'A Year Straight' By Elena Azzoni - Book Excerpt

After having spent nearly her entire adult life dating women (and liking it), Elena Azzoni felt pretty secure in her sexual orientation: she’d even just been crowned Miss Lez. Then, one day in yoga class, a male teacher moved in close to adjust her pose…and she suddenly found herself intensely—bafflingly—attracted to him.

After having spent nearly her entire adult life dating women (and liking it), Elena Azzoni felt pretty secure in her sexual orientation: she’d even just been crowned Miss Lez. Then, one day in yoga class, a male teacher moved in close to adjust her pose…and she suddenly found herself intensely—bafflingly—attracted to him. Eventually she initiated a flirtation with him; after that, there was no going back. A Year Straight is a chronicle of the hilariously disastrous year following Azzoni’s abrupt dive into the world of dating men: old enough to drink and keep her own hours, but as clueless as an adolescent when it comes to deciphering men’s words and actions, Azzoni is uniquely positioned to find herself in some ridiculously absurd scenarios. Often cringe-worthy and occasionally unbelievable, A Year Straight is a wildly entertaining look at one woman’s dating escapades. Read Chapter One - The Adjustment below.

Azzoni has performed her written and comedic stage work at various venues throughout New York City and the San Francisco Bay Area. In November 2007, her one-woman show, This Is the Way I Pray: Confessions of a Yearning Heart on a Sugar High, received standing ovations each night of its sold-out run at BAX Theater in Brooklyn, NY. She also appeared as a “Straight Coach” in a comedy sketch on the Logo Channel, and in the debut issue of the I Heart Brooklyn Girls calendar. Azzoni received an MFA from New College, and a BA in Women, Gender and Sexuality Studies from UMASS, Amherst. She currently lives in Paris, France. Find out more about the author and A Year Straight on Elena Azzoni's website.

Chapter one - The Adjustment

The ladies’ locker room was abuzz with women racing to change, so they could place their mats up front near Him, The Yoga Teacher. The faint guttural chants of kirtan rock star Krishna Das played on repeat over the hum of hair dryers in an effort to calm our New York nerves. But there was no sign of Zen around there. There was, rather, a subtle current of competition. I snuck peeks at the other women as they pranced around in lacy thongs, sifting frantically through their lockers for yoga pants, lotion, and hair ties. With my long hair and lipstick, I fell under the gaydar and was free to gaze. It had been years since I’d been concerned with impressing a man, so as the other women primped and groomed, I rolled my eyes, relieved to have no interest whatsoever in competing in that particular pageant.

One Month Earlier . . .

“Let’s have a big round of applause for all of our contestants!”

The spotlight is blinding, and a bead of sweat makes its way down my temple in agonizing slow motion, dissolving into my red-sequined evening gown. Standing ovation from a sold-out audience, more than three hundred in attendance. The Luna Lounge is over max capacity. The fire department told us so. Following four hours of grueling competition and eight laborious costume changes, it’s time to determine the winner. We’ve performed our various talents, including a tranny boi band, my eighties retro jazz dance, and someone giving birth to a doll. Likewise, we’ve endured the ever-dreaded swimsuit competition and the nerve-racking interview segment, in which at least one contestant routinely flops. Backstage is littered with wigs, glitter, and silicone accoutrements of varying colors, lengths, and girths. It looks like a tornado passed through a sex toy shop.

“And the winner is . . . ”

Murray Hill places the sash over my shoulder and the tiara on my head. A fellow contestant hugs me, nearly knocking it off. I’ve won! I’ve won the crown! Journalists paw at me as my picture is snapped alongside the panel of celebrity judges. I smile and wave at the sea of screaming women. I am the new Miss Lez.

I’d resisted the pageant at first. After posing as a Baywatch babe in the premier issue of the lesbian calendar “I Heart Brooklyn Girls,” my friends encouraged me to go for the crown.

“You can represent the calendar!”

My shy side battled my inner Carmen Electra. Ever since I could kick-ball-change, I’d been dancing in recitals, performing in plays, and mocking myself in my own comedic routines. I was no stranger to the stage, but I was ready to retire, done with the sleepless nights leading up to shows, where I’d bolt upright in a panic, wondering, How did I get myself into this? But I eat up the spotlight like a plate of baked ziti. I consoled myself, assuming the pageant would entail one week of performance anxiety followed by one humiliating night under bright lights, and then it’d be done. But I won.

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