Ah, the elusive dyke nod. I've searched far and wide for it. I've spent years prowling mean New York City streets, praying for the opportunity to share that moment with another gaywad: that magical, wordless moment in which a big time lesbo sees me, identifies me as a fellow homosexual and then ever-so-slightly jerks her head upwards while maintaining eye contact. It's not a come-on; it's an acknowledgment of our mutual status as a marginally oppressed minority. And it's yet to happen to me.

Whenever I try to give the dyke nod, I get one of two reactions (neither of them being particularly desirable):
1. They lick their lips and smirk at me, as if to say, "I know you want it. Good news, bi-curious stranger: maybe someday you can have it."
2. They look away in horror and then act as if it never happened.

More often than not, it's the latter, but that's not my point. My point is this: I don't look gay, so I never get the dyke nod. Of course, this could be remedied by chopping off all my hair, wearing a Tegan and Sara hoodie or tromping around in a pair of unbecoming combat boots. Then I'd get the nod. At least I'd like to think I would.

Problem is, that's not my style. I like to think of the high femme aesthetic as something comparably gay-looking. Just as women on the butcher end of the spectrum tend to dress and conduct themselves parodically (i.e. like the manliest man you've ever known), femmes do the same, but they're lampooning femininity. In the same dazzling vein as fiercely campy drag queens, femmes wear those corsets and those fake eyelashes and those collagen lip injections with a wink and a smile. I would kill to look as good as Wesley Snipes in To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything! Julie Newmar.
Here's the problem: straight girls can look like drag queens as well. Which is why I've gotten so many confused looks from too-much-makeup-wearing off-duty hairdressers in their spike heels and tiny dresses. Another femme! I'll squeal internally, and awkwardly nod in their direction. That's when they look away, either perplexed or repulsed, and that's when I notice that they've got one hand tucked in the back pocket of their boyfriend's hideous Ed Hardy jeans.

Last night at my bar, I started talking to the barback, a butch girl with a physique reminiscent of a body-builder. I noticed that another outrageously jacked dyke had sauntered into the bar, and I asked the barback the following question: "Do you give other dykes with large muscles a special nod?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"I mean, you know the dyke nod? Like when you're walking down the street and you see someone and then you guys nod at each other because you're both dykes?"

"Yeah...?"

"Well, I was just wondering if you had a special nod for girls who look like they spend as much time in the gym lifting weights as you do."

"No. I mean, I'll sometimes nod, yeah, and I'm usually thinking, 'I could kick their ass' or something when I see them, but that's it. Nothing special."

Hmmm. I started thinking about what it would be like if those who belonged to different subcultures had specific ways of acknowledging each other in the street. Like if femme girls flipped their hair at each other while nodding. If futch girls smudged their guyliner and adjusted their skinny ties while nodding. If stone butches grabbed their flaccid faux-cocks while nodding. Lesbo junkies would mime shooting up while nodding, and vegan performance artists would just piss on their canvas shoes while pulling a crucifix out of their butt while nodding. Or something. You get the picture.

As a self-identified high-femme who's lazy as hell and thus ends up looking like a softball dyke by default more often than not, I'm not quite sure what kind of nod I'd hope to get. I'm the type of girl who buys herself a pair of baggy gold leggings to cheer herself up, who avoids the color pink or anything coyly feminine like the plague, who'll wear overall shorts on a first date cause I think they're comfortable (forgetting in turn that they're also unflattering, suburban and better suited to a husky male toddler).

All this pining for the almighty dyke nod leaves me weary and lethargic, but I'll continue to practice my dyke nod in the mirror and hope that one day, someone sees me on the street, acknowledges that I, too, revel in the joys of having an ass-naked female in my bed, that I, too, refer to my pet as my child, that I, too, can enjoy the occasional hummus-oriented meal, and that I, too, suffer the hardships that sexual minorities suffer, and nods their damn head.