“There are a lot of Missy Higgins types around here” – said by some guy to his mate as me and my lez pals walked down Brunswick St in Melbourne last Saturday night.
We totally cracked up. I’m not sure if Missy Higgins was his cheeky code word for dykes – if yes, that’s pretty funny coming from a non-lesbian, or if the dude genuinely thought we looked like Missy, but either way, we were chuffed.
I was in Melbs recently for work so got to spend some quality time with old pals in my old hood. It was awesome to discover cool new hang outs like the People’s Market in Collingwood where we drank beers and ate faux-meat burgers in the open air.
I crashed with mates in a Preston and had a fun time re-living my queer share house days. Nothing screams Melbourne lesbian abode like skateboard decks mounted to the walls and skull ornaments. Those were the days.
We barhopped around Fitzroy and cheered as drunk, rowdy bogans did nudie runs down Peel St. I don’t know if these dudes were aware they were like 20 metres away from one of Melbourne’s sleaziest gay boy venues, or if that was part of the dare, but no one seemed to mind the fact there were flaccid penises flopping around for all to see.
Our gang stopped at one of those all night kebab shops where we talked bikes – a tried-and-trust lesbian conversation topic – and then moved on to discuss ballet, as you do. Not.
Yep, you heard right: ballet. One of the most androgynous members of our crew, a girl who looks more teenage skater boy than lez, had recently taken up ballet dancing. In the world of lesbian conformity, that’s pretty fucking cool.
When I asked her why ballet, she said, “Because it was something that no one would ever expect me to do”. That and the fact ballet dancers have super hot bodies. While her old skateboarding injuries made some of the body contortions a bit tricky, she could still be the “boy” doing the lifting. Respect.
Apparently when she signed up for lessons, the girl behind the counter’s eyes lit up, possibly thinking she’d just recruited her first ever hip young dude. It was only when my mate filled out the form did the chick realise that it was in fact a different genre of lady who’d be joining their pirouetting ranks.
My tomboy adventures didn’t stop there. I lunched with my lesbian-farmer mate and her dogs and reminisced about that time we rode motorbikes, fired bullets into the sky and almost burnt her farm down after failing to put out a campfire.
Ah Melbourne, how I miss you and your Missy Higgins types.
