Ooooooh Ga Ga!
When I’m wearing my Lipstick hat (from the advice column Lipstick & Dipstick), I’m often dolling out spankings to hapless dykes who fall for heterosexual women. It just happened, they say. She doesn’t feel the same. I feel so connected to her.
Tsk, tsk, I shake my finger.
And now, here I am, head over heels for a straight chick. I know. I’m a hypocrite, but let me explain.
The object of my misguided affection: Stefani Germanotta. Also known as Lady Gaga.
Like the predicament our readers find themselves in, this woman doesn’t know my name, or even that I exist. But she does know how to make me dance, scream at the top of my lungs and turn me on (spiritually and intellectually, of course).
My flame for her is new; it was sparked a few weeks ago when my partner and I took our niece, who is 13-years-old, to the Monster Ball for her birthday. Our niece brought a friend and they made a sign. (“We’re Gaga for Gaga,” it said. Adorable.)
We wouldn’t have gone to the show otherwise. It was all for sweet Meg. We even dressed up boas and crazy glasses. But when we got to the show and the Lady walked out on stage, something magical happened. I fell in love. So did my partner. We decided to open up our relationship to Gaga.
Before this night, I had the token hits on my iPod—"Just Dance," "Bad Romance," "Pokerface"—but that night, we were both engulfed by Gaga’s sassy, flirtatious, brilliantly fanned flame and I’ve been on fire ever since.
Let me tell you why. First, the woman can sing. She’s not just a siren dressed up in a suit made of bubble gum, a babe wrapped in tin foil, Gaga is a darn near prodigy with the voice of an angel. (She adds flecks of grit when she so chooses.) If you haven’t already, you should see her play the piano and sing. It’s like a crisp fall morning breeze hitting your face…while you’re having an orgasm. Did I mention she has a great rack?
Second, her shows aren’t concerts; they’re pop operas, theatrical vehicles that take you on a journey to the Monster Ball, which has many twists and turns, including a sexually-charged monster mauling in Central Park.
And how about those legs. Oy vey. Me, I like a girl with some meat on her bones, but that little googoogaga works hard for the money and her perfectly sculpted body (one she’s 100 percent comfortable in) is creamy, living proof.
The list goes on. She’s ruthlessly, unapologetically and passionately living her life, being who she wants on any given day and unafraid to speak her mind. She also takes that chutzpa and attempts—very sincerely—to channel it to her fans. “Be brave,” she rallies at shows. “You’re beautiful”
Last, and certainly not least (the contrary actually), I am smitten with this woman because she is a champion for me, for us, for all her little queer monsters, who she loves, loves, loves and fights for any chance she gets. Over and over at her show, Gaga said that LGBTs deserve equal rights and that there nothing wrong with us and we should believe in who we are. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this the first time in pop culture we’ve heard this message so clearly from someone on the Forbes 100 Most Powerful list? And isn’t she pretty darn near close to #1 these days? (I hear she sold out two arena-size bowls in one hour here in Vancouver.)
I’ll hop on off my Gaga Soap Box, but I’ll end with this. Unlike many of the heartbroken women who write into Dipstick and I, I will not lament over my unrequited love for sweet Stefani. Instead, I’ll celebrate it and spread the good news, along with my partner and millions of other little gay monsters who’ve also fallen for this “straight chick.”
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