Beckton Globe Library, London. Wed, Mar 13, 6: Jewel Piccadilly, London. Gay Speed Dating, Ealing. Wed, Mar 6, 6: West Five Bar, London. Gay Wedding Show London Sun, Feb 24, As Time Goes By: Sat, Mar 2, 3: Studio Voltaire, London. Kent's Gay Wedding Show. Sun, Mar 3, Mon, Feb 25, 7: McQueen, London. Tue, Feb 26, 5: Wed, Feb 27, 5: Town Hall, London.
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Gay M Jam. Sat, Feb 23, 9: Cockcroft building, University of Brighton, Brighton. The Gay Wedding Show: Brighton Sun, Oct 6, The Hilton Brighton Metropole, Brighton. Bootylicious Love Ball. I am a year-old woman who has never been on a date. Well, not a proper one, anyhow. The closest I came was in high school, when I asked a unibrowed record store employee out solely because he wore archaic clothes and, on the afternoon I entered his store, was listening to a Cheap Suit Serenaders LP.
Our "date" was little more than the public consumption of whiskey; it culminated in the two of us drunkenly falling asleep on his twin-sized mattress. My second closest brush with a date was with a man I had met earlier that evening.
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At 1 AM, he took me to the waterfall featured in the opening credits of Twin Peaks. As we stared from the darkness of our isolated perch at its illuminated, undulating flow, he quipped that he could, in this moment, very easily kill me and get away with it. I went home with him and didn't leave for two years. When it comes to dating women, I have even less experience. And by "less experience," I mean "absolutely no experience. So when a friend suggested I try lesbian speed dating, I figured, Fuck it. If anything, it was an opportunity to make up for lost time.
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Abject confusion was the norm from launch. An exclamation-point—riddled email from the event's organizers informed me that the suggested attire was "dressy casual," a.
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I had no idea how to dress appropriately—I wanted to look like I belonged, but not so much that I looked like a narc. I settled on an oxford buttoned all the way up and an unreasonable amount of makeup. I wanted to cover all my bases.
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The evening took place in a dimly lit Hollywood bar, the kind of place that, under normal circumstances, I would never set foot in. I was later told, by one of my fellow attendees, that said bar was allegedly owned by the actress Eva Longoria.
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I say "allegedly" because I cannot be bothered to google it, because I do not care. Upon arrival, I mistakenly wandered upstairs, where I found myself surrounded by bloated white men who were talking, presumably, about how great it is to run the fucking world while eating appetizers. I overheard one tell another, "Y'know, on Tuesdays, there's lesbian speed dating downstairs.
I could feel my face turn beet red, like in a teen film, as I ran back down the stairs and into the loving arms of my new coven. Once I checked in, I was given a nametag, a number Dater 10, baby! If I liked a woman romantically, I was to circle the word "date. There was a definitive line in the sand drawn between butch and femme participants; each woman organically gravitated toward her own kind.
I was dressed in a more butch than femme fashion, but didn't join my group—frankly, I didn't know which one, if either, I belonged to. Instead, I self-consciously looked at my phone. I felt like I was back in high school. Alone in the corner, I wrote an email to a guy I have an idiotic, impossible crush on. I visualized wearing his class ring and dry humping at Makeout Point and all that other shit bobby-socked, pie-eyed teen girls are supposed to dream about. But how was I gonna get any gash if I was so gosh-darn boy crazy?
I had to put my head in the game. Two women to my right talked about the Super Bowl. One had missed it because she was having "so much fun on the slopes. This was going to be a trial.
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The sports fan finished her conversation with the ski bum and focused her attention on me. Her name was, let's say, Diane. She worked in accounting, but hated it—she was a "businessperson" at heart. She stopped talking at me mid-sentence in order to set her sights on a better dressed, more chipper woman. There was no order to the conversations taking place around me.
At ten minutes past the event's designated start time, women were still talking among themselves. I am not naturally outgoing—if you couldn't tell that already—and wasn't about to throw myself at these strangers.