They were …gay, they learned little things that are things in being gay, … they were quite regularly gay. —Gertrude Stein, 1922
Gay people. Love ‘em! Two of my best friends are gay. I’ve let gay people stay at my apartment, sleep on my couch and use my toothpaste. I’ve had the whole “I’m gay” coming out conversation with a previously closeted gay friend, over a (not at all fabulous) meal of grilled cheese and Awesome Blossoms at a Chili’s in Northridge. I’ve gone to musicals (pretty gay), danced to disco (also gay), and last year in Paris I had dinner in the same 15-person restaurant Cher was at (exceptionally gay). I’m in support of gay marriage, gay adoption of children, cross-dressers, transvestites, poppers. Whatever! Gay. Gay. Gay. Love it. Which is why I was so concerned when pictures of Michelle Rodriguez and Cara Delevingne sitting courtside at a Knicks game came out earlier this week. Because I want the best for the gays, each and every one. Even the ones I don’t know personally. Even the ones who aren’t “officially gay” yet.
The first image I saw was of two women, one of whom I recognized immediately as being Cara Delevingne, whose eyebrows I know better than my own ex-boyfriend’s. But the other — leaning back, legs spread wide, e-cig vapor spilling forth from her pink lips — my brain struggled to process. Yes, she was familiar, but the context was wrong. Like when you run into a loose acquaintance you know from swanky house parties in Los Angeles in a sweaty Russian bathhouse in lower Manhattan.
Is that… is that… is that Michelle Rodriguez? That can’t be Michelle Rodriguez. Isn’t Michelle Rodriguez dead? And if she’s not dead, what the fuck is Cara Delevingne, aka Super Hot Babe, doing with her?
And then I flipped through a slideshow, revealing that it was indeed Michelle Rodriguez, who was very much alive and who had very much won the vagina jackpot. Because, as many of us might deduce from the oft reoccurring “Fast and Furious Actress Enters Rehab” headlines of the last decade, Michelle Rodriguez isn’t much of a catch. Cara Delevingne, on the other hand, is one of the most in-demand models of the last few years. And Cara’s not your run-of-the-mill chick from Russia sending repayments to impoverished relatives back home; she’s a socialite with a closet stocked full of beanies, over-sized shirts, and skinny jeans that you, her future girlfriend (sorry dudes, you lost out on this one), won’t ever need to buy for her. She’s hot, rich, self-sustaining. And in terms of bad behavior of the life-ruining variety, if Cara has a drug habit, it’s of the innocuous, adorable, rich little white girl variety (aka social coke). All things considered, she’s the prize.
So why is Cara Delevingne routinely dating the homo equivalent of Rip Torn when she should be involved with, I don’t know, whatever the lesbian version of Prince Harry is? (Prince Harry, for the record, is the safe-bet bad boy, someone with enough edge to do stupid shit like party with Las Vegas whores and dress up like Hitler for Halloween, yet still have the whole royal crown thing to fall back on. He might ruin your life and make you sad on the inside, but you’ll always have a nice stone estate in the countryside somewhere to cry in.)
Okay, back to Cara Delevingne and her horrible taste in lesbians.
Though the circumstances always seem vague, Cara has been in close contact with a handful of young women in a manner that seems potentially sexual, though I have absolutely no way of substantiating this. For a while, Cara and British singer Rita Ora appeared to have something going on, most beautifully captured in this Rankin photo that makes me understand the whole frat-chanting, guys-and-lesbians thing. Then there’s Miley Cyrus, who recently mouth-raped Cara with that now-iconic flesh snake living in her mouth. And what’s up with her relationship with Rihanna? Are they scissor sistering each other in the off-time? Is Rihanna a man eater and a woman eater? It’s all so vague, so confusing, so… totally normal for a girl in her early twenties, no matter what team she’s playing for.
There has, over the last few years, been a trend towards what has been described as “sexual fluidity” – something I’d like to think Angelina Jolie pioneered back in her pre-nose job, “I drink blood” glory days. People, women in particular, are more inclined to not live within the confines of a prescribed sexuality. It is not hetero or homo, black or white. There is a wide spectrum of attraction, in which many swing wildly from one side to the next, following their tastes wherever their tastes take them, the specifics of their sexual target’s nether regions being of little to no consequence. Which is great. This seems like the most democratic way of getting your rocks off or, you know, maybe even falling in love.
Cara, it seems, is what would be considered sexually fluid. There has been no statement made about her sexual preference, no rainbow flag waved. All we have to go on are Instagram pictures and conspicuous red carpet handholding. Is she? Isn’t she? Who the fuck cares? My concern for Cara is certainly not a moral one. There is no fire and brimstone awaiting her in my mind. My concern is strictly of taste, like the care for a good friend who routinely brings the douche bags to dinner parties when all you want is for her to settle down with a nice girl/boy/whatever.
Though my critical judgment of Cara’s taste in girls comes from the best, most completely 100% not-in-my-place-to-say-anything place, I have to keep in mind that she’s at the party girl stage and so, in her sexually fluid way, is going to go after other party girls, just like I went after the party guys at her age. And so I can let the Mileys slide, the Ritas go. But Michelle Rodriguez is the last straw, because Michelle Rodriguez isn’t a party girl anymore. Michelle Rodriguez is the party woman – that sad old man still going to clubs and hitting on 19 year olds. And Cara, my love, you are the vagina jackpot, a prize to be cherished, adored, be it by a man, or a woman, or me, Jenny Bahn.
Here’s my number: 212-xxx-xxxx.