Armed with a newly minted fake California drivers' license, you walk with Puck to the door of the one lesbian bar in town. You're sick with nerves and regret, but you can't back out now, not with Puck in tow. Besides, you've told your mom that you're sleeping over at Quinn's. You have nowhere else to go.
Relax, babe, he soothes you, misinterpreting the source of your anxiety. Using a fake is easy. It's all about confidence. Besides, they're not going to turn away a hot little piece like you. That's just bad business.
At the door, a thick thirtyish woman in a black tank top takes your IDs, and as she studies them and you, you take in her buzz cut, the row of studs and gauges up the line of her ear like hole punches in a spiral notebook. This is a dyke. You're not a dyke. You don't know what you're doing here.
She hands back your respective IDs. You, she says to Puck, out.
That's bullshit, he spits.
You'd better get the hell out of here before I decide to hold on to that ID you handed me. She turns to you. You can go on in.
This is bullshit, Puck repeats, softer, and looks at you. Well, you might as well go in. If you don't get some ass, call me later and I'll pick you up. Good luck, Lopez. He slaps your ass and sticks his hands into his pockets. You look from his expectant face to the bouncer's.
Better go in before I take a closer look at your ID, she hints.
You swallow and, without looking back again, walk into the throbbing darkness.
This is your first time in a bar, much less a dyke bar. It smells like adults and guilt and regret, like old sweat and booze stains. Your eyes adjust to the low light, and you register the line of bar stools along the side wall; the tables with clusters of talking women; the small wooden dance floor with only two couples, neither of whom is really dancing: one is embracing, and the other is swaying.
Then you notice how many eyes are now on you.
You think of how you must look here, among the tanks and jeans, in your low-cut, skin-tight black and purple dress, the one that makes you feel like such hot stuff at school but here feels about as appropriate as a prom dress. All you want to do is run out the door, past the dyke bouncer, into Puck's arms; to have him drive you home to cocoon yourself in the pillows and blankets on your bed.
And think of Brittany.
Fuck that. Here you are. You reach into the side of your bra and pull out a warm, damp bill. Time for a drink.
Put that away, says a smoky voice beside you. A hand braces your shoulder. What do you want, honey?
You turn to the source of the voice: a tall slender woman, maybe in her mid twenties, with long red hair, skinny jeans and stiletto heels. Her lips have a perfect cupid's bow and are painted dark and matte, like an old time movie star's.
Vodka, you tell her.
Just vodka? Anything in it? She gives you a slow, careful look. How about a vodka tonic?
You don't know what that is, but you nod. With her hand still on your shoulder, she directs you toward the bar and leans over to shout at the violet-haired bartender.
Hey, two vodka tonics. The order placed, she turns back to you. So, what's your name, sweetie?
Santana.
That's pretty. I'm Kelly. She smiles. What brings you here all alone?
I came with my friend, but they didn't let him in.
Kelly laughs. Of course not, she says. Look around. They don't hang a sign on the door, but they might as well. You look closely at a few of the ambiguous figures in jeans and loose shirts, but she's right: they're all women.
The bartender slides your drinks over the bar, and Kelly slaps down a twenty. She picks up both drinks and hands yours to you, sweaty and fizzing.
To nuns and virgins—she taps the rim of her glass against yours—thanks for nothing. She grins and takes a long drag from the straw. You follow suit. The vodka burns a little, but you keep your face straight until after you swallow, when an unexpected bitter taste makes you clear your throat.
Someone hasn't had a vodka tonic before, notes Kelly with amusement. I don't even taste the quinine anymore. Well, at least you're safe from malaria. She smirks. You wonder what she's talking about. Still, after the first sip, you kind of like the bitterness.
Come on, come meet my friends. Upon pocketing her change, Kelly takes your free hand and leads you to a table with three other women: on the left, a pretty blonde who looks not much older than you; the other two Kelly's age or a little older, both with cropped hair. The one on the right has a rose tattoo covering her shoulder.
Hannah, Jess, Tammy—she introduces them from left to right—meet Santana.
New blood, notes Jess, with a grin halfway between maternal and predatory. Nice to meet you. The other two women echo her welcome; each shakes your hand. You maintain your tight smile and your silence—you haven't felt so new and overwhelmed and helpless since you were the new girl at school six years ago, and being mean won't help you now.
So, what's your story? asks Tammy. New in town? You look a little young to be at a bar.
Oh, shush, says Hannah, looking at you kindly and touching your arm. Let her enjoy her drink before the inquisition.
Fair enough. Tammy shrugs. Pivoting to Jess, she pick ups the thread of their previous conversation, while Hannah and Kelly turn to you.
They're together, in case you can't tell, says Kelly. Although it's pretty obvious. They're starting to look alike.
Asshole, says Jess, unruffled, overhearing the remark, and returns to Tammy.
Anyway, don't be worried about the age thing, continues Kelly. Hannah just turned twenty-one, but she's been coming here for a couple of years. They're not too picky about IDs, as you've noticed. I mean, it's a small town. Where else are the baby dykes going to go to learn the ropes? She looks you up and down. You are eighteen, though, right?
Nineteen, you lie. You're looking at Hannah now. She's thinner than Britt, almost pixie-like, with delicate features, and she's the only one besides you who's wearing a dress and heels. Hers are modest black kitten heels; she's hooked one of them around the bottom rung of the bar stool. Her hair is shoulder-length, choppy and mussed, but you'd never have guessed she was a lesbian if you'd seen her on the street. She looks so made-up and wholesome. She's watching you watch her; her mouth tips into a ciphered smile.
They ask you what you do; you tell them you're taking classes at the community college. They seem satisfied with the answer. Hannah works at the front desk of a law firm. Kelly's a massage therapist. They seem so adult and put together, and that intimidates the hell out of you. But you're Santana fucking Lopez—if you can't fake this, who can?
Three or four drinks and a shot later—they keep handing you drinks, and the cash you brought just gets warmer and sweatier in your bra—Hannah asks you to dance. She leads you onto the empty floor and presses you to her with a hand on the small of your back. You're almost exactly the same height. You feel lightheaded and warm and careless, and you like watching her mouth and her glistening throat. Her eyes are paler than Britt's: that stone-gray watery color.
After the song ends, Hannah takes your hand and pulls you to the bathroom, locking the door behind you. She presses you against the wall with one hand at the top of your chest—almost at your throat—and kisses you. She tastes like screwdriver and something foreign. She's a really good kisser—almost as good as Britt. You're not used to being the one shoved against a wall, but it's hot and makes you feel wild and wet, like a threatened animal.
When she takes you home to her apartment, you suddenly remember you're barely seventeen and the only girl you've ever slept with is Brittany. But you hardly have time to think about it before Hannah says, where were we? and leads you into her bedroom. She has a poster on her wall of vintage vibrators and a bookshelf packed with volumes titled with weird words like intersectionality and womanifesto.
You shake off your uncertainty and kiss her, hard—she takes over quickly, pushing you onto her bed and peeling off your panties without so much as letting you kick off your shoes. She gets on her knees, pulls your thighs forward, and sinks her mouth between your legs.
Whatever she's doing, it feels incredible. Even though you're almost fully clothed, you feel as naked as if you had peeled off your skin and your muscles and exposed your bones to the cool air. Sex has never felt so little under your control—like it's just happening to you.
You can't help it—you close your eyes and imagine it's Britt's mouth unraveling you like this, like it's her soft hair brushing the insides of your thighs, her nails digging into the flesh just above your knees. When Hannah plunges two—then three—fingers inside you, making you quake and whimper, you hover near the edge of climax, but every time you can feel yourself about to fall, you think of Brittany and draw back. Your throat tightens with tears.
Hannah pulls away, fingers still inside you. What do you need? she asks, almost businesslike, but you know what you need, and she can't give it to you. Don't, don't, don't, you tell yourself, squeezing your fingernails painfully into your palms, but you do—you break down; your body releases as if you were coming instead.
Hey. Hannah pulls out carefully. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?
No, you manage through your sobs. God, what's wrong with you, that you can't even get through a hookup?
I'm not your—this isn't your first time, right? With a girl?
No. I'm sorry.
It's okay. Here, stay here a sec. Get comfy. I'll get you some water.
She leaves, and you lie down on your side, hugging your chest as if to hold in the tears. When Hannah comes back, she sets down a glass of water on the bedside table and lies down across from you, smoothing back your hair to look into your eyes.
Hey, she says. You all right? Want to talk about it?
I'm sorry, you repeat. I'm just—it's kind of hard right now.
What is?
Ever been in love with your best friend?
To your shock, Hannah starts to laugh. She puts her hand over her mouth.
Sorry, she says, it's just—well, of course I have. It's kind of a lesbian rite of passage.
I'm not a lesbian, you protest automatically. Hannah raises an eyebrow, glancing between your legs, but says nothing. You soften. Okay. Maybe I am. I kind of don't know yet. I'm just in love with Brittany. I don't know what to do.
Have you told her how you feel?
Yeah. She blew me off for this loser guy she only started dating in the first place to make me jealous.
Oh man, that's rough.
We've been sleeping together for a couple of years, but it didn't—I mean, I didn't realize it meant something until now.
Funny what we can ignore when we put our minds to it.
We were cheerleaders. Popular. Popular girls can't be gay. At least, that's what I thought.
Speaking of ignoring things we don't want to know, laments Hannah, looking at you apprehensively. I'm afraid to ask, but—you're not nineteen, are you, Santana?
You shake your head. Seventeen. I'm a junior at McKinley.
Hannah buries her face in her hands. Jesus Christ. She rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs. Fuck. Anyway—sorry, honey. Tell me more about the girl.
You tell her all about Britt—about her sweetness and her quirky innocence, about the way you two used to be, about the way she could touch you and make the rest of the world go away. You tell her about the rules, about the way you blew her off and acted like she was just a warm body to you the moment she hinted she wanted something more.
Shit, you've got it bad, says Hannah. How did you manage to deny it so long?
I don't know, you answer honestly.
Santana, why are you here right now?
I wanted to make her jealous.
She considers for a moment before responding.
Well. I have two thoughts. On one hand, I don't see why you want to hurt her, when it made you both feel so bad before. On the other hand, I totally get how you want to make her jealous after she stomped on your heart like that. So my advice is: don't focus on her. Instead, just find another way to be happy. Move on. It's the best revenge when someone breaks your heart.
How can I be happy when I hurt like this?
You'll figure it out. Just wait. I bet the answer will come to you.