I’m Not Your Father


Last week on Nobody Scissors: I came out to my mother and she was less than thrilled, but what are you gonna do?

A few weeks into my first college semester my dormmates, Shmoebe and Shmashley (I know, another one? That would prove to be trouble later on…. I mean, the day we moved in  I turned to Courtney and said “I’m going to have sex with her, it’s just going to happen.”) decided to invite me to my first real college party. Courtney was out of town visiting her girlfriend back home *at the time, Courtney was dating an infant named Shmicole, who was still in high school–it’s okay, we gave her a hard enough time about that back then–but the bitch couldn’t even drive*.

So I got all dressed up in my finest baby dyke outfit – a Boy Scout shirt and skinny jeans, featuring a backwards cap and vans. I was walking into this thing totally not knowing what I was expecting. That’s a lie; I went to a huge state school known for parties. I was expecting neon and foam. I was expecting Zac Efron DJing on the balcony. I was expecting keg stands and beer pong. I was expecting lesbian oil wrestling (okay maybe I was HOPING for lesbian oil wrestling). I guess I was expecting a lot.

What I walked in on was a very quiet get together containing mostly nerdy theater kids. You could say I was a little disappointed.

*Theme music and opening credits play*

As I stood on the balcony smoking cigarettes and listening to grown men sing songs from popular musicals (unless you’re on a stage or at karaoke, don’t sing musical songs… just don’t), a rather pretty girl came out onto the balcony and plucked my cigarette from my fingertips. I’m not particularly sure what this pretty girl was doing at this “party.” Actually, most of the girls at the “party” were really attractive, while most of the boys were, let’s just say, really obviously theatre boys. Maybe she wandered in off the street. Maybe she lost a bet, or maybe she was the Jean Valjean impersonator’s keeper, who knows.

“If you were a boy…” she said, “I’d totally fuck you.” She breathed smoke into the night and I felt my entire face flush.
“Uh…..” was all I managed to stammer before she slunk back inside. Nailed that one Chris.
That was the first time in my life I had been told by someone other than my girlfriend (who lived 1800 miles away, as made painfully evident by my metaphorical blue balls and entirely less metaphorical desire to find a more localized girlfriend) had implied that I was even the slightest bit attractive. I’m not sure what my face was doing, but I’m sure that my expression was probably a mixture of absolute confusion and southern charm. Maybe something like a face a young George W. Bush might’ve made at a passing hottie at Yale University (He went to Yale?? That was the joke. That Dubya went to Yale).

I proceeded to get super drunk on Mike’s Hard Lemonade and straight vodka shots because, as an 18-year-old, I didn’t know any better. Soon, I was feeling pretty hammered and also kinda queasy. I then made the brilliant decision to try smoking weed for the first time in my life. Everybody else was doing it, and if you say you have never given in to peer pressure before, I’m just gonna outright call you a liar. I ended up sitting under the kitchen table, holding onto the northern-facing leg for support, and watching the “party” in silence. I would later learn that smoking marijuana and I don’t mix; I’m just not a fun high person, and that’s okay. Don’t do drugs, kids. Or do. Whatever, I’m not your father.

My dormmate Shmashley found me under the table and picked me up before leading me to the kitchen. “We are doing shots.”
“First… can I tell you something?” I slurred.
Shmoebe walked up and looked me up and down, “Is she okay?” She asked Shmashley.
“I don’t know, she said she’s got something to say.”
“I just want you guys to know… I’m gay. Is that okay with you? Because if not, then I don’t know how this is gonna work out,” I admitted before they both started laughing.
“You’re wearing a Boy Scout shirt, you joined the rugby team your first week here, you watch nothing but the L word on Netflix, and something tells me that the picture of the swimmer on your desk isn’t just your best friend,” Shmoebe said rather pointedly.
“We know, doll, you’re a lesbian! Rock it. We’re into it,” Shmashley said and squeezed my side before pouring us shots.

“ABSINTHE??” I choked after downing the mysterious liquid. “Fuck that’s disgusting.”

Okay, kids, I know I said I’m not your father–and I really have no place to tell you what you can and can’t do. But I do not recommend mixing copious amounts of alcohol, weed, and absinthe. Actually, just don’t smoke pot and drink absinthe at the same time. Actually actually, don’t drink absinthe ever. Just eat a bag of Twizzlers and save yourself the headache.

*Tune in next time for my first away rugby tournament and my first experience at a gay club…which happened to have a lumberjack theme*


2 thoughts on “I’m Not Your Father

  1. The butch says:

    Chuckling because my baby butch outfit included either a boy scout shirt or one of my dad’s shirts from when he served during the Korean War. I’m a hella lot older than you, but some things never change, do they?

    Can’t wait until the next installment…


  2. The butch says:

    Also, it’s fairly well-known that kids of the wealthy and politically-connected can buy their way through Yale. I remember many years ago when Dubya’s transcript escaped the Yale suppression vault. It was fairly awful, gradewise. I believe “scraped by” would be an accurate term. Also, HATE that he calls himself a native Texan. That prick was BORN in New Haven, Connecticut. I was also born in Connecticut, and live elsewhere in the Northeast, but I will be a Connecticut native until the day I shuffle off this mortal coil.


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