by Radcliffe U. Hall
The other day I was partaking in my favourite weekend activity of categorizing my mail, when instead of my anticipated PetSmart bill I came across a black envelope with my name embossed in gold letters. There was no return address and it had been sealed with that waxy substance usually seen in movies about the French Revolution or Shakespeare. It smelled like a combination of cheap perfume and danger. I immediately worried that I had involuntarily accepted a membership to La Senza. But even all of these strange elements could not prepare me for what was inside. According to the eggshell coloured invitation imprinted with silver italics, I, Radcliffe U. Hall, had been invited to a secret society of lesbians.

I was busy waving my exiting invite in front of my cat’s face when she began hysterically clawing at the bottom right hand corner of the card. At first I chalked her behaviour up to raging jealousy, but then I realized there was a fine print I had failed to notice. Apparently, I hadn’t actually been invited to the secret society. Rather, I had been invited to be considered for the secret society.

My invitation told me that all I had to do was send in a photo of myself and then the panel of lesbian secret society judges would determine if my looks were worthy. So I got to work rifling through my family albums in the hopes of finding some choice glamour shots. There were few of those. There were, however, many of me as a child and more of me during my awkward years as the most masculine cheerleader of all time. I was just about to attempt looking for some artistic photos of me in the bath when I realized how ridiculous this whole thing was. Who were these people? Was this all just a ploy to kidnap all of Toronto’s hottest lesbians? Would they be sold as sex slaves to men and be made to belly dance with fire and tigers? My joy at being included in something sexy and unknown rapidly turned into a terrible fear of captivity and bondage.

And, above all, who specifically was this panel of judges? Even if their intentions were to create a lesbian version of The Skulls, what did my photo tell them? Yes, my jaw is extremely chiseled, but it alone cannot reveal my talents for conversation, water colours and archery. And also, in certain angles I look freakish. As a non-photogenic person I began to worry that I was a monster. I started to develop a case of low self esteem. My initial excitement at the fun prospect of wearing a Druid hood and chanting had been completely demolished by my new resentment of my own chin.

And then I had a genius idea. I put my photos aside and searched for the most alluring and eye-catching glossy of Rihanna. I sent it in as my own. Within days I had received another envelope; it congratulated me for being such an attractive lesbian in society and asked me to become one in secret as well. While I patted myself on the back for passing the physical requirements I read the next step in my new membership: I was to choose four of my most attractive and wealthy friends and bring them with me to a pre-planned secret society event. This event enticed me. I wondered what it would entail: wine tasting? poetry? pumpkin carving? But then I had to harshly remind myself that they had invited Rihanna and her hottest, most wealthiest friends. I was not of their concern.

The invitation stressed that this secret society event was strictly for the choicest physical specimens and boasted a rejection promise of 70%. As an invitee, Rihanna/I were to be comforted with the knowledge that no lesbian riff raff would gain entry to spoil the goods. But who would qualify as lesbian riff raff? Amputees? The homeless? Children? No matter how curious I might have been as the potential hilarity of the event itself, I utterly resisted the urge to support such a silly lesbian circus. If I truly wanted to party in a dungeon with a group of deluded hotties I would probably spend the night at Circa. I felt that any secret society that would allow Rihanna access but would surely reject a fun character like Bea Arthur would not be a very good party. Harry Potter and his magic club is a better secret society. And I’m sure they would not require my photo, only my cauldron stirring skills as well as my impenetrable hexes.