GCLS in Vegas was…very Vegasy. Bright lights. Loud noises. A lot of unattractive people. Despite my anxiety and general dislike of lights and sounds and people, it was pretty chill. Mostly because I got to see humans I hadn’t seen for the better part of a decade. Obviously there’s a difference between people and humans in this scenario. I like humans, but not people? I don’t know.
Most nights, we were with the same group, but Friday evening they had the audacity to attend a show they had warned us they were attending a month in advance. Rude. The wife and I decided to find a pizza joint (my pizza levels were depleted). I did something I’ve never done. I said to some friends “we’re going for pizza. You’re welcome to join us.” I’m not social. Even with people I deeply love. This foray into voluntarily inviting humans to spend the evening with us was strange. It became a cross between habit and compulsion. I invited more people. They said yes. It somehow snowballed into eight humans going for pizza.
When you get a group of queer chicks together, something magical happens. The gay concentrates. We’re contagious, you know.
Two people independently looked up pizza joints and decided on the same place. Six of us looked at a map, spun in delightful circles (to get in the map, of course), admitted we didn’t know where the hell we were going, and designated a guide (the only one who did know where we were going). We proceeded to go through three casinos, on four escalators, outside twice, inside twice, until we landed at the unmarked pizza joint. There was a dark hallway with a line that spilled onto the casino floor (is every piece of floor space in Vegas a casino floor? Yes? Okay, glad we clarified). Inside, there were counters to stand and eat, but nowhere near enough space for our shockingly large group.
Nell Stark and Trinity Tam coordinated ordering. This involved specifying that our group ended at the chick in the green flannel (lesbians, remember). Aurora Rey and I fought our way back out of the pizza place. We commandeered a set of chairs with a low table and set about stealing stools. Our party emerged, triumphant with pizza and pitchers of beer. The table wasn’t remotely big enough to hold the pizza box, let alone plates or cups or pitchers of beer.
This is where is gets gayer.
The next five minutes were the most wonderfully cooperative I’ve ever experienced. Two people started pouring beer. Without discussing, the recipients of said pour tilted their cups. Someone balanced the pizza box while two others plated pizza. Everyone, oddly, seemed to know what everyone else had ordered. Napkins were distributed. It was beautiful.
Someone (me) made a joke that we were lesbianing pizza and when we were finished eating, we would discuss our anxieties and talk about our families/coming out stories. We laughed. Thirty minutes later, we realized we were discussing our anxieties as a result of our families/coming out stories. So that was awkward (but also meaningful and supportive? Queers are the best).
The only point of contention, of course, was who would take the photo. Imagining a photo with only seven of us made for a rough thirty seconds. We were able to resolve the issue by asking someone at the next table to take it for us. Crisis averted.