Being there, I was overwhelmed by such a sense of rightness that at one point I had to stop talking mid-sentence to stem the flow of tears running down my cheeks. ![]() But until that first visit to Cubbyhole, I hadn’t realized mine existed. This might not seem remarkable everyone has their tribe. And the more I looked, the more I liked it, and the more I saw women like me - short hair, drop-crotch pants, aggressive boots - and realized that the aesthetic I’d been projecting for months to stand out everywhere else meant that here I fit in. I perched on one, sipping my beverage and looking everywhere at once. But my friend marched me inside, claimed a couple of stools, and ordered drinks. I’d been nervous about entering a space that was only half mine - you know, the half that dates women. I’m smiling down into my lap, embarrassed by the camera, but behind the shy smile is something like ecstasy.Ī few hours before, I’d dithered on the threshold of Cubbyhole, a historic lesbian bar in the West Village. ![]() In it, I’m sitting across from her on the train, wearing a coat and plaid pants appropriate for mid-December. My best friend took a picture of me the night we went to Cubbyhole for the first time.
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