M and I went to the beach yesterday on our day off together. I'd been looking forward to it since M first mentioned it.
The last time we went to the beach was great, and we said we would keep going on our days off as long as the weather allowed, but we haven't for one reason or another.
This time, it felt like wearing a shirt that didn't fit. We got up and going about an hour later than we did last time, and the beach we chose ended up taking longer to get to. Once there, we couldn't find free public parking, and M had to dig up change to buy us a few hours at a meter.
When we got to the beach, because of the position of the sun, our umbrella cast shade only on one side, so we had to huddle up together under that, M sitting in front and me behind her - we couldn't sit side by side.
And then there was the faggot man.
He was this big, broad-shouldered bulk of a guy, tanned to leather. He came barreling down the beach, and as he got closer we realized he was shouting something about faggots. I mean, he was really raving. He seemed almost excited about it, as if he had walked into a room of faggots and was calling them all towards him.
I wasn't so much scared as I was awe-struck. The only offense I took to the term faggot was the fact that, if he were indeed using it to refer to us, he was completely using the wrong term to designate the female of the humanus homosexualus species. We are not faggots, we are dykes. I would have much preferred that, and would have later - once it had been ascertained that no danger was at hand - smiled at the idea that perhaps I contributed to giving off a dyke identity for M and I, as for the most part I fly under the radar very incognito and most people have no idea so I have to keep coming out all over the place, receiving the same shocked response again and again. I apparently have about me no dyke energy whatsoever which is really rather disappointing and frustrating.
I am a dyke! I am a dyke! No really, you should've seen me in college in my short hair and hairy-legged phase. I wore a lot of clothing of the khaki variety and was most decidedly either a lesbian or a communist. I had bumper stickers. It was fun.
Anyway, back to the beach, there weren't really seagulls this time but instead there were these raggedy, black little birds that looked like worn out crows and which I thought were perfect for the occasions and mood of that day.
On our way out of town, we couldn't find a restaurant - M doesn't like to eat at chain restaurants on trips - but we finally settled on a Ruby Tuesday that I chose after a little over an hour of giving up and driving toward home.
We got home and M went to bed and I got up this morning and went to work.
Tra la la.