Didn’t matter if they were high-fluting power-babes with sprawling mansions in the mountains or day-tripping 21-year-olds with torn-up backpacks they were all adorned in ink. Almost every lesbian I saw that summer had tattoos. I spent the rest of trip staring at lesbians and the creative tattoos that peppered across their lesbian bodies. In that moment I vowed to get a tattoo as soon as I was home, to memorialize my newfound sense of self. I felt something I had never felt before in my life. “Oh, definitely women, honey.” She answered staring into my eager, gay eyeballs. “Am I going to date women, or men, when I’m older?” I asked her, praying to the lesbian goddesses that she said women. She was an older dyke, with a shaved head and lip-ring. I went saw on a fortune teller on that trip. And I was too polished and too fashion-crazed for the stoner-faux-hippy-chicks, the non-deodorant wearing lady teen potheads, who wore sarongs to school in the depths of the New England winter.īut in the lesbian underworld of Provincetown, I belonged. I wasn’t basic or bitchy enough for the “popular” girls who collected hideous pink Juicy Couture tracksuits for sport and would kill a bitch for a brand-new silver Tiffany ID bracelet. I wasn’t weird enough for the “four building freaks” (the theatre kids that spent their Friday nights singing the RENT soundtrack). I had never felt like I fit in at my perfectly manicured (snooze) Westport, Connecticut high school. There were femme lesbians, butch lesbians, goth lesbians, lesbians with suntans and honey-blonde-hair and lesbians that didn’t fit into any kind of lesbian category.
Gay pride tattoos for women full#
Lesbians with pockets full of money walking around town with fluffy, perfectly-groomed dogs. There were lesbians with shaved heads and tattoos. I unflinchingly stared at them as they made-out over heaping plates of the world-famous Massachusetts lobstah in cozy, chic restaurants. Lesbians were everywhere! They clutched hands while walking down the streets of the quaint seaside village.
Related: Seven Minutes in Heaven with Queer Tattooist Virginia Elwood Photo by Wiki Commons My lackluster heart, for the first time ever, soared into the pale blue P-Town sky.
Have you ever been to Provincetown? It’s a lesbian mecca. This was confirmed labor day weekend when I went to Provincetown with my best friend Suzie, for a little pre-school-year vacation on The Cape. I knew, the moment my chapped, teen lips touched hers, that I was gay.
We hooked up in the summer and when the school year started up in the fall, she left for boarding school in Switzerland (she was a bougie euro babe, I was a tri-state baby punk) and we never saw each other again. It was soul-scorching, powerful, all-consuming and forever changed the course of my life. It was classic, short-lived, first time, teenage lesbian love. Actually calling it a “hook up” undermines the epic experience! I fell in love with this girl. I got my first tattoo at age 16, right after I hooked up with a girl for the first time.