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45 Shorty   I meet her at Julie’s. It’s Saturday night, and that means every tristate Puerto Rican lesbian is dancing salsa and having too many Coronas at Julie’s in Manhattan. I’ve always wondered about that club. I mean, how many Latinas do you know named Julie? Julissa, sure. Julia, yeah. But Julie? So, there I am on the dance floor with my buddy Marisol showing off my best steps when all of a sudden I do a little spin and I’m staring straight at some woman’s tits and I’m not talking about the kind of cleavage where it’s two droopy tetas propped up with a wired bra. This is the real stuff. Two round, large breasts squeezed together in a baby tee. Just as I’m about to bend my neck back to look up at the homegirl, Marisol spins me around, laughing. “Oye loca, careful before you get some old butch kicking your ass for staring at her woman.” I lean into Marisol. “Did you see the cleavage on that girl?” Marisol’s short, curly hair smells like oranges, but I know it’s just that nasty anti-frizz gel she uses. She shakes her head. “Lou, she’s too tall for you. La Cleavage wouldn’t give you the time of day.” That’s why I love Mari. We met at some gay parade years ago, and she’s the perfect friend, la hermanita who nicknames the new hottie “La Cleavage.” That’s how well she knows me. 46 After three more songs, Marisol runs off to kick it to some cutie in high heels, but I stay on the dance floor, dancing solo and watching the old dykes do the best salsa you’ve ever seen. I also want to see who La Cleavage is with, but she’s just hanging with friends. Homegirl has some seriously pin-straight highlighted hair. You know she’s Dominican and she gets that shit worked on every week at the salon. Straightened, pulled, tormented. You gotta love her for it. I’m heading to the bar when she steps up to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “¿Quieres bailar?” I start nodding because I’m thinking but she takes that for a yes and grabs my hand. I’m thinking, “what the fuck?” but girlfriend starts dancing and leading me. Leading me. I wouldn’t put up with that shit except I’m at eye level with her tits and I’m a little buzzed from the gin and tonic I had earlier, and it’s La India that the DJ’s playing. By the end of the first song, though, I’m back to myself and I’m trying to lead her but it ain’t working. She’s too tall or I’m too short. Whatever. I thank her for the dance and say I’ve got to go. Which I do. I need another drink. She nods and goes back to her friends. From the bar, I check her out. She’s got the tight pants, the bright lipstick, the big, gold hoop earrings. I’m feeling pretty good about myself. “I could get that if I wanted,” I tell Mari, who’s buying her new girl a drink and shoots back, “Right.” But what does Mari know? She likes playing it safe. Not that this matters. La Cleavage is too tall. We can’t even dance together. So, fuck that. An hour later, I’m in line at the coat check when I feel a tapping on my shoulder. I turn around and it’s cleavage. No, I mean really: it’s tetas. That’s all I see for a second until I hear La Cleavage ask, “Are you gonna give me your number before you go?” It’s hard to know what to say when you want something you probably shouldn’t have and come close to getting it. “Huh?” “You speak English?” she asks. “Sí,” I say. “I mean, yeah.” The coat check girl asks for my ticket and disappears behind the jackets. She’s chuckling, I notice. Is she laughing at me? At the bar two old butches are doing shots and hollering, “Pa’ las mujeres!” The song “Fruta Fresca” is playing and I see Cleavage’s friends standing against the wall, shaking their hips and watching us. That bugs me about lesbians. You can’t do anything on your own. Always gotta...

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