Dear sexy Williamsburg hipster lesbian,

I wasn’t planning on going out the night we met. I had been in the midst of a months-long post-breakup haze, and didn’t really feel like putting on red lipstick and getting on the Long Island Railroad in 20-degree weather. I would say a greater force told me to go, but that’s not true; it was my gay BFF, Arran, yelling at me that did the trick. I put on a short skirt, stockings, and thigh-high boots when I really wanted to be in flannel pajamas shoveling chocolate in my mouth and crying. I didn’t have a choice. I was going.

I had never been to Brooklyn for a party or a club. I was a freshman in college, a semi-sheltered guidette, and still living on Long Island with my parents (little did I know what I was in for). I associated Brooklyn with visiting my old Italian relatives, not bumping queer parties. After what seemed like an eternity of a walk in the frigid cold, Arran and I arrived at an apartment. Everyone was so gay. Everyone was so weird (the good weird). I was intoxicated. I was also anxious AF.

Arran disappeared almost immediately to make out with some guy wearing a jockstrap. I sucked down a Solo cup of wine, trying not to appear like I was full-blown panicking. My mind swirled. Do I have red-wine teeth? How am I going to get home? What if I never get over my ex-girlfriend? What if Arran totally ditches me? Does everyone think I’m a loser from Long Island? Do they know I’m not old enough to drink? Then I saw you.

“Hey,” you called out to me, sipping a beer in your fur jacket and stacked platform Demonia boots. There is no way she’s talking me, I thought. But you were.

I was rendered shooketh by how hot you were — shoulder-length, perfectly straight, black hair, messy-but-sexy black eyeshadow, and fishnets on your impossibly long legs. I scooped my boobs back into my bodysuit (damn you, low v-necks) and tried to look the perfect balance of interested and blasé. You saw through me and asked me to come outside with you for a cigarette. I felt like Cinderella going to the ball.

“What’s your favorite book?” you asked as the cold air whipped against my chest and my 26-inch hair extensions tangled in the wind. You made a big show of lighting your cigarette while leaning against the building. I realized I still hadn’t said a word but decided I was in love with you, as baby queers are wont to do.

I was still trying to remember the title of the book you told me about when you leaned over and kissed me. It was the kind of kiss that makes your head spin. Sure, I had had plenty of kisses before then, but none with a cool Brooklynite hipster lesbian.

After our makeout, I stumbled around the party in a happy daze, willing you to find me again, but we both got lost in the sea of glitter and sweat. Looking back, I suspect you were being more of a lesbian sage than you were hitting on me. That our connection likely only existed in that perfect moment. You were fulfilling your role as a seasoned queer by kissing the awkward and anxious college girl. But I still think about that moment every so often — how it shaped me. You didn’t give me my first kiss, but ours remains my most exciting. Plus, you introduced me to “Even Cowgirls Get The Blues,” my favorite book ever.  

When I tiptoed into my bedroom at 4 a.m., your purple lipstick was still on my face. I went to bed smiling and, like a huge weirdo, made the conscious choice not to wash it off. I was bursting at the seams with excitement that, one day, I’d be able to have nights like tonight all the time.  

I did everything I could to find you after that, but I didn’t even know your name, and even the best social-media sleuths need some sort of identifying information to go off of. So for the last seven years, you’ve just existed as this memory. I’m not an over-anxious freshman gulping down the contents of a Solo cup anymore. I’m probably closer to being like you, in that fur coat and towering platforms. So the next time I see an awkward young queer at a party, I’ll be sure to carry on your tradition. But, if you’re single, call me.