What’s shakin’, slit-lickers?
A few weeks ago, I invented something.
No big surprise.
I mean I was the seventh-place winner at Meadowbrook Elementary’s Invention Convention, with my prize-winning, runaway 2nd-grade hit “The Log Carrier“, which was essentially a gaily painted canvas bag that could hold up to five fireplace logs at a time.
At a time, folks.
Inventions clearly run in my blood.
My newest invention was an amazing invention, though.
Simple, yet necessary. Delightfully obvious, yet an utterly original idea.
It had practical applications. It would be cheap to manufacture. And it would sell like crazy.
I would make millions and never have to work an office job again and could spend every waking second researching and writing about teh queers.
What was this magical invention, you ask?
I’ll tell you, since you asked so nicely.
A Hickey Stencil.
A hickey stencil.
A little piece of plastic or metal with a design cut into it so you could mark your partner up – not with a disfiguring, misshapen, unplanned blob of a hickey, but with a cute picture!
A cute picture…made out of broken capillaries!
Sophistication and aristocratic tastes are difficult to pin down exactly, but you know when you see ’em.
I got the idea from this:
which is a little leather paddle that, if you smack your bed-friend hard enough, leaves an imprint of the design on their ass.
I was playing with one at Early to Bed in Chicago, joking to CJ that it would be way cooler if it had my name written on it in cursive.
She laughed, secure in the knowledge that a custom paddle like that would be safely out of my price range.
AND THEN IT HIT ME:
What if you could mark your girlfriend up in a timeless way with a stylish new twist?
What if you could somehow harness your god-given, free, mouth-suction-powers to leave your calling card all over your partner’s body?
What mo wouldn’t want an elegant, refined design hickey-ed into her neck?
Who wouldn’t want a bloody, empurpled rosette of seeping blood vessels blooming across the smooth skin of her lover’s decolletage – say, in the shape of a heart, or one’s initials?
Bitches would line up for that shit.
Hahaha riches! Fame! They would all be mine!!
You know, CJ is a really good sport.
On Sunday morning, I sprang out of bed.
I grabbed the scissors from the junk drawer in the kitchen and hunted down a piece of cardboard.
Painstakingly, I cut my initials into the cardboard.
Ooh it looked beautiful.
Gently, lovingly, I placed the World’s First Hickey Stencil below CJ’s naked collarbone.
One day, she would remember this as the day we made history together.
I leaned over her, took a deep breath, put my mouth over the stencil, pressed it down firmly and began sucking.
CJ woke up immediately.
CJ: Wha?? What are you – WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU???
Me: The hickey stencil! Hold still! I think it’s working!
Once I had recovered from having my hands locked in a vice grip and we had had a nice lil’ chat about active and enthusiastic consent, CJ sensibly agreed to be my hickey stencil guinea pig.
I looked at my work on her collarbone.
It was just a hickey – you couldn’t see the initials at all.
Maybe more intense, focused sucking?
That just made a darker, misshapen hickey.
Over the next half hour, we tried a sheet of plastic with a heart cut in it, a piece of tagboard with a star cut out, a slotted metal spatula, and about twenty other things, and you know what?
My invention didn’t work.
CJ looked like a leopard waking up after prom night.
After thinking very hard, we realized that there’s no way to control the random breaking of tiny capillaries under the skin without truly intense pressure. The human mouth, while strong and versatile (heh), is simply not capable of producing the kind of suction power needed to form a focused design.
There’s also no way to prevent the broken capillaries from leaking blood into the area surrounding the “picture.”
Well, it’s too bad for cultured and fashion-forward daters everywhere.
Science, folks. You can’t beat science.
And speaking of science, do y’allfags think there could be a scientific explanation for this?:
What you are looking at is a phenomenon.
A phenomenon that I was going to ignore, but you know what?
I can no longer remain silent.
I have literally thousands of (awesome, inspiring, gorgeous) photographs of you queermosexuals in my inbox at firstname.lastname@example.org. You’re sending them in by the droves.
They make me so happy.
But there’s a common theme among the photos, and…well, do we need to have a little talk about this, gheys?
I mean, at first I thought: Ha, funny. Dykes keep sending me mustache photos!
and left it at that.
I mean, why not?
Mustaches took the hipster world by storm a few years back, and ever since, mustaches have been the token symbol of ironic fun.
Just a wedding?
No! It’s a Mustache Wedding!
Just some drinking glasses?
No! The drinking glasses give you a mustache!
And in the epic, eternal, raging gaydar battle of our lives known as Lesbian or Hipster or Both? …mustaches have not helped us one bit.
Everyone likes ’em. They’re funny. They add pizzazz.
But dykes like mustaches…a little more than most folks.
Now, homos, we are talking obviously fake mustaches.
Not mustaches for serious drag and not the natural, real mustaches that some women can grow and I am very jealous of.
Fake, stick-on or drawn-on facial hair done ironically or as a joke.
Of the thousands upon thousands of pictures that are currently causing my laptop’s data storage to creak and gasp and shudder violently when I try to turn the power key on, I would venture a casual estimate that a solid 1/3 of all pictures sent to me contain a mustache somewhere.
I could literally post
And still not even make a dent in my mustache-photo stockpile.
I think it must be because we, as a people, adore the instant funny genderbending of a supremely male marker.
The same way that boys have, for millenia, put balloons up their shirt and then rubbed them lasciviously at their friends.
Man, what a sure-fire 8th grade crowd-pleaser.
Look, you’re a boy…but you have balloon titties! You’re a girl now hahahaha omg!!
We dykes love fake mustaches kind of in the same way, I think.
Slap that mustache on! Now you’ve got a disguise and you’re ironic and you’re appropriating male gender markers and you have a new facebook profile picture, all in one!
Lookit me, the mustache whispers. Try me on. Want a little taste of something a bit…forbidden?
And for us queers, the mustache has a few more layers than it does for straight girls.
So it’s way funnier.
‘Cause lots and lots of us gayelles flirt and more-than-flirt with stereotypically male-identified markers: clothing, haircuts, occupations.
Plenty of straight girls do, too, obvs, but way more queerettes have their fingers in the pie (yes) of genderbending on a regular basis.
So the mustache is:
Ironic for hipster girls across the board, and…
SUPER IRONIC – layer upon layer of irony – for queer women! OMG the level of irony is causing us to implode!!
There’s no air! There’s no air in the room!
Ok, just breathe. It’s alright. I’m here.
It might also just be that we’re already, um, quite accustomed to the feeling of tickly hair right beneath our nose.
Alright, you know what I’m saying?
Who has a fucking awesome mustache picture they want to show the internet-world?
‘Cause I have a (hand-printed by CJ) Effing Dykes t-shirt for the best one!
Here’s how you play:
Send me one mustache pic. Yo’ BEST mustache pic.
No more than three people in the picture, mmkay, lemondrop?
Send it to email@example.com by Sunday, March 4th.
I’ll enlist a judging panel of dykes and post the favorites on a separate “All Mustaches Spectacular!” post on the sidebar of this mess, and then we can vote together for our favorite!!
Queermogayelles! Mustaches! Community!
It’s all coming together, no?
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Krista Burton is brand-new to Chicago. An ex-Mormon from Minneapolis, she writes a blog called Effing Dykes (www.effingdykes.blogspot.com), which is about activating your lesbian gaydar. She spends most of her time staring longingly at enormous dogs, riding her shiny orange scooter around town, and trying to bake gluten-free cake that doesn’t taste like gluten-free cake. She’s a staff writer at Groupon, and loves girls, inappropriate footwear, and hip-hop songs with filthy lyrics.