And not in the good way.
The two clerks, excuse me... the two "BARISTAS" are lesbian, and there is a large gaggle of gal-on-gals sitting behind me.
These are not the lesbians that you see in the movies -- that is to say: these are not the lesbians that *I* see in MPEGs late at night when Nic is asleep. These are the "other" kind. The kind that wear their hair short. The kind that sport big, clunky sneakers. The manly kind. The kind that scare men.
Why are we afraid of them? I think it's because we, as men, feel useless. We have nothing they want. I mean, I'm blessed with this equipment and these unshaven ladies want nothing to do with it. Hey, I don't want anything to do with *their* equipment either -- but even though you don't want to go to the party, you still want to be invited.
When I walked over to the condiment station to cream and Splenda my "tall drip with room", I was instantly chilled in their presence. No, they were not mean to me -- no dirty looks, no man-hating screeching, no chanting of "we're here, we're queer, we won't disappear!" None of that.
They ignored me.
But I know... I KNOW that under the surface, they are laughing at me. I know that beneath their friendly banter and casual "g'mornings", they are really saying: "Look at you. Big man with a penis. Ha! You are pathetic! Pouring half-and-half in your cup like you are some chieftain! We scorn you and your love of lattes! We are not your harem, Mr. Man! Take your phallus and fly, my friend -- we're having none of it! We don't need any man to provide for us, protect us, or penetrate us! For we are LESBIAN! Lordesses of the dance!"
Yeah. I know that's what they're saying.