In all the legends, all the mythology, no one has recorded their existence before. More elusive than the beast of Loch Ness, more prized than the Sphinx.
Finally, caught on camera, we see them— the Lesbian Cheerleaders. The angry sirens finally showed their faces, albeit in a pitiable meltdown. They did not go gently. The bruise the blond butch gave that straight woman who crossed her is a shiner for the ages. They fought the sheriff; they went down slammin'. Those TopCats sure are tough.
Do you have any idea how many "lesbian cheerleader porn sites" there are? I gave up flipping the Google pages. Not one of those women is a real cheerleader; none of them are out-of-the-closet lesbians making a serious declaration. There are no "Goddammit, I'm a real dyke and a genuine cheerleader" forums. No esoteric little support groups. Nada.
And yet.... from the field, we see it differently. Professional cheerleaders are serious athletes and dancers. Their reputation has withered to their sex appeal, but the physical demands they make upon themselves have never been more rigorous.
They're required to look like angels, but work out like Decathlon contenders. They are the incarnation of the All-American Girl, albeit in Vegas showgirl bikinis. They must inspire hysterical sexual fantasy, yet remain entirely chaste. It's a great place to work if you're adept at keeping secrets and abuse to yourself.
And now we have Reneé, and Angela, NFL pros, caught in the glare of their mug photos. They committed the unpardonable female sin of tying up the women's john in an overcrowded Tampa bar. The impatient ladies in line revolted: "Goddammit, we've got to tinkle and those dykes are GETTING IT ON in the stall."
There was an ambush. Someone called the police— "Officer, this is Florida, and homosexuals are using our toilets." The dykes came out swinging— the younger one, underage, gave a registered nurse a perfect black eye. The dark-haired older one, (also a RN!) tussled with the police. The sheriff announced they were almost too drunk to stand up, and the mug shots show the beginnings of a hangover. I've always wondered— how can you be too drunk to stand, yet have deadly aim with your fists?
The frenzy began immediately: the TV spit in all directions, the Panthers' official web site crashed; ESPN never had a bigger story. Pictures were demanded and dissected.
Most of the web comments came from horny men who couldn't believe they'd found the mother lode, the actual article of the lesbian cheerleader. They had no concerns about the girls' career... one man said, "if they make a video where they fist each other's mayonnaise jars like there's no tomorrow, they'll be set." He apparently has no idea how little porn models are paid, regardless of their ephemeral fame.
A more realistic assessment appeared in the forums at the Charlotte Observer, where the porndogs were interrupted by citizens who fumed that these girls had shamed North Carolina, that they were disgusting perverts who made the South look bad, and that they couldn't be driven out of town on a rail fast enough.
As cruel as they are, these sentiments are exactly what Reneé and Angela face in their future, far more than mayonnaise jars full of cash. They can either get a little money and infamous disgrace, as stupid drunk lesbo bimbos— or they can disappear, change their names, and find different careers from what they trained for all their lives.
There's little chance that they will appear on Ellen DeGenere's daytime TV show to talk about how proud they are to be gay— and how now that they're in a 12-step program to quit drinking, they can reveal how the shame of one's sexuality can practically kill you.
There have always been serious lesbians in the "beautiful girl" professions: modeling, acting, beauty pageants, sexy sports. The strippers and call girls are part of it, too. They are cultivatated to look like Barbies, and the butchest ones regard it as pure drag.
They feel estranged from political dykes, who they know regard them as traitors. Their argument is: "Fuck you, I'm independent, I make my own money, and men can kiss my ass." They regard themselves as hustlers of exceptional toughness, both physically and mentally. They really are the ultimate separatists. Your typical lesbian cheerleader couldn't care less about men, or straight people, or anyone outside their carny-like insider world.
I should say, that I don't know these two women, and fact-wise, I don't have any more idea than you whether they are homosexual, bisexual, or drunksexual. They may even be libeled by their accusers. My thoughts here are a speculation on nothing but damning appearances. The reason I may sound plausible is because, underneath it all, we know that women like this are suppressed beyond good reason, and at some point, it's going to blow up. The miracle is that it hasn't erupted so publicly before.
I was once in love with a cheerleader. And she loved me. I was the brunette and she was the blond. She tried to show me how to throw a baton, but I was useless at it. The nature of our relationship was secret, and I was terrible at that, too. The only thing I am good at, is becoming infatuated with girls who have long swinging hair on the outside, but James-Dean-on-destruct appetites under that shiny crown.
I read Reneé as a butch in drag. Here's her motto from her Panthers bio: "Pain is weakness leaving the body." Her deepest loyalties lie with her family and her three dogs. When that straight bitch outside the barroom stall insulted her girlfriend, Reneé clocked her but good. Oh my god, I'm in love.
Angela is older by six years. She knows her new lover is a pistol, who pulls on all her maternal strings. At the same time, that child-demon offers the perfect escape from the good-girl grind.
The pressure will be on our lovebirds to disassociate, to deny anything happened, to put on the mask. But in my dreams, they would defy all that they've been scorned with.
What I love about Angela and Reneé, is that unlike every fake lez cheerleader porno, they did their "sex act" in the women's room— for themselves, oblivious to everyone else. That's what I cherish, that they got it on for their own self-interest, as opposed to the panting crowd, the GGW camera, the titillation machine.
Reneé might do some Bounty Hunter makeover, like the famous Domino, or the drummer from the Runaways. Those are her butch ancestors, although it would be nice to leave the drug abuse behind.
Angela, the femme, has a more difficult path, because she can't reinvent herself as easily at her age. She wants to be a mom, she wants to be trusted for her nurturing qualities, and only the other dyke femmes in the audience see that now. Those mean straight ladies with their bibles and sharp rulers in their hands want to see her damned as as whore and never let up. The discriminating porn fans see that she is not conventionally pretty, and have already sentenced her to the dog pound.
Angela said, on the Panthers' web site, that her motto is: "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away."
Her affair with Reneé took the wind out of her— but good. It remains to be seen how the future will measure up. I hope they will find it was worth every damn second.
