Despite my intricate knowledge of the heterosexual lifestyle gained from hours watching the Real World, I generally consider boy/girl drama more annoying than compelling, kind of like Car Talk. It’s okay as white noise, but not really something that dilates my peepers. Sometimes boy/girl stories even make me doze off as though I’m in my safely re-upholstered favorite chair with my bare tootsies on the heating grate reading Infinite Jest—a book I loving referencing but the mere heft of which makes me feel like I deserve a nap—but really I’m listening to my friends talk about how dudes have no feelings. That shit’s got nothing on dyke drama. Proof? Listen to three or more gayelles brunch it up on Sunday morning, AKA compare notes.
And then I met Amy D.
Amy D. is seemingly one of my more adult friends. She owns a house, has two masters degrees, works during daylight, teaches yoga, and eats whole grains. All of these things contribute to the illusion of grown-up-ed-ness.
Amy—who, by the way, gave me permission to write this because she is moving to an unnamed East Asian country that may or may not rhyme with “Bambodia” in two days—is not strictly hetero, but, rather, a dirty bi-sexual. Amy’s dyke drama, however, is pretty much non-existent. She’s a good, old fashioned, domestic gayelle. But before her taco truck days, Amy had some serious shit under her mantle. Shit that makes my business look like microwave oatmeal, and I do drama like Chuck Bass does date rape. The following Amy D. story had my mouth open like Britney’s legs around a venti Frappucino….
Amy D. is an interesting mix of smart and Southern. Girl’s got a good head but she’s seriously into football. For instance, she sent me the email below last fall:
i plan to start drinkin today at 3:30. today is the special special day of the Iron Bowl, when the undefeated Crimson Tide (my boyz) go head to head in the annual grudge match with the lame-ass Auburn Tigers.
i will sit my ass on the barstool at 3:30 and not come out until Alabama has claimed supreme victory.
ROLL fuckin TIDE~
And, because no one else west of the tracks gives a fuck about the most homoerotic of homoerotic games, Amy has to venture out of Carrboro to catch a Roll fuckin Tide game. On one such afternoon several years ago, Amy D. was at some douche-bar when she made the acquaintance of a fellow Roll fuckin Tide fan. He was buying, she was drinking. This combination has only two possible outcomes: vomming in the bathroom or fucking through it.
In Amy’s case, celebrating the victory of the Roll fuckin Tide did not end in expelling the contents of her digestive tract in the bathroom sink and flooding the lady’s room at Spanky’s. No, Amy D.’s night ended in bed with Attractive Near-Stranger. After the spins and subsequent man/woman nonsense had concluded, the fornicators started to get to know each other. ANS told Amy a little bit about his life. He’s married, he says, but he and his wife have an understanding. It’s a little d-bagish, sure, but an understanding’s an understanding, right? The human animal is as slap happy as our distant cousins the bonnobos. That part’s fine.
ANS then tells Amy he was adopted. His bio mom was really young when she got preggo and he was adopted by a kindly family in California.
Many years after the baby-swap, when ANS was a consenting adult, he was seduced by an older women in Santa Barbara. She was a cougar, he was a pup, and they did the man/woman thing for three years. And then one day the cougar reveals to lil pup that she didn’t randomly approach him in that bar three years ago after all; she sought him out, even moved from TX to CA specifically to find him. Why? Because she was his MOTHER.
At this point in the story, friends and fags, let us pause a moment to let your esophagus un-seize and your brain settle back into its bone helmet.
Amy, being sane, does not continue a relationship with the King of Pillow Talk. He calls, but Amy knows the answer to crazy is silence.
Months go by. Momma’s Boy stops calling. Amy D. thinks she has escaped a potentially very creepy situation with little worse than a headache and overall feelings of ick. It’s a small town, yes, but it’s easy not to cross paths with people if you dye your hair blond and get some Olson glasses and a spray tan.
Then one day, Amy is eating falafel with her ex-bf outside Med Deli when a woman approaches her.
“Amy,” she says. “Amy D.?”
“Yes,” Amy responds, wondering if the women is her yoga class or maybe one of the nursing students who peeped her junk a couple years ago when she volunteered her reproductive system for higher education and 50 bones an hour.
“Amy D. who fucked my husband?”
Assuming that at some point in your rich life you have been either cheater, cheatee, or cheetah, you can imagine Amy’s throat-in-the-soles feeling. A pissed-off wife approaching you on the street is like a momma bear/baby bear/you sando. Scary shit, ya’ll.
Turns out that Mr. and Mrs. Attractive Near-Strange didn’t actually have an agreement, and, in fact, ANS Sr., had recently told his unsuspecting wife the 13 names of the 13 women he had opened their relationship and his asshole to. Female ANS then tracked every one of those other women down for a little lady dramz.
Amy apologized profusely, told the women she knew it was wrong, that she thought they were a swinging happy couple, had she known it never would have happened, etc. The ladies hugged it out and eventually both man and woman moved, he to Mexico, she to the Midwest.
And Amy? Amy learned not to trust anyone who fucked his mother.
True story, ya’ll.