Last night I was invited to an event coming up this weekend called “Breast Fest.” It’s an all-woman party thinger a friend is hosting. Now, Andreas and I both have our gender issues (anyone remember the goddess revival?), but Dre got really into asking our friends who are part of “Breast Fest” why they felt the need to have a gender-segregated event.

One of our friends explain that Los Angeles (and elsewhere) women are ogled, objectified, and peripheralized a lot. That women here (and elsewhere, too) learn to act differently around men than they do around women, and therefore an event for women lets the attendees enjoy being feminine around the females…without concern of aggressive male-types around.

“But, what if sexually aggressive lesbians showed up?” Andreas asked. Our friend answered, “That wouldn’t be ok either. We’re trying to create a safe, non-predatory environment.”

“So, even if I want to paint my nails and do belly dancing and sit naked in a hot tub, I can’t go?” Andreas asked. Our friend explained that while those of us that know him understand that he’s about the nicest, most feministic, least predatory guy on the face of the planet, women who aren’t famililiar with him wouldn’t know that. Therefore, no, he couldn’t come, even if he wanted to paint his nails (which, by the way, he does more than I do).

It was an interesting discussion, and I think that both Andreas and I are exceptionally spoiled. As the daughter of a feminist and a gender-progressive father, I grew up with the privilege of taking equality between the sexes for granted. I learned not to customize my personality to fit with the people in the room. Andreas, as the son of a lesbian, grew up with the privilege of being surrounded by strong, intelligent, outspoken women, and understanding the nuances of gender-identity and sexual-identity.

And now here we are in Los Angeles. Pornography capitol of the world. Home to hundreds of thousands of cosmetically-altered slender women and the men who like to look at them. I have a super-heightened awareness of all the sexual dynamics I’m immersed in here…I called a bike store to check prices on a cruiser I wanted, and the super-friendly sales guy gave me a great price, and then finished the conversation with, “So, why don’t you put on that cute little sun-dress, walk over, and hook yourself up with the perfect Venice beach bike?”

Oops, I’m sorry: did you just tell me to put on a cute little sun-dress? Wow, I’m so spoiled by Seattle. I heard a story on NPR once about a survey that had looked at the best states for women to live. They looked at mortality rates, employment figures, salaries, domestic violence levels, healthcare, sexual harassment suits, and other factors, and found that Washington, Vermont, and Connecticut were the best in the nation. In Seattle, unlike LA, I’ve never had a man tell me, “Wow, Ariel. You’re, like, a guy,” because I swore and spoke my mind.

Anyway, I’m keenly aware of it now…but I worry that it’s going to be like when I first moved from quaint little Bainbridge Island into the city. At first I was keenly aware of panhandlers. Now my brain does an instant “Yes, I see you. You’re broke. I’m close to broke, but I’m not asking you for money” justification, and I say “Sorry, not today,” and keep walking. At times I get quite afraid that I’ll get equally numb to LA and its fucked up gender politics.