Isn't Side Boob A Fashion Urban Legend?

A true crime starring my two greatest triggers: My brother & lesbians.

It’s no easy feat for a straight man to be tolerated by a lesbian—let alone liked by one. It’s in our sapphic wiring to be at least three hundred times harder on straight men than any other demographic.

After all, It’s our civic duty, part of what we bring to a culture that lets straight men get away with everything—murder often included—is refusing to let them get away with anything on our watch. It’s the least we can do as we’re privileged to be one of the few subsets of people who need absolutely nothing from straight men, except for in some cases, sperm, which we can buy online without ever having engaged with one at all.

But my brother, Blake was an interesting case.

I was nineteen or twenty when it dawned on me that my brother wasn’t just a friend of the lesbians, he was universally *adored* by them. He hardly had to fight for their affection, which never happens. I’m still bitter about it, honestly. I had to fight harder than my straight brother to be accepted by my own kind—something *clearly* went wrong in the lab.

“If I was straight, Blake would be my type,” Sienna would always loudly proclaim, in front of her girlfriend, Tobi.

“She always says this,” Tobi would sigh. But even she loved Blake. One night when we were all drinking I adorned Blake’s lips in my dark red lipstick. Tobi couldn’t get over how hot he looked.

“Blake, you’d be such a HOT girl,” she slurred, five margaritas deep.

“Thankths, Tobi” Blake slurred back, also five margaritas deep.

I rolled my eyes, a civilized three glasses of white wine deep.

“No, seriously,” Tobi continued, “You make for a stunnnnning girl, Blake—” she paused and looked at me bleary-eyed, “Z, you’re pretty—but Blake?—you’re a knockout.”

Of course. Of course, this was my fate. Not only did I have to be a dyke, but I also had to have a cishet brother who was a bigger hit with the dykes than I was.

Tobi even got Blake an editing gig for a famous lesbian actress, who played an iconic role in an iconic lesbian TV show. Tobi invited us all to a gathering at her house, which as the lesbian goddesses would have it, happened to fall on my birthday. I’ll call this actress: “Melissa Bailey.”

On the way there, I gushed to Blake and Davi, (our mutual best friend and roommate) “I can’t believe we’re going to a party at Melissa Bailey’s house. I’m dead.” I paused to hyperventilate, “I need to play it cool. Help me play it cool? Guys? Please?”

“Of course, Z,” the boys promised, flicking cigarette ash out the window.

I was still hyperventilating when the cab pulled up to Melissa Bailey’s house.

“Z, it’s all good! She’s going to love you. Just be yourself. You’ll be fast friends by the time the party is over.” Blake coached.

I was scared shitless, but I trusted my big brother. If he thought she’d love me, I had a shot. I braced myself and walked toward the fence, legs trembling.

“We got you, Z,” Davi squeezed my arm.

“Thanks, Davi,” I squeezed back.

We opened the gate to the backyard and I tried not to die as I stared into a landscape packed with chic LA lesbians. I was so young, gay culture was still a shiny, new, terrifying penny.

Scratch that.

I’d been thick as thieves with the gay boys since pre-school. But lesbian culture was a wildly different animal. Not only was this my first elevated gay girl rodeo, it was on the property of my *favorite* lesbian actress who’d not only helped me come to terms with my sexuality—but hundreds of thousands of other baby dykes like me, worldwide. I watched a waif with legs up to ears straddle a shaved-headed woman with the face of Angelina, and willed myself not to faint.

I’d always assumed that the iconic lesbian TV show was an exaggeration of the Los Angeles Lesbian Experience—because everything in Hollywood is, right?

WRONG.

Because, babe, I was *drowning* in a dangerous sea teeming with braless supermodels in tank tops cut low past the ribs, revealing tattooed waistlines and glimpses of perky side tit.

I’d always thought side tit was a fashion urban legend crafted by women’s magazines to generate eating disorders and an uptick in plastic surgery consultations.

But no.

Side tit was here and turns out: oh-so-queer.

And for better or for worse, so was I. I tugged a ratty hair extension, self-conscious in my too-tight dress with my too-high heels poking rude holes in the plush celesbian grass. I teetered toward the open bar and silently vowed never to wear stiletto pumps again (I never did).

Suddenly I heard Tobi’s voice in the distance. “Blake,” she chirped brightly, “I want to introduce you to Melissa!”

“Yeah, but let’s bring Z!” Blake’s deafening roar sent a shiver down my spine. I was SO not ready to meet my favorite lesbian actress. I pretended not to hear him and fixed my gaze forward. He’d get it. We were practically the same person, of course, he’d get it.

“Z!” Blake thundered, louder this time. “Z!” Pocketfuls of stylish lesbians began to stare at him. My spit thickened in my mouth, the way it does right before you vomit. I whipped my head Exorcist style and shot him a death glare.

“Z,” he sang, musical theatre style. He’d obviously missed my cue. “Don’t be silly! let’s meet Melissa!”

That asshole had indeed clocked my glare, he’d just chosen to override it because he turns out didn’t love me at all and wanted to ruin my life.

Time stood still.

I was standing at a pivotal crossroads in my young adult life. I could channel the surplus of adrenaline pumping through me by sprinting in stilettos from Studio City back to Santa Monica. Or I could look the beast in the eyes, fight the danger looming ahead, and follow my brother into the lion’s den.

I chose the latter, like the young warrior I was.

I trudged toward the group, heels sinking into the earth with each shaky step. I will never wear dumb heels like this again, I promise God, if you just let me off easy this time.

I’m not a praying woman.

Nor do I believe in a singular God. E

Especially one that has the power to change circumstances.

And if one existed—which she doesn’t—I know that she’d never expend her circumstance-changing energy on sparing the ego of a white girl at a glamorous lesbian party in Hollywood. She’d channel her gifts into helping kids caught in the crossfires of war, not baby dykes out of their depths.

But in that moment, I prayed like a narcissistic believer. At that moment, I was a narcissistic believer.

By the time I arrived at the huddle that was Tobi, Blake, and Melissa Bailey (oh my god) Blake was passionately monologuing about something to do with art or film or both. He’s too wrapped up in his own grandiosity, to even remember I exist, I thought gratefully, briefly considering a conversion to Christianity.

“Yeah, the difference between an artist and a craftsman is…” My brother’s voice halted mid-sentence. His eyes crash-landed into mine. A big dumb smile crept across his face. It was a doofus smile. The grin of a blissful idiot. It looked strange on my brother, a clinically depressed intellect. “Melissa! Melissa!” he cheerleaded like a lunatic, throwing a heavy arm over my shoulders. Didn’t this clown know I was too fragile for his beefy arm? I was on the brink of death. I steadied myself, denouncing all formal religions, gods, and spirits.

“Yes?” She answered. Her eyes glittered in the moonlight.

“This is my sister,” he hooted like he was introducing me to the stage, for a roast. “She’s your biggest fan—right little Z?” I kicked him softly in the shin with my stiletto, warning him to shut up.

“OUCH!” He yelped as if I was a three-hundred-pound MMA fighter who’d just pummeled him, out of nowhere. He lifted his leg and began to rub it as if nursing it back to health. I fantasized about all the ways I was going to murder him once we got back home. “Sorry, Meliss—”

Meliss? A part of me died that night, hearing my brother call a world-famous actress an abbreviated version of her name. It remains dead, fifteen years later.

“My little sister is just scared to meet you, that’s all. Like I said, she’s your number one fan! RIGHT, Sistine?”

The iconic lesbian actress smiled at me politely but I swear to Lana Del Rey—there was a healthy dose of fear tucked in the folds of her mouth. And I don’t blame her. This was an intimate gathering in her home, not a meet and greet for superfans.

“She’s sooo starstruck. Aww, how cute!” Blake announced into a proverbial megaphone, his voice so loud it reverberated through the entire San Fernando Valley and into the Hollywood hills.

I giggled nervously, going back and forth in my brain as to whether it would be more beneficial to kill him or myself. “Excuse me,” I managed. “I’ll be right back.”

I turned in my stilettos, cheeks on fire, planning to slink away until I found a nice, quiet place to curl up and die when I noticed Davi’s too-wide smile, eerily aglow by the fire pit.

“That’s her—” Davi shrieked like an excited fifth-grade girl. I guess I’m not the only one getting gayer by the second, I thought, bitchily. But the bitchy thought was quickly disrupted. Because Davi was pointing at me—a wolfpack of fashion-forward lesbians nestled by his side.

This must be a bad dream.

But it wasn’t a bad dream. The next thing I knew, Davi began to belt, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR ZARA, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.” I’d forgotten it was my birthday and this was a dark reminder.

Now everyone was staring at me.

The cool lesbians next to Davi.

The cool lesbians making out under the lemon tree.

The cool lesbians smoking joints by the fire pit. Their expressions all read: who is this loser in the too-tight dress, and what is she doing at our hip side-tit party?

The only lesbian who wasn’t glaring my way, was Melissa Bailey, who was texting busily, probably alerting her security to have me removed from the premises.

My soul left my body. It rose to the stars. I hopped on the moon and studied the scene from above. I watched myself standing frozen as a statue, finally mumbling, “Thanks,” limping in stupid stilettos.

THUMP. I don’t mean THUMP metaphorically—but literally. I came to with my face flat in the dirt. Those self-destructive, stilettos would be the end of me, deep down I’d known it all along. I’d started wearing them as a teenager as some sort of subconscious rebellion against my gayness. And now they’d be the demise of my gayness. What a sick world.

Turns out my heels had gotten stuck in the soil causing me to take a dramatic tumble down. Lesbians are all born armed with an inner “girl-in-need” alarm system, so before I could even process what was happening, I was surrounded by women all eager to come to my rescue.

“DO YOU NEED EMERGENCY?”

“IS IT TWISTED?”

“CATHY, IT’S BROKEN.”

“I HAVE BAND AIDS IN MY SUBURU!”

My knees were skinned and bleeding, my foot was throbbing in excruciating agony, and I wasn’t sure If I could walk, but there was *no way* I was going to admit it. I wanted to disappear. I’ve always loved being the object of mass lesbian concern, but not like this—not under these humiliating circumstances.

“I’m okay!” I lilted, cheerfully, my lips curving into a manic smile not dissimilar to the sociopathic grin my brother had shot me with whilst embarrassing me in front of Melissa Bailey. I shot from the ground. Like a corpse rising from the dead, I miraculously managed to walk to the bathroom.

I sat on the tile and cleaned up the blood streaming down my banged-up leg. I cursed my brother. I cursed myself. I cursed my mother for birthing us and our father for the involvement in our genetic makeup. I crafted a makeshift bandage with toilet paper, called a car (this was the pre-Uber aughts), and with sharp pains shooting through me, pulled my brother aside, who was entertaining a group of lesbians with a problematic bit that would surely get us all banned from the state of California. At this point, I no longer cared to play it cool. “Blake,” I demanded through gritted teeth, “Davi.” I bore my teeth like a dog. “The car is here.” I grabbed their arms and summoned my anger into raw adrenaline, enabling injured little me to drag both men out of the party.

“Z!” they both wailed, “Melissa Bailey thought it was cute that you were starstruck!” I threw them out on the street and into the cab.

On the ride back the boys kept insisting they had done no wrong, but I remained despondent. I just gazed coldly ahead with the silent rage of a serial killer. I reached into my dumb Juicy bag to find my dumb phone to text a dumb friend about the dumb night when panic rocketed within.

“What is it, Z?” Blake asked alarmed.

“I left my—” I took a deep breath before screaming, “FUCKING PHONE THERE.”

That was it. I’d finally cracked. We’d have to go back to the scene of the crime.

“Taxi, I’m sorry. But we need to turn back,” Blake politely directed, suddenly my older brother again.

We pulled up to the house. The party had cleared out much to my horror. I’d have to knock on the door and ask to be allowed BACK in. And God knows where I’d left it, especially with my off-the-charts ADHD.

“I got this Z,” Blake assured as I sat paralyzed in the back. I didn’t care that my leg was now hemorrhaging blood all over my favorite skirt. I didn’t care about anything at all. Who cared what anyone thought of me in LA? I decided I’d immigrate to Australia first thing in the morning.

I didn't immigrate to Australia. I stayed in Santa Monica with Blake and David and spent the next morning belly-laughing over what had transpired the night before.

“Z! I’m sorry, I totally get why you were mad,” my brother apologized, breezing through the bedroom door, disrupting my sleep.

I pouted, my eyes still closed, remnants of last night’s rage circling me like flies.

But when I opened my eyes the first thing I noticed was Blake’s eyes: savagely shimmering with so much love I couldn’t have been mad if I tried.

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