A Year Straight by Elena Azzoni Page A

leaning back, smiling and twirling my pen in my hand.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œDon’t use the word female as a noun.”
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    SINCE I’D RECENTLY learned that women appreciate each other’s outfits more than men do, I was excited to once again get decked out for the girls.
    By the time I arrived at the party, the other women were already tipsy, refilling each other’s flutes with Veuve before their glasses were even empty. Apparently, we were all overdue for a break from men. The gracious host walked around offering hush puppies to her guests, playfully serving them off the mound of cleavage pouring out of her dress. Our private party area was sectioned off from the rest of the bar by thick red velvet curtains. Since there were no men at the party, there was a relaxed, playful feeling in the room. It felt like I was in the dressing room at the strip club where my friend used to work. Hidden from the male gaze, the girls would compliment each other’s outfits and fluff each other’s hair in an air of camaraderie.
    â€œWho makes your dress?” asked a voice with a thick accent, German I suspected. I turned to face a gorgeous girl
in a beautiful dress. She had a cast on her hand, which she’d attempted to cover with a matching silk wrap.
    â€œOh, it’s Weston Wear,” I said, “my favorite designer from San Francisco. She was a dancer and therefore makes clothes you can actually move in.” I did a little wiggle to demonstrate.
    â€œI like it,” she said, running her fingers through the fabric. “But this type of clinging fabric does not work so well on me.”
    â€œI see you two have met,” the hostess said, bounding over with a bottle of bubbly. “Annika and Karoline are designers, and I think you’d really like their stuff. This is one of theirs,” she said, spinning around and bending over to showcase the open back of her dress.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” I said. Annika grabbed the bottle and filled my glass to the brim.
    â€œI need someone to keep up with me,” she said. “I am trying to numb the pain.” She held up her arm with the cast and frowned.
    â€œYeah, what happened there?” I asked.
    â€œPole dancing incident.”
    â€œOh.” I drank a generous gulp from my glass.
    â€œKaroline and I are taking classes, and I attempted some little stunts I should not have. I was trying to gracefully slide down the pole upside down and then lusciously drip myself into a chair. Let’s just say I received many black and blues, and Karoline almost had a heart attack.”
    Just then her friend walked up and joined the conversation.
    â€œThis is Karoline,” Annika said. Karoline reached out her hand to shake mine.
    The three of us chatted about clothes, a topic I never grow tired of. I could add designer to the list of things I’ve wanted to be. Their inspiration: sixties hippie meets layperson pole dancer. The result: long, bodice-hugging blouses (or short dresses if you dared, which apparently Paris Hilton did) thrown over jeans and topped off with, you guessed it, tall vintage boots. We made a natural trio and posed as Charlie’s Angels for the host’s flashing camera.
    As the night wore on, women started to forgo glasses altogether and instead drink champagne straight from the bottle. There was a charge of sexual energy in the room; the vortex the host, who pranced around snapping sexy photos. Women grabbed each other’s waists and pressed their chests together, puckering up to make kissy faces for the camera. Annika and I talked and laughed at the perimeter of the party, taking turns to stock up on double helpings of hors d’oeuvres.
    Suddenly there was a roar of cheering. I looked up to see two straight girls lip-locked under a piece of mistletoe someone was dangling above their heads. They were full on making out, French style (and not the bonjour kiss on each cheek). A