Maya* is a good friend of mine from southern California. She's a tiny, tiny, tiny girl with closely cropped, chocolate-colored hair, large honey-colored eyes, tanned olive skin and a witty sense of humor dryer than the Sahara desert.
Layla* is her girlfriend and she's a tall, lanky, mystical-looking creature with a pierced septum, alabaster white glowing skin, turquoise eyes and a fierce talent for twisting cherry stems into complex knots with her tongue.
Maya and Layla are super in love. Maya and Layla first fell in love in West Hollywood, exactly three years ago during LA Pride. Maya was wasted from a long day of beer and cheap tequila shots, when she decided she needed a cigarette break, just a little moment alone to catch her breath and channel her sober self.
Maya clumsily snuck out the back of the gay bar so I couldn't discourage her from having a precious ciggy (she had recently quit). Maya pulled a crumbly emergency cigarette out of her backpack when she suddenly realized she didn't have a lighter. "Shit," Maya said aloud, her whiskey voice flattened from fatigue and liquor.
"You need a light?" a high-pitched voice squeaked in the background. Maya's eyes darted from left to right as she tried to find out where the hell this god awful voice was coming from. Suddenly she caught the sight of her: an acid-bleached blonde girl with long legs strode up to her, prancing like a wild gazelle and flicked a light in front of her eyes.
Maya watched the flame flicker in the polluted LA air for a slender minute, not sure if this beautiful, bizarre creature standing in front of her with a cheap plastic drugstore lighter was even real. "Maybe a day of booze and sun is starting to make me see mirages," she silently wondered.
"What, is my light not good enough?" this mysterious creature cackled, twisting her pointy hips and getting ready to strut away from Maya.
"No... it's great," Maya answered, suddenly nervous and jarringly sober.
"I'm Layla," she said, sticking her bony hand out. Maya's hand grazed Layla's hand and her entire body was suddenly wildly turned on. Their eyes met. Layla had wicked, pressing eyes, the kind that cut right into your soul. Maya had warm, gentle eyes, the kind that are set off by luxurious long lashes, the kind that make your heart melt and your guard drop.
The juxtaposition of bold intensity and authentic sweetness created a powerful energy between the two of them. The next thing Maya knew, Layla had pressed her up against the back of the club and they were making out like they were going to the electric chair, both with lit cigarettes still dangerously flickering between their fingertips.
Layla and Maya now live together in a little bungalow in Silverlake. They're fiercely in love and from what I hear, still have a pretty impressive sex life. And it all happened at good 'ol LA Pride.
And this story is a story I've seen and heard only about a few trillion times in my 30 years existing on this superfine planet. After all, Pride is the ultimate time for one to find lust and love. There is an energy at Pride that's so blazingly positive, it peels away your protective layer and opens up your sex and love receptors.
Think I'm totally nuts? Think about it like this: when we're stuck at a shitty job, everything looks so goddamn ugly, right? We look to our co-worker to the left and think about how hideous and dismal they look beneath the harsh florescent light. If we saw the same exact entity at Pride with the glimmering, glittery filter of booze and freedom of expression, they would probably appear beautiful.
So what's reality, Pride or work? Neither, darling. Both leave you in heightened states of extreme emotion, but one (Pride) leaves you blissfully happy and the other leaves you reeling and bored (job). Now let's break this down, what is a better state of mind to find love and sex? When you're blissful, baby. When you're happy, you're sexy.
And guess what? NYC PRIDE STARTS TOMORROW. So now is your chance to seal the deal.
Just inhabiting the glorious NYC Pride energy makes you far more ripe for the sex and love plucking, than usual. So here is how you seal the deal, kittens:
1. Talk to everyone.
The beautiful thing about Pride is that everyone is feeling super-duper friendly, even in New York City, the native home to the closed-off bitch.
And the beauty is, almost everyone else is gay (as in sexuality, not just as in "happy") too. All the gay energy leaves us turned on and it's refreshing. Who doesn't want to get down and dirty after a passionate party that's specifically celebrating your sexuality? I don't want to know!
Maybe an asexual, but I'm not trying to get you laid by an asexual... today.
2. Step up your style game.
Look, I get it. It's hotter than the fiery pits of hell outside.
You want to throw on that old, ripped-up tank and distressed short-shorts and call it a day. Which is t-o-t-a-l-l-y fine sweets, but make sure those old, ripped-up tanks and short-shorts are sexay.
Remember: it's not a daytime field trip at the Bronx Zoo. Lesbians, lay off the Bermuda shorts and Birkenstocks. You're going to Pride in Manhattan! There are going to be a sea of gorgeous women all looking to cuff with you. Make a little bit of an effort. You don't have to strut around in sky-high heels (more on that later) but make sure that your summer attire is flattering, cool and a little on the sexy side.
Before you leave the house, take a long, hard look into the bathroom mirror and ask yourself the question only us gays are blessed enough to ask ourselves: "Would I have sex with me?"
3. Don't wear heels.
I've done this before. I might even screw it up again this year at Pride, because I'm the kind of girl who just doesn't ever learn her lesson. Every year I'm like: "Oh, platforms aren't heels. I'll just wear platforms." I wear the platforms because I want to be sexy and leggy and my plan always backfires.
Cut to 10 pm and I'm drunk and stumbling around Chelsea, looking extremely unsexy. One year I even fell off my platforms and scraped the hell out of my knees. No one gets laid with scraped knees. The scraped knees should come the morning after the one night stand (from oral, duh), not before the one night stand. Sex scars are good, drunk scars are bad.
4. Have fun, but don't get blackout drunk.
I've also made this mistake a few times and let me assure you, I neither found love nor did I get laid during those dark, blacked-out years. There is nothing sexy about a blacked-out person.
The only way you will possibly get laid will be if you a) find a sexual predator who gets off on blacked-out lesbians or b) if you find someone else who is equally blacked-out. Neither of which are ideal situations.
5. Wear sunscreen.
You just can't find love when you're sunburned. Love is all about soft, dewy skin -- not flaky, burnt, irritated skin. Plus have you ever tried to have sex with a sunburn? It's painful (and not sexy bondage and S&M painful).
6. Don't just sit around with your friends and throw everyone shade because you're feeling insecure.
Seriously. Don't just sit around and talk shit and blow cigarette smoke at everyone and give the girls bitchy looks because it's all too much for you to handle. That's another form of you running away from good, positive things.
I get it. Love and sex are scary because they're vulnerable and risk the pain of heartache, but girl, it's time you stepped up to the plate. You deserve sex and love, regardless of your sordid past or shattered heart or padded, proverbial walls. And the only way to get it is throw yourself out there.
Do it babe. I believe in you. Don't give her a mean look. Talk to her. Make out with her. Go home with her. Fall in love with her.
*Names have been changed.