Last night, my friend threw a meet and greet for all of her queer ladies. It wasn’t nearly as scandalous as it sounds. But, yeah, there was a little bit of scandal.

It was a “dry” get-together and we were all just hanging around, getting to know each other, catching up with old friends, griping about finals, and passing around a bag of chips. And then they came in. Fresh from a workout together. Fresh from the showers. Just fresh.

I have a weakness for women with athletic bodies. But black women with athletic bodies? Oh, heavens me. And a whole group of them from one team. Laughing, smiling, joking. There were four of them. Three of which took on the more “butch” side of the spectrum and the fourth more “femme”. I really hate using those terms. But substitute in whatever you want there that makes you happy.

I got into talking with one of the members of the former group. She was incredibly chill, interesting, kind of flirty.  She had changed from her workout clothing and was in a loose pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a flannel, and a baseball cap turned backwards. So many Ivy buttons, some that I didn’t even think existed, were being pushed.

But that big ol’ red button got slammed down when someone said they couldn’t get the packaging off of a board game across the room. Without hesitation, she reached into her pocket, whipped out a pocket knife, and flicked it open. It was larger than your average bear pocket knife.

I stared, practically hypnotized. She followed the line of my sight. And smirked. 

To be continued.

(Also, do you know how hard it was to find a remotely not-white picture of a female athletic body? Jeez, tumblr.)