was supposed to say, “Ooh, I just love your choppy haircut.” (Know why it's choppy? Safety scissors and lack of skill.) That's what I was expecting.
What she said, however, was, “You know, sugar, you would be so pretty if you would just do somethin’ with this mop.”
Clearly, the Southern Women in my seminar were different from the ones I met last night.

Last night, as I was walking to dinner, I came across a group of four obvious Southern Lesbians. Short haircuts and sweatshirts in the South = Dykes.
They were sitting in the bar, drinking. They looked like they were having a great time. Delighted, I smiled at them and said hi as I walked by.

The Southern Lesbians either ignored me or didn’t hear me, so I got embarrassed and blushed furiously. I then pretended to take a Very Important Cell Phone Call. (I do this a lot at parties. When I feel really rejected/unconfident, I will pretend it’s an international friend calling, just to let everyone know that not only do I have to take this call, but I have to take it in Italian. Because I am obviously a Very Important Busy International Business Jet-Setter.)

If you ever see me do this, please don’t call me out on it. It’s all I have. I walked back to my room. The Southern Lesbians were still there. Still drinking. I felt braver. They had to be drunk by now.

I wandered over to them and bellied up to the bar. Blatently ignoring them, I loudly ordered a Shirley Temple with extra cherries, because I knew it would get their attention.

LEZFACT: Lesbians cannot stand the sober person at the party.

The Southern Lesbians were all drinking hard liquor. The dyke next to me whooped.

"A Shirley Temple! What are you ordering that for?"

"I've had a few too many tonight," I said. Lies! I had ginger ale with dinner.

"You're still standin'!" she said. "You should have what we're havin'!"
Me: What are you having?

Southern Lesbian: Dead Nazis!

Me: Dead Nazis taste like mouthwash.

(Southern Lesbians cackle.)

Me: Anyway, a Dead Nazi is not a Southern drink. Y'all are supposed to be drinking Wild Turkey. Or mint juleps.

SL: Whaaat? We’re all drinkin’ Dead Nazis. You should get a Dead Nazi.

Me: I’ll get a Dead Nazi if I can ask you all some questions for my blog.

SL(instantly wary): What kinda questions?

Me(in a rush): Well, um, I’m a lesbian, I write a blog about lesbians. And I –

Me(terrified): Uh.

SL: HAHAHAHA! ‘Cause I sure am! (all Southern Lesbians guffaw) But we gotta keep it jus' between us! How can you tell?

Me: You’re the only fun ones here.

SL: What’s your question, sweetiepie?(shoves my wallet away) I'm buying.

Me: It’s personal. You don’t have to answer. If you don’t want.

SL: C’mon.

Me: Ok, well, um. What is up with your nails? Everybody’s nails! You all have really long nails here! How do you, you know...

SL:(friends snickering) Heh. Sweetiepie, you don’t need to nevermind long nails. (shows me her nails) We keep ‘em that way because we live here – we're teachers. It ain’t like Chicago. In Kentucky, I guess women are a bit more feminine, and it’s ok to be gay, it’s just not something you talk about with everybody and their mother.
Me: So you get fake nails to fit in? So people don’t kick your ass?
SL: Sure! (orders another Dead Nazi)

Me: No offense, but who are you fooling?

SL: Not you! Clearly!

Me: Mmkay, I'm sorry, but I still don't get it. I have to get more personal than that. How do you, you know, um…doitwiththosenails?

SL:(waggling her fingers with the palms facing me): Gotta use the pads, sweetie. Pads of your fingers.

Me: You are fucking with me. It doesn’t hurt?

SL(grinning): Get enough liquor in ya, nothing hurts.

Me: Holy shit.

SL: Jokin’ honey! Jokin’! God, you're easy!
What great dykes. Two of the four Southern lesbians had two first names; i.e. Mary Jo and Stacey Ann.

They were so funny, and so crass, and so careful to include me. I wanted to stay in the bar with them for the rest of my life. They were going to a convention the next day, but there were big plans to go to another bar when the Galt House bar shut down.
People, these women were fifty fucking years old. They threatened to follow me back to my room to “find out how the Yankees do it.”
Oh, Louisville.
After dinner,

I should be so fun at 50.


  1. The idea of those long nails..
    Long, claw like pink painted nails.

    Lesbians in Kentucky must have vaginas of steel or something.

    I cringed reading this. I hope you're happy.

  2. love the gentility of my peeps...sounds like you were on them like white on rice.


  4. Okay, I have a story about this:
    So I'm a lesbian, and a massage therapist too. I use my hands a lot, so my nails are always so short they don't exist. Sometimes I would dream longingly of nails long enough to paint blue or purple or something punk. You know, not long enough to tap obnoxiously on the table, or open soda cans like a robot, but long enough that there's a tiny waxing moon of white beyond the fingertip to cover with something dark and unladylike. Well, just my luck, my girlfriend and I split up. Then, to comfort myself I moved away, which meant I didn't have a massage job yet. So for the first time in as long as I could remember I had a free pass to punky nail heaven. I let them grow for an entire week. (That was plenty long enough for me.) I painted them shimmery dark purple. It was Saturday night in the small western town where I had cleverly relocated in order to avoid seeing a single lesbian for a good long post-break-up-with-the-love-of-my-life while). I felt it was safe to go out on the "town". I wouldn't meet anyone. Of course, the hottest dyke I have ever seen (except my ungodly hot ex) was out too and thought it would be great fun to take me home with her. (What are the odds!?!) Then I remembered my nails. Shit. I vowed to myself to be careful and I hoped for the best. Turns out, while short nails are required for a good deep fuck, they're truly optional for g-spot play! What could have ended horror movie horribly was actually okay. You really can "use the pads" as those wise southern lady-dykes said. I got it done with nothin' but a little come hither and some tongue action. Still, it was the most stressful one night stand of my entire life (which is saying something). I will never grow mini-nails again, not even to paint purple, but I wanted share the knowledge that in a pinch "the pad" does, in fact, work. Now you know.