Bring Me Some Water

I don’t know if you’ve noticed among people on Twitter (hell, I don’t even know if you’re on Twitter and in a position to notice), but there are those who use their little profile space to get very specific about their sexual orientation and/or gender identity. Rarely do you see something that just says plain, old lesbian.  Well, unless she’s got a rather non-descript appearance and is wandering through her twilight years, I guess …

What I mean, though, is that you don’t see many people who just identify as a lesbian or a gay man. You know, there was a time when being a single sexual-orientation had quite the cachet. We protested the injustices, we took to the streets, we paved the way toward tolerance and acceptance. And when I say “we,” of course, I mean a bunch of other people with cultural awareness and a sense of right and wrong that extended beyond their own wants and needs.

I, on the other hand, took it upon myself to visit as many bars and clubs catering to the non-heteronormative community as I could fit into my busy drinking schedule. Of course, my associates and I would always make sure to be at a divey little bar called The Que Sera on nights when “that girl” was singing because she was so damn good. “That girl” was Melissa Etheridge in the period just before her first album was released.

I bring that up so I can bring this up: If you listen to lesbians in their fifties or sixties who also frequented The Que to hear “that girl,” you’re bound to hear someone tell the tale of how during a set Melissa performed “Bring Me Some Water” and the tale-teller grabbed a glass of icy H2O from the barkeep and delivered it to Miss Etheridge on the tiny stage. Their fingers touched, their eyes met and there was magic in the air.

The truth is, that never happened. If as many women delivered as many refreshing beverages to the parched singer as have claimed, poor Melissa would have succumbed to Hyponatremia before she ever made it out of The Que and into the hearts of American music lovers.

But, I digress. While I was busy being on the sidelines of the folklore that is quenching the thirst of Melissa Etheridge, other people were doing things that make it possible today for people to be so publically detailed about their gender and orientation.

Today the Twitter suggested I follow someone who identifies as “Trans (She/Her), Pansexual, Sex-Positive/Intersectional.” I don’t even know what Sex-Positive/Intersectional is. Taken out of context, I would have guessed it’s a multi-part sofa that will accommodate you and your partner if you decide to bang one out during the commercial break.

While the lesbian tag still applies to me in general, a lot has changed since the late 1980s when I was rocking my Z. Cavariccis and hightops and watching no one fall all over themselves to deliver cool, liquid refreshment to a burgeoning LGBTQ icon. I was all about the girls back then, fascinated by and obsessed with women, and falling in love with anyone who’d look at me twice.

Today, not so much. I mean, if I were filling out a survey that asked who I’m attracted to, I’d still check the box next to “women.” But, it’s been thirty years since my giddy, girly, glory days at The Que, and I’m tired. I don’t have the energy to be chasing after anyone who might strike my fancy.

And speaking of my “fancy,” I doubt I’ve got two viable hormones to rub together in the dried-up, dusty organs that used to be my reproductive system. So, if you’re wondering if I miss a good round of hot, sweaty, monkey sex, the answer is “no.” Because when you’re a woman of a certain age, just about anything can trigger hot, monkey sweat — eating, drying your hair, sleeping, walking, sitting down, standing up, typing a blog post, the list goes on and on.

You know what I miss? I miss not sweating. I don’t dream about women who make me feel all flushed, bat my eyelashes and exclaim, “Oh my, I think I’ve got the vapors!” I dream of a woman who walks into the room and the moment I see her, all my sweat glands just pucker up and die. I’d walk right up to her and say, “My underboobs are finally dry. Will you marry me?”

So, I’ve been trying to come up with something that incorporates all of this into an identifier for my Twitter profile. I think what I’m going to go with is Damp, Tired, Hormone-Free Lesbian/Sex-Disinterested (she/her … whatever, just bring me some water, can’t you see I’m burning alive?!).

5 Comments

  1. who knew twittering was fraught with such danger?
    i wonder if my essentially dead account has been hacked and is being used by a russian bot farm to undermine this ridiculous thing “we” like to call democracy, but it actually isn’t. who has millions of dollars or pounds ou euros to become the next prez or PM of wherever? capitalists… certainly not “us”!
    then i get bored… and go help young peeps pass the english questions on their brazilian SAT equivalent. i pet my lovely boston terrier, and marvel at my daughter’s artistic talent sigh

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    1. Rest easy … If your dead account has been hacked, it is most likely being used to send unsolicited DMs to women that open with lines like “Hello Dear,” “Hi Pretty,” and “May I know of your location I am docter of high quality loking for love with betiful please to make you conection.” Maybe when I do a post on the joys of the Unsolicected DM, you’ll recognize your hacked account!

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