Attack of the underage lesbians

My first full day back in town was met with a street fair under my balcony.

It made me so happy. The snow cone machine. The pay-per-use bounce house. The preteen singing contest. All of it. I felt vindicated. All of that suffering in my last apartment was gone with one horrible flat note of Ke$ha’s “Tik Tok” as interpreted by Maria Cristina Bermudez, age 13.

I stood on my balcony for a good twenty minutes, just taking it all in. My heart smiling, my shoulders rolling subtly to Hannah Rodriguez’s, age 12, interpretation of Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me.” Until my partner says, “Are those two girls?”

My eyes immediately began searching the street for “two girls”. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but the urgency in her voice and my assumption that there was some girls gone wild action happening under my nose made me want to find them. So like the bad Terminator robot, I scanned and scanned until I came across – gasp – two girls kissing.

No. This wasn’t the first time I had seen two girls kissing. This was the first time I had seen two girls that young kissing. Their combined age would have still made them younger than me. But they didn’t stop there. No. There was some boob grabbing and hand holding and more kissing and walking while kissing. All the while, not one person, not one adult or teen or child looked twice, said a word or took a picture. It was as if they were in a protective bubble. Nothing could hurt them, no one could see them. Except us.

I have never been one for public displays of affection. Well. Unless I feel safe, drunk or both. The most I’ve done is hold hands with a girl down a gay-designated street. But kissing? Groping? No. No way.

And, as I was having this deep philosophical discussion with my partner about these young girls and their dangerous endeavor, she does it again. “Are those two girls?”

By the end of the night we spotted three under aged same-sex couples. Three. Six young women. Not afraid to express their feelings in public. Enjoying the company of their date among all of the other preteens and teens doing exactly the same thing. Making out under a tree. Holding hands by the fountain. Walking around the closed-off street with one hand in their date’s back pocket.

Not your unmarried aunt's snow cone.

After dinner, we walked downstairs for a snow cone. I treated, of course. I bought two Fresh Strawberry  flavored snow cones. It was their last sale of the night. The street was clearing out by this time. Just a few kids waiting to be picked up and a few more being rambunctious on the corner of Johnny Rocket’s. We came to a bench and sat for a moment. Spoke about adult things. Well, I should say she spoke of adult things and I pretended to listen, while I was really thinking about the attack of the underage lesbians.

Had TV really changed the world while I was sleeping? Was it South of Nowhere, The L Word, Ellen – gulp – LindsayLohan? Am I now considered one of those “old” lesbians I used to see at the clubs? Those crazy closet cases still living with their parents because they were too scared to come out? The old divide was in or out, but clearly, now I see the new divide is PDA or non-PDA.

All of a sudden my 30 plus age feels like a huge burden. And completely clashes with my plaid Converse high-tops. So, I made an executive decision. I was going to join the PDA team.

Feeling brave and full of purpose, I leaned in for a quick one as soon as she paused for a breath between sentences.

Only my face was met with the half chewed mashed up ice of her snow cone.

Fine. I guess we’ll act our age, then.

Published by Mari

I was born with a widow's peak and a thick accent. I majored in English as a second language. I work ( and travel ( and sometimes do both.

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