Inside an Actual Lesbian Sleepover

By Chloe C.

<p>Once upon a time in L.A., a bunch of beautiful women who love women had themselves a sleepover party.</p>

“Want to go to a lesbian slumber party in, like, an hour or so?”


It’s late on a Monday afternoon when the text comes through, and I am initially (and surprisingly) unenthused. Will I have to shower and apply eyeliner? Who will be there? Will anyone I used to make out with and am now avoiding be there? Then I catch myself: here I am, a hot lesbian living in Hollywood—hot lesbian central—letting an opportunity like this slide? Hells, no. Turning down a lesbian slumber party would result in my dyke card being suspended by Nationals. The National Lesbian Association. You’re mostly men, so I’m not going to tell you whether that’s a real thing. You’re not allowed to see our cards anyway.

“Oh, I’ll be there,” I murmur, already contemplating alcohol combinations. “I’ll be there with motherfucking bells on.”

Jenny and Marianne roll up in a Honda at about seven PM. Jenny and Marianne are a producer and DJ, respectively, and both are a stunningly successful half-Asian hybrid. Beautiful women like Jenny and Marianne are one of the highlights of living in California but also prove to be stiff competition if/when we all wanna let the same cute girl get it. Jenny and I both like model types (but who doesn’t?), so we wanted to establish some sort of “dibs” system.

In the spirit of cute lesbian comfort I’m wearing leggings with little cat eyes on them. Like pussy. Because we’re gay. Get it? I thought you’d get it, you saucy devil, you.

Slumber parties aren’t just a female institution and male fantasy; sleepovers were a highlight of my childhood, when I was blissfully unaware of why my BFF was oddly prevalent in my subconscious. No girl was more desolate than I at the prospect of outgrowing slumber parties. In fact, I’m mortified to remember being the very last girl in school to hand out invites for an all-girls sleepover birthday party.

Our trio rolls up to the slumber party location armed with a duffel of Fireball and beer. After parking and unloading Marianne’s deejay equipment, we walk in hoping to find debauchery and instead find serenity and nary a shot glass or nipple in sight. There are a trio of girls in dodgeball uniforms whom I’ll dub Ellen, Tegan and Melissa because I don’t feel like texting them to ask permission to use their real names. Also, I don’t know them like that, you know? Ellen, Tegan and Melissa are wearing matching dodgeball uniforms: navy shorts, white tank tops and white kneesocks. If you’re anything like me—and if so, lucky you—you’re probably wondering “Why would any adult want to play dodgeball?” Excellent question, imaginary you. The answer is some lesbians, specifically jockish lesbros, will play any sport with fervent enthusiasm. I don’t know why, but it’s sexy as hell. Give me a girl in basketball shorts and kneesocks over a girl in Daisy Dukes and stilettos any day.

Lesbros love athletics almost as much as waifish bookworms such as I despise them. For girls like Ellen, Tegan and Melissa, P.E. was the highlight of their middle and high school experience. For girls like me, Marianne and maybe Jenny (you can never tell with that one), physical education was a terrible time spent hiding from your teacher and peers. At a precocious seven years old, I spent a year feigning mononucleosis to skip gym for the library. I’d like to point out that lying/reading was a whole lot more helpful to my future as a writer than playing basketball would have been. Hurrah for young bookish liars, ye shall inherit the earth.

“Who wants a SHOT?!” we bark into the pleasant silence. The dodgeball players decline our offerings of whiskey and beer, instead enthusing over the chocolate chip cookies I’d baked the day before and brought over as a second thought. “Who wants to see an uncircumcised penis?” hostess Ellen asks with disturbing sincerity. Marianne, Jenny and I stare at her disbelievingly.

“This is the worst lesbian slumber party ever,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, and respond with a clipped, “No.”

“My buddy has one,” Ellen continues defensively, perhaps suddenly comprehending guest’s ennui, “and I just thought it would be funny.” 

“If they’re not drinking, should we start drinking?” Jenny asks, and we mosey on over to the kitchen to get fucked up by our lonesome. I get that all-too-familiar feeling that things are going in the opposite direction of sexy.

Huddled in the kitchen over whiskey, the two exotic beauties (Jenny and Marianne) and sort-of-normal-looking white girl (me) mull over our companions. Lesbro relationships are tricky to decipher because they could be dating, fucking or just buddies and still touch each other’s hips in the same flirtatious manner. We ponder them. They ponder YouTube clips. Time passes. After a couple drinks we let our metaphorical hair down enough to start pulling these jocks out of each other’s asses and closer to our asses.

The evening takes on that familiar blur characteristic of events with too much alcohol and too little diversion. Marianne spins vinyl, Jenny spins me and I spin rapt yet false interest in dodgeball rules and regulations. Finally we collapse into plush bunk beds, boozed up but turned down, and fall into sweet dreams of girls in cleats who actually put out.

Chloë lives in L.A. and writes for AfterEllen. You can hit her up on Twitter or Tumblr.


Playboy Social