By Radcliffe U. Hall

Pride Week gets the gays super pumped for a variety of reasons: costumes, Drag Queens, beer kegs, topless women, corn on the cob, street festivities and stilts. But the main reason for the mass excitement is the opportunity to publicly proclaim how awesomely cool it is to be gay! Well, I am here to say that it is not always rainbows. Yes, we have our own parade. And yes, we have Tila Tequila. But, in fact, there are several reasons why being gay is truly a rough ride. For instance, the elderly snarl at you in public, most employers nickname you “kinky”, and the most associated haircut is the mullet. But the ultimate burden for me as a lesbian of the world is a disease known as the invisible boner. You may say “Slow down! That sounds amazing! You can walk around town with a boner than no one can see?!” But you would be a fool. The invisible boner is not something beneficial; it represents the entire female population viewing you as a comfort zone or, worse yet, a wooden post.

My first experience with the invisible boner occurred every Friday night when I was in Grade five. On these fateful evenings my parents would go line-dancing and leave me under the supervision of a fifteen year old goddess named Stacy. Stacy was the utmost in awesome and would cook me KD, play exhausting games of Twister, and tuck me in for bed. Her only flaw was a dolt named Mitch who would occasionally invite himself over to watch TV while I did my homework. The invisible boner plagued me whenever Stacy braided my hair. Often she would come in very close to apply blue eye-shadow during our makeover sessions. I was in turmoil and started experiencing the horrendous symptoms of the invisible boner, which included clammy palms, a tendency to drool and an inability to speak properly. All of which resulted in unbearable awkwardness. All of my hopes in impressing Stacy would be ruined by my invisible boner. Attempts at displaying my sport techniques, mainly popping sweet wheelies, would only involve me flying into a ditch. Any time I tried to show off my maturity by slowly sipping some of my Dad’s whisky, it would only result in me throwing up on my sticker collection. Because of the atrocious side effects of the invisible boner Stacy failed to notice me as a potential love interest. I would listen to her problems and give her massages, but in the end I was merely just a job to her.

Although Stacy has moved on to a future of improved employment, I am still afflicted by my unseen prepubescent pants tent. There are currently many occasions in my life where the symptoms unexpectedly creep up on me. Although I don’t actually need a textbook, I often wish I had one. Every other Sunday I volunteer at a distress center. It is one of the ways I perform my civic duty. The coordinator Marlene, is a foxy brunette with a loud, raspy voice. After one harrowing minute when our heater broke, Marlene rushed to my side to give my arms a vigorous rub to ensure my warmth. To Marlene, she was just performing her civic duty. To me, she was performing a most welcomed sexual maneuver. Luckily she was unaware of my increasing sweat. But unfortunately she was also completely ignorant to me as a potential lesbian life partner.

Even besides the work environment there are numerous situations and venues for my invisible boner. The spa is the worst. I dread it with all of my being. To most women, the spa is a calming oasis where you are treated to full body massages, facials, wraps and baths. To me, the spa is where dozens of hot women service you for hours. Although the main goal of a spa treatment is to relax your body and mind, my muscles immediately contract and paralyze and my mind is filled with porn. Every time one of the tight blonde estheticians rubs cooling cream onto my face, I can’t prevent myself from drooling. When the cute masseuse asks me how my summer is going I attempt to impress her with exotic travel stories but instead sound like I have Autism.

Everyone knows that friend from highschool who insists on organizing monthly events in order to chain the group together for life. In my case, this friend is unfortunately very very attractive. But more unfortunately, she has the tendency to greet people with a kiss on the lips. She also employs this habit when congratulating, saying goodbye, displaying approval and when drunk. Although the average heterosexual woman would view these kisses as minor pecks, I cannot ignore the soft, pillow like quality of her lips. I understand that she is just a friendly person but her kisses cause the appearance of my invisible boner. Its appearance prevents me from just letting loose at these monthly parties. Even though I should get over my “hello” kiss in mere seconds I cannot help but feel super uncomfortable every time we make eye contact. I also feel a horrible urge to die whenever her hand accidentally brushes past mine for the veggies and dip. Although her constant communication through the art of kissing may make her seem slutty and interested, I know that she just thinks of me as her nerdy and endearing friend Radcliffe U. Hall.

So as the gays are all celebrating how homo-rific it is to be them, I will be cursing the weight that I carry as a lesbian. So while you enjoy basic things like a hair cut, a bra fitting or a bikini wax, I will be grappling with the social pain that is my invisible boner. I hope to one day live in a world where Stacy, Marlene, the spa staff and my kissing friend are just another group of people. But until that day, I will dry my hands, wear a bib and practice speech therapy.