My Girlfriend Got Up and Left Me Where I Lay

Short Relationship begins PRIDE weekend

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One day I woke up and she was gone. She had packed what she had at my apartment while I lay sleeping. I'm a heavy sleeper, and I tend to sprawl out. I just like a lot of space. She left sometime after an evening of intense sex. She likes to be in bed by ten on school nights. I even thought things were going o.k., while bringing her to orgasm. I found the note by an egg and ham croissant and a Mc'D's coffee. I do not like ham. Croissants do not make my shopping list. I shop like a champion. I get in. I get out. Not Her.

"Why can't you take your time? Maybe go down some new aisles for a change."

We met thirteen months ago at a "Big Bash Pride Party" in the gay district after 'Pridefest'. It was a long, hot summer. The parade was packed with all sorts. One girl scout troop carried a banner that said, "We Support All Girl Scouts". The 'All' underlined with the six colored rainbow, ROYGYP, we all recognize. The best float had to be the Episcopal Church, from 83rd street, which distributed 'Rainbow Pride Stickers' and 'Jesus Loves You' bookmarks in the same hand.

There she was on the dance floor strutting her stuff. I know... 'The Girl on the Dance Floor' cliche. The mood was techno sounds mixed with sweaty good vibes. The boys were dressed down by this point. Hey, cut us some slack. 'Pride' only comes once a year per locality. Unless you're in Seattle, Miami, LA, NY or San Francisco, I guess. The boys would close the nightclub down. As far as I knew it was owned by a lesbian or gay, but then again what club isn't. I was not closing the club down. Not me. I had hung with my group of lesbian friends most of the day. I figured after an hour here I was through socializing for the evening. I figured I could sneak out by saying goodbye to one dyke in our group who had been sipping beer alongside me at the bar, while we casually looked at the girls on the dance floor.

"I'm out"

"Yeah, o.k."

"Let them know."

"Yeah, o.k."

Confident that my message might get to my friends I headed towards the exit. My path was thwarted left then right, all sides congested with bodies of movement. It reminded me of the video game "Pole Position". I was thinking that this squeezing through the vibracious bodies was the most action I had seen in six months. Then I spotted her titillating mass bouncing, jabbing, head shaking...o.k. the jabbing and head shaking were odd, but everyone's got their own style, right? I remember my mom's advice, "Don't be so picky." I am picky though. I like to think it is because I know what I like. I don't want a stereotypical lesbian romance that I end up living with a girl I just met simply because we went home together. I mean the boys seem to find someone special to make a life with. We seem to practice serial monogamy with the first girls who say yes when we are looking. Not that there is anything wrong with this if it floats your boat. I don't want to be the stereotypical butch either. I mean I like my hair short, and men's clothing. I look good in a tuxedo. I even have a collection of awesome ties I wear. I don't shy away from burping loud and long. And I've always wanted a pickup. O.k., so some stereotypes fit some of us dykes. I've known some fems who owned pickups too though.

I almost made it to the door. She sauntered over and grabbed my hand dragging me to her space on the dance floor.

"Shake it yes, ooh baby."

O.k., she was in a good mood already. I glanced at my watch. Ten thirty. I tried to do the math in my head of when and how many drinks she may have consumed. This was important to me. I don't know why, but I really believe we should both be fairly conscious if this was to go anywhere tonight. I have also been the unfortunate recipient to hair holding over the porcelain god of non-not even close- girlfriends.

"Great song," I yelled trying to mirror her moves. I think I must have flailed like a fish for a bit. Somehow we ended up making out in my car, which is a typical no-no. Not because it is fancy or anything, but because I worry about what a girl might think. Grasping, kissing, clasping, tongue, heat, sweat, ouch these damn seat belts. She is smaller. I try to angle her into a more comfortable position. This is ridiculous. I need more room.

"Do you want to go to my place?"

"Sure, but I got to tell my friends. Hang on."

I'm watching her hands fumble with her phone. I doubt it has to do with her passion for me. I think of that math problem again. I guess how much she weighs. Maybe she will sober a little on the drive? The five minute drive. O.k., maybe I won't be getting any action, but it might be nice to have a warm body to cuddle with. O.k., maybe it is even preferable that we go to sleep. I didn't shower before meeting up at the club. Shit, did I shower last night? I bet the boys go to the bar assuming they will get laid. I don't think most lesbians, any type, would assume that. I bet the boys always shower. There is so much I could learn from them gay boys. What if she sobers up and does not like how I smell. Smells are really important to women...all women I guess.

"I want to go back in and get a drink. Let’s go get a drink," She says excitedly.

Oh, great we are not rolling anywhere after all. I think she sees my look of disappointment. I've been told by exes that I have an expressful face. I've learned this is not always a good thing with girlfriends.

"You have beer at your place?"

"Yes," I lie. Unlike the stereotypes of the wine or beer lesbian I do not feel the need to stock alcohol. I stock up on empty beer cans though. Because I recycle. Not wine bottles though...usually. She falls asleep right away, and I shower before getting along side her on my side of the bed. We ended up cuddling at some point in the night.

Last week we had a conversation that went something like this:

"You really should get out more," She says.

"No really, why don't you move in?" I ask.

"I just don't think you understand," She pauses, "what it means to be a modern lesbian."

"What does it mean?" I ask.

She crinkles her nose, and draws down her eyes, while sighing, "You just don't get it."

She brought up this 'argument' later that night when I asked her why she would not consider moving in.

The note said, "We get along, but I want more from my girlfriend."

Same here sister, same here.

By Alex Almeida

From: United States

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