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Yesterday I attended my very first Pride. I was initially very nervous about going because I hate being around drunk people and I generally try to stay away from large crowds. As a younger child, I was very anxious; it hasn’t completely gone away yet.

From now on, if anyone asks me what lesbians are like [and believe me, it happens more than it should; you probably know what I'm talking about], I will answer, “Go to Pride. You’ll learn everything you ever wanted to know. And a lot that you probably didn’t.”

After a day of observing and conducting my own case study, I have put together my findings for your education and entertainment:

A lot of lesbians smoke. A lot.

Growing up in a smoke-free home, the smell of cigarette smoke is not something I am accustomed to. Gay people smoke A LOT! In an open park, the smell of was overwhelming! Everywhere I looked, one lezzy lit up and then another and then another! What’s worse, they’d all make out and blow smoke into each other’s mouths like a scene right out of “The L Word”. Maybe if they had looked like Jennifer Beals and Marlee Matlin, I could have sat back and enjoyed the scene. Unfortunately, they did not. If I die of second-hand smoke tomorrow from concentrated exposure, everyone take note of whom to sue.

Pride is like televised exposure for gay PDA and wobbly naked men.

I was a shy, quiet little observer of the parade. I liked to stand back from a far and enjoy the view. And by view, I mean hot lesbians kissing and groping. Never in my life have I been so excited to stand for three hours as my skin is charred by the blistering sun. Next time you go to Pride with your girlfriend, think of the service you are offering to your community: some poor 17 year-old lesbian is learning worlds from your continuous make-out session in front of news cameras.

However! Maybe it’s because I like girls, maybe it’s because I have eyes…truth is, men in leather chaps with their little partner hanging out is not a service to society. Of all the wonderful things that happen at Pride, what does the evening news show? The 300 pound man sporting only a rainbow wash-cloth over his you-know-what. Figures.

Matching outfits are not just a joke. They are an unfortunate reality.

It’s a hot summer day and you and your girlfriend are dressing for the gay event of the year. You open your closet and yell over your shoulder to find out what the little lady is wearing so you can choose accordingly. When she tells you she’s wearing knee-length blue plaid bermuda shorts and a creme-colored Abercrombie shirt, why does one decide that knee-length ORANGE plaid bermuda shorts and your creme-colored HOLLISTER shirt is an outfit decision? You were not born two minutes apart and you did not share bunk beds until you were twelve years old: you are not twin sisters! I started to sing “Another One Bites The Dust” as I kept tally of how many matching lesbian outfits I saw. After tally mark number 23 I spilled diet cherry soda on my paper and threw it away. Oh well. 23 is a sad enough number.

Play Pink and every lesbian in the joint will sing along happily.

There’s something about her punk girl attitude and sexy fauxhawk that keeps the lesbians freak dancing on each other into the wee morning hours. Between some song that goes “don’t let me get me” and “Dear Mr. President,” the DJs caught on that the ladies liked it a bit. The only thing that might have beat her out would be the Indigo Girls.

I feel smarter and more enlightened having attended my first Pride festival. I may sit at home today with a stomach virus from the Mexican food and an ungodly sunburn that won’t turn to a tan in my wildest dreams, but I am better off for it!

Next year, I’m gettin’ in to all the lesbian clubs. With that shall come even more depth analysis and a broader understanding of my people. Until then…

Sent in by Lauren from Life As And Underage Lesbian