Yeah, We’ve All Seen The L Word

lword

Once again we found ourselves at a super gay lady filled party. It was a glow-in-the-dark-white-shirt party. I don’t know, I’m sure that there was some clever name for this sort of shindig but it escapes me now. All I know is we all wore white tshirts and got broken glow sticks flung all over our bodies (are the chemicals in those things safe??) and there were a lot of black lights.

I started this party off with a bang, this cute semi-bro blonde girl came up to me, with a backwards snapback and a crooked smile. Next thing I know we were kissing and I wasn’t mad about it. Until her girlfriend came up and pushed me, then I was definitely mad about it.

“She kissed me! How the hell am I supposed to know she has a girlfriend?”
“You don’t know who I am?” The girl sassed back.
“Sure as shit do not.” I laughed and walked away like the cocky bastard that I am.

*Theme music and opening credits play.*

It was time to find some drinks, and by drinks I mean shots, and by shots I mean basically rubbing alcohol because we were poor and young. I downed my favorite TAAKA (not my fave) and found myself moving about the room enjoying this new pool of lesbians we were immersed in. This wasn’t a rugby specific party, there was some lacrosse girls, some flag footballers, and even some ultimate frisbee girls it was a healthy mix of athletic (or passably athletic in the case of the frisbee-ers) lady-gays who I hadn’t yet kissed via truth or dare or my own accord.

So naturally with all these new women to choose from I decide to hook up with another teammate of mine, because why wouldn’t I do that?

There was only one bathroom available for the partiers to use even though we were at one of the nicest apartment complexes available in West Campus. This place was pretty cool, it was a former church renovated into student housing, and it was notorious for lots of crazy parties. I was waiting in line to pee when my teammate came up behind me. Let’s call her… Shmary 2 because she has the same name as my first lady crush (you will come to find that there are quite a few repeated names in my misadventures, and it can get a little confusing. Moms in the 90s needed to get more creative with the baby names). Shmary 2 and I were pretty good friends, she was less boyish than me but a total bro, and super fucking athletic which is a win in my book for any friend. Additionally, Shmary 2 had earned the nickname Dyson during our Freshman year because she was notorious for leaving hickies on her victims.

“Why don’t we go in together, speed this line up?” Shmary 2 asked me as we got closer to the bathroom door.

Now I know what you’re thinking… two lesbians in a bathroom together? How on earth could that expedite things?? I’ve seen the L word.  

Well I’ve seen the L word too and you’re right. We got into that bathroom and though we had never so much as flirted before we were suddenly hooking up on the bathroom sink. From what I remember it was good, it was quick, not romantic, and to the fucking point (literally to the …fucking… point). Shmary 2 was strong and dominant, and we struggled some to see who would lead this scissor fest (just kidding, nobody scissors y’all), and I think I left that bathroom covered in quite a few hickies, some in places covered by my glow-paint stained clothing.

When we rejoined the party, we both played it cool as fucking cucumbers, but our friends were like those cats in those youtube videos that are scared as fuck of cucumbers because they could tell something had obviously gone down (spoiler alert, it was me). We probably smelled like sex, Shmary’s hair was definitely sex hair, and like I said, Dyson takes no prisoners.

Judging by the look in her eyes, Shmellen was about to question me when suddenly she was crying out in pain.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” She had stepped on a broken bottle and her foot was bleeding all over the floor. We quickly removed the glass and wrapped her foot in some paper towels, like expert drunk paramedics. Why was she not wearing shoes you ask? That’s a great question. Also why was there a broken bottle in the middle of this living room? Where were we, college??

Instead of calling it a night Shmellen looked at me and said, “You’ll have to carry me.” I was a little drunk and Shmellen was so dead-serious that I thought that this was the best idea ever. Imagine me, a 5’5″ 125 lb baby dyke, throwing Shmellen (5’9″, probably 20 lbs on me, with one bleeding foot) over my shoulder to go to the beer pong table, outside to smoke, or to get more high quality liquor in our bodies. This would turn out to be one of the most memorable nights I have from college, and to this day Shmellen talks fondly about how I pulled through like a champ by being her pack mule all night.

Give the ladies what they want, like I always say.

Next week on Nobody Scissors I have a thing for authority figures.

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