Valentine’s Day is supposed to be a day of romance, a cliche of hearts and cards and naked babies shooting you with sharp objects. When you think of it that way it sounds pretty fucking weird, and to be honest Valentine’s Day of 2011 was pretty fucking weird.
Courtney’s girlfriend at the time, Shmellen, broke up with her that Valentine’s Day (Courtney made sure to correct me and let me know that while Shmellen wanted space, Courtney said the words so technically she did the breaking up). They were both little baby dykes, both stubborn, both in love, and both restless. Shmellen wanted to see other people and go out, Courtney was hung up on her ex, you know, the Uje (Ush? Abbreviation of usual, you catch my drift).
So when Courtney came home and informed us that Shmellen had broken up with her (or that she had broken up with Shmellen, whatever), natch Shmoebe, Shmashley 2 and I decided the only thing to do was to get Courtney Shmammered. Being that we were all infantile individuals we had to have an older friend buy us booze, and soon we were hauling a box FULL of the most cheap liquor that $37 could buy (not surprisingly it was all in plastic bottles, yikes) up the back stairs of our dormitory building.
*Theme music and opening credits play*
We often threw parties in our dorm room, being that we lived in the swankiest (did I just say that?) dorm on campus. It had it’s own kitchenette, a large shared living room, and TWO bathrooms! None of that shared bullshit down the hall, we were living in luxury out in West Campus.
As 19-year-olds we clearly had livers of steel because I remember drinking upwards of 10 shots of straight vodka that night. Shmoebe was mixing her TAAKA with some off brand Sunny Delight which resulted in her boycotting Orange Juice for a good 5 months after this night.
I don’t even remember playing games or really even talking besides a lot of “Fuck bitches!” and cheersing. Anytime Courtney’s shot glass was empty we replenished it. She held her own back then and was pounding back that alcohol like a champ and soon I think she had forgotten who Shmellen was (not really, she’s a lesbian, she was creeping that girl’s social media profiles between every swig of liquid).
On a different note — for this Valentine’s Day I had gotten a friend of my girlfriend (Shmashley #1) to buy her some chocolates and roses and deliver them to her dorm room for me 1600 miles away. That won me some serious awesome girlfriend points and got me off the hook for all the crap I was about to pull that night (not really, I’m a fucking horrible person and this first relationship was just one fuck-up after another if we are being totally honest). Not that it makes anything better but the shittyness was mutual between us in this first relationship. I think we both really just mistook our near hatred of one another for love because we were so damn young and stupid. Maybe that will make your judgment less for what I’m about to tell you? No? Ah well, I tried.
Once Shmoebe had broken out her mandolin I knew that we were all trashed. She started serenading us with some mellow song by Bon Iver I think and it was one of the moments you find yourself reflecting on years later. I’m not trying to be sappy here but Shmoebe and her mandolin really were the soundtrack to some of my greatest college nights — which is ironic considering how serene and calm mandolin playing is and how much of a shit show everything I do is. She retired to her bedroom but we could still hear her singing through the walls.
Courtney swayed like bambi on ice after 12 shots of vodka (that’s a lot for a baby deer) and made it to her side of our dorm room. This left me and Shmashley #2 in the living room, very alone, very drunk, and very much wanting to touch each other all over. I should probably have been watching over Courtney, I know this now. And I would really know it when I got to our room and saw projectile vomit EVERYWHERE. Literally everywhere. Desk chairs, closet doors, pillows, all over Courtney — yeah, I suck. But I cleaned that shit, so.
Lesbian sex is complicated because the definition of lesbian sex varies from person to person. I’ve always said you just know when it’s sex. You just know. Cause sometimes what you’d consider to be a mere hookup or fooling around with someone contains the same actions as the most intimate encounter with the next person. There isn’t a rule book for lesbian sex. No you don’t need to go down on a girl for it to count. No you don’t have to use toys. No you don’t have to both climax (because if that was the case let’s be real, a lot of the heteronormative sex happening out there in the world wouldn’t count). No you DON’T HAVE TO SCISSOR (then lesbians could never have sex in pubic and that would just be cruel and unusual punishment for all the queer ladies out there). So please for the love of god, stop making that stupid scissoring hand motion at lesbians when you ask them how sex works. That’s not even the best scissoring position, watch some porn and educate yourself! **don’t get me wrong, you can scissor and it can be great, but it’s usually not. I am not flexible. A lot of people are not flexible. Legs are everywhere. It gets messy.**
I digress… So I’m not exactly sure what happened between Shmashley #2 and I that night. I don’t really count is as the first time we had sex (SPOILER ALERT), but I don’t really know what the first time would be if that wasn’t it. We were on the couch, it was successful, Happy Valentine’s Day to me.
*Next Time on Nobody Scissors: It’s not lying if you tell some of the truth… right?*