Nothing Scandalous to See Here

In early Autumn, I went to Blue Ridge Pride here in Asheville (they hold their Pride festival in September. No, I don’t know why. I sent an email with the question and still don’t have an answer, but have a feeling it will be hopelessly mundane, and Pride should never be hopelessly mundane).

As I watched all of the people and dogs stream by, I was struck by the similarities and differences with my first Pride. This was only my third event attended in the 30 years I’ve identified as queer. My introverted nature means that my response to anyone asking me to a large gathering of any kind usually includes a “We’ll see…” as I stumble backward out of the room and begin to plot an illness that incapacitates me precisely on that date.

My first Pride was in 1993 in Denver. It was June, because most pride festivals are held in June and not September and now I’m completely obsessed with why Blue Ridge Pride chose to celebrate Pride in the autumn.

Still no answer.

Anyway, Stephanie drove us to the parade on her motorcycle, and we met our friends in front of The Detour, a lesbian bar just down the street from the Capitol building. A couple of barrels filled with water sat out front for people to fill squirt guns to spray at the parade participants. With our continually full water pistols, we did our duty and shot water into the air to sprinkle over drag queens and leather-clad folks. Our aim became more accurate with those whose clothes could handle the extra moisture. All of them waved in gracious thanks, and I smiled with glee to be of use.

The first time a bare-breasted woman walked up to us and demanded to be sprayed, I was shocked. Everyone else laughed heartily, made her the target of our cooling spritzes, and she swung back into the parade. My compatriots refilled and continued their refreshing duty.

This is normal? This just happens at Pride?! I was stunned.

I mean, I’d heard about guys with ass-less chaps, but I thought the women would be more circumspect. Lesbians all seemed, well, serious. This couldn’t be right. But then again, we were here with our squirt guns and being silly as hell.

After the third incident, I could no longer deny it. Lesbians could be as silly as anything. And I should know, since I was a silly lesbian and lived with a silly lesbian (who brought the biggest and best water gun, the Super Soaker!) and had been taught to rejoice in delight by another lesbian who, while she did have an absolutely serious side, knew how to embrace a silly moment.

And this whole shirtless ladies thing? It was just a part of Pride Festivals. As far as I could tell, this expression had more to do with cooling off than showing off. The position seemed to be, “If men can take their shirts off, why can’t we do the same on this hot summer day?”

Good question! Is there a Lesbian Law about that?

Back to 2022! As I roamed around the Blue Ridge Pride festival, I estimated that one out of every 10 women in the 21-26 year age range had gone completely or almost topless. All of the ones I saw wore stickers over their nipples, the majority sporting iridescent stars. Tops made of a broadly looped netting or lace laid decoratively over their skin, but some just were topless or walked around with regular button-down shirts open.

Nostalgia flung me into a memory of abundant youth, where I felt free and adventurous. I remembered the power of that youthful beauty glistening from the inside out. Dressing up, selecting your costume, finding just the right effect! You own your body and can choose to do with it what you want. It’s a show, not an invitation.

Unless you choose to invite someone.

So many layers to this one silly fashion choice.

And yet, in this crowd of 10,000-plus people, nothing about their choice felt unsafe. Most were paired or roaming in a group, delighted in shocking and attracting notice.

Each time one of these lovely ladies passed me, I felt like an aunt waving someone out the door to go have fun. A proud feeling. A gentle feeling. A hope that they felt the same freedom of that wild woman demanding to be cooled in the hot summer sun.

Of course, I sighed in remembrance of those days when my boobs were perky enough to stand to attention and show off. The first time I saw these young ladies, I looked down at my tits and…. Don’t get me wrong! I’ve got a great rack, but these days, my breasts are shown to best advantage with sturdy foundation garments and straining fabric over the top.

My friend, Chris, was the one who talked me into coming to Pride. He wanted company while he promoted his chiropractic practice, and I decided to promote my writing at the same time. He’d been to late-night parties after our local AIDS organization fundraisers, but the drag shows and light flirting hadn’t given him a warning about this part of Pride. I finally noticed his surprise, embarrassment, and uncertainty when these ladies walked by and caught his eye.

“What do you think about that?” he asked, a little nervously.

“Reminds me of my youth,” I explained. “It’s more about taking ownership of your own body than showing off.”

He contemplated the idea. He’s a deep thinker, caring and respectful in all of his actions. “Lori would not approve.”

Lori is his wife, a very nice but also straight-laced lady. She had visited us in the tent and was overwhelmed by the entire event. There was most likely no way that she missed seeing these young ladies, as prevalent as they were.

“Well, let’s not tell her then,” I smiled.

After all, there’s nothing scandalous to see here.

Image courtesy of LA Bourgeois