Elena Azzoni - A year straight: confessions of a boy-crazy lesbian beauty queen

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Table of Contents

Dedication

For Inanna

And for every single woman attracted to men, may the force be with you.

CHAPTER ONE

The Adjustment

The ladies locker room was abuzz with women racing to change, so they could place their mats up front near Him, The Yoga Teacher. The faint guttural chants of kirtan rock star Krishna Das played on repeat over the hum of hair dryers in an effort to calm our New York nerves. But there was no sign of Zen around there. There was, rather, a subtle current of competition. I snuck peeks at the other women as they pranced around in lacy thongs, sifting frantically through their lockers for yoga pants, lotion, and hair ties. With my long hair and lipstick, I fell under the gaydar and was free to gaze. It had been years since Id been concerned with impressing a man, so as the other women primped and groomed, I rolled my eyes, relieved to have no interest whatsoever in competing in that particular pageant.

ONE MONTH EARLIER...

Lets have a big round of applause for all of our contestants!

The spotlight is blinding, and a bead of sweat makes its way down my temple in agonizing slow motion, dissolving into my red-sequined evening gown. Standing ovation from a sold-out audience, more than three hundred in attendance. The Luna Lounge is over max capacity. The fire department told us so. Following four hours of grueling competition and eight laborious costume changes, its time to determine the winner. Weve performed our various talents, including a tranny boi band, my eighties retro jazz dance, and someone giving birth to a doll. Likewise, weve endured the ever-dreaded swimsuit competition and the nerve-racking interview segment, in which at least one contestant routinely flops. Backstage is littered with wigs, glitter, and silicone accoutrements of varying colors, lengths, and girths. It looks like a tornado passed through a sex toy shop.

And the winner is...

Murray Hill places the sash over my shoulder and the tiara on my head. A fellow contestant hugs me, nearly knocking it off. Ive won! Ive won the crown! Journalists paw at me as my picture is snapped alongside the panel of celebrity judges. I smile and wave at the sea of screaming women. I am the new Miss Lez.

Id resisted the pageant at first. After posing as a Baywatch babe in the premier issue of the lesbian calendar I Heart Brooklyn Girls, my friends encouraged me to go for the crown.

You can represent the calendar!

My shy side battled my inner Carmen Electra. Ever since I could kick-ball-change, Id been dancing in recitals, performing in plays, and mocking myself in my own comedic routines. I was no stranger to the stage, but I was ready to retire, done with the sleepless nights leading up to shows, where Id bolt upright in a panic, wondering, How did I get myself into this? But I eat up the spotlight like a plate of baked ziti. I consoled myself, assuming the pageant would entail one week of performance anxiety followed by one humiliating night under bright lights, and then itd be done. But I won.

The following weeks were a flurry of phone calls and emails initiating me into my new celesbian status. There were magazine and news interviews, photo requests, a stint on TV, and invites to elite social gatherings. At the climax of my success, I found myself in L.A., seated across from big-time producers, a finalist for a role on a grueling hit reality show. It was determined that I am not cut out for reality TV, which is probably for the best, for I am a homicidal (self-diagnosed) hypoglycemic. And there is no food on that show.

My limelight gradually faded to a low dim, and my life went back to normal. Id go to work, hatch up new escape plans from my cubicle (I should go to cosmetology school!), head out to a lesbian bar, and attempt to return home early enough to pretend Id get up for yoga the next day.

ON ONE QUITE ordinary evening, I took my time weaving through the crooked streets of the West Village on my way to meet up with friends. The layout of that neighborhood is drastically different from the rest of Manhattan, having come to life long before the grid. I got lost as usual. The cobblestone streets all started looking the same, and I was sure I was going in circles. After rounding several more corners, the pink glow of The Cubbyhole was my lighthouse in the fog. The windows perspired with body heat and the promise of a late-night make-out. The familiar scent of stale beer and cigarettes wafted over me as I squeezed past the butch bouncer smoking by the door.

Good evening. Can I see your ID?

I love being carded.

An eclectic mess of Christmas tree lights, paper lanterns, and leis, the ceiling of The Cubbyhole feels like its caving in. The walls are plastered with Dolly Parton posters, and the jukebox caters to fans of both Rihanna and k. d. lang. I heard my name called from across the bar, waved to my crew camped out in the corner, and mimed drinking from a glass. As I strained to make eye contact with the bartender, someone recognized me from the pageant.

Miss Lez! She threw her arm around me and held up her phone to snap a shot of us together. She smelled good, as women usually do, like perfume and fruity shampoo. And then she planted a kiss on me. Click. I knew the picture would likely end up on the Internet somewhere, and I hoped my recent ex wouldnt come across it. It had been a few months since wed split, and we were on amicable terms, so I didnt want her to think Id simply found someone new. My claim of needing time for myself was true. Blue Moon in hand, I stealthily made my way over to my friends, dodging the already tipsy patrons. As the name implies, The Cubbyhole is cozy (or cramped, depending on my mood). Many a drink had been spilled on me there.

So, which awe-inspiring, life-altering party is it gonna be tonight? my friend TJ asked sarcastically. Shed just broken up with her psychology grad student girlfriend, claiming she felt like a patient. Id argued that TJ could use a shrink. There were two lesbian parties scheduled for the same night. Taking into account recent breakups and new crushes, my friends weighed the options, casting their votes all at once:

I refuse to go to Snapshot. Tami will be there flaunting her new twenty-two-year-old girlfriend.

What about that new one in Brooklyn?

No way! Becca and Lisa are promoting it, and they didnt invite me to Fire Island this year.

But Lola is bartending, and she has a crush me. You know what that means?

Free drinks!

Even a city as big as New York gets really small when youre gay. Brooklyn won, as the less costly of the two boroughs, and everyone thought the British DJ was cute.

Move it, dumbass. TJ got up and stepped over me. The bar was crowded for a Tuesday, and she liked to use the bathroom before it got busy with people getting busy in it. I knew her every move, as wed been friends for what seemed like forever. Wed met in college, where Id fallen in love with her gruff voice, and then her. Dating was not our calling, as we fought like two male betta fish tossed into a tiny tank, but wed remained friends through the years, all the while driving each other nuts. She, the Ernie to my Bert, was full of harebrained ideas, always hungover, never on time, and a loyal, steadfast friend.

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