Conversation with a friend that is getting married in September:
Me: Congratulations! Let me know if you will need help with anything for the ceremony. I can give you a hand. By the way, I will be finally wearing a tux for a wedding!
Yesterday I was a woman in a mission. The objective was to find a dress, a DRESS (!!) for an upscale black-tie wedding this Saturday in Donald’s Trump hotel. F*ck.
As trying out the dress inside Macy’s fitting room, a sudden feeling invaded my soul. The feeling, I can describe, was like I was betraying myself and insulting who I was. Amazing.
I’m a 29 years old lesbian and I was never a butch and, until yesterday, I was comfortable being a femme and giving the good news to all the guys that hit on me. It is always crazy fun seeing their faces after the “Dude, I’m gay” act I love to perform every now and them.
So yesterday I received this invitation for a gala wedding next month. Very rich, successful, middle age people, getting married for the second time (they never learn anything) at Donald Trump’s hotel. Even though I couldn’t care less about those heterosexual privileges, this one triggered something I cannot yet define. So wrong, but so intriguing.
And then my mom called me: “Hello darling, did you get the invitation? We need to start looking for a dress.”
The last time I wore a dress I was probably 12. But I kept on listening: “It’s a black-tie wedding, honey.”
The wonder woman
