The High Lesbian

COLUMN | ISSUE FOUR/20 | RONGOĀ / DRUGS

Written by the Hot Lesbian she/her | @hot_lesbian_initiative

Before I was a hot lesbian, I was a big stoner. You could say weed made me gay, but I always had it in me. Don’t wanna sound like a Tom Scott song, but I love getting stoney bro. The political and economic state of the world right now fades to the back of my hinengaro. A wave of deep relaxation sets in, and before you know it, kua tau te rangimārie. When I really thought about it, some of my gayest memories always had a blunt involved.

Takatāpui Wā? We love weed g. Almost every (3-8hr) date I had ended in a smoke at some girl's flat or a joint while lying together in the long grass up Maungawhau. A girl date is just constantly relatable, sexy, always pono and tika, genius-level yarns. Add a fat joint to that hononga? Deep soul-pussy connection, and the world is saved. To me, Mere-Jane was made for the gays. In my sapphic story? I don’t think I would be the dyke I am today without thee divine electric pūha. So here’s 3 memories/stories where my lesbianism and sticky buds intertwined, forging my hot lesbian identity today.

The Boat Ramp

She’s swerving haphazardly down the steep winding Titirangi roads and somehow making it look really casual, even though it feels hectic. We just had a coffee at some flash wank café, and talked shit for about 2 hours. “Keen for a smoke?” Uh, duh. I told her there was a boat ramp with a mean view not far from here. We jumped in her sexy, old nana hatchback and hooned down the back roads. “Everything is in my glovebox, aha; wanna rip up the weed?” She kept reaching over real close to grab things. I got nervous, tearing up the buds badly. She took over, making fun of me, and quickly rolled up a joint for both of us. We were parked just above the water's edge, and it lapped gently against the concrete ramp. The windscreen framed the cloudless sky, pink and orange hues painted above the Manukau harbour. Old pohutakawa overhung the spot, its lanky and far-reaching branches creeping into the scene. But I didn’t even look at the view much. We were too busy talking. And maybe I was too busy staring. But she matched my hypo, annoying energy, and so neither of us could shut the fuck up. She was really funny, like funnier than me, which I was kinda like, ugh, ok, whatever, outdo me. But I got over myself pretty quickly. As we drove out of the dark South Titirangi valley with all the windows down, I played one of my favourite songs for her.

West Auckland Dykes

“Fuckin slow down, g!” Everyone wants to speed down West Auckland roads. The bush blitzes past the window at what feels like lightspeed. I trust my homie fully, though. The natives drive with reckless precision, handling the dodgy corners with ease. I brought some yuck edibles and the makings of a phat blunt. “Bitch you came to get zooted!” Of course I did. After all week being mahi dogs at our shit jobs, it was time to relax. We shot off straight into the Waitākeres, on the way to one of many scenic spots scattered through her bush. 

We’re cruising through sleepy Huia. It’s an overcast day with a chill in the air, and we’re both in flannels layered over thick hoodies. I didn't know I was a homo yet either, but I felt at home with my mate, cause we’re the same in a way we don’t know yet. Or maybe we do, but don’t say. I’m finalising the stony method of delivery when I catch her staring. I brush off my sticky fingers. “Ea what?” “Huh?” “You’re looking at me funny. What is it?” “Nothing man, hurry up.”  It’s not time to smoke yet; this was just a pit stop before the final destination. She drives along the coast, a dodgy cliffside on our right. I gaze out the window, listening to the homies' fresh trap playlist. Dark waters swallow the grey sky, and the tide is all the way in. An embankment of rocks juts out from the shore into the wai. My mate points it out to me. “Oi, you know what that is?” “What?” “A dyke.”

The Smoke Dawg

The bus ride is painstakingly slow, and I’m already late as. Stopping at a dairy, I shoot out to grab some kai for the date. Uhh, let me just get a Whittaker's block, and got any fancy crackers, boss? That’ll show her I got mad pūtea. I walk to the park, and I think I see her, wearing a colourful jumper, dark green with patches of bright pink and yellow. Sitting, staring at something at the edge of the water. “Sorry, I’m so late, caught the wrong bus.” “Oh, that’s ok, I’ve just been enjoying watching the tuna swimming around.” She was soft spoken and shy, the rest of her outfit making her look like a beautiful Opshop fairy. She had sparkly eye shadow and uniquely placed eyeliner. Quirky and ataahua too. I thought I was providing the Whittaker’s and flash crackers. Miss brought a whole vintage picnic set with the ploughman's parāoa, and heaps of fillings to match. Okay, considerate. I like you already.

“Wanna come to mine?” At my flat, she started looking through my books, picking random facts to share with me. Cute ea. I rolled a big joint, like at least a 3.5g. She lit it, and our kōrero continued to flow. She listed off her iwi. Phew, we ain’t cousins. But she’s from Maniapoto! I had to show her the Maniapoto Voices. Songs of the Māori. Mean album! “Kāhore he wāhine he rite ki a Hinemoa!” The warbling, harmonising kuia made me feel more stony than I was. I hadn’t had a toke in a bit. I looked over, and Miss sweetie pie had smoked most of the massive blunt. “Farrrkin hell girl damn!” “Hehe, my bad.” She smiled sweetly back at me, with the reddest of eyes.