Gal Pals Quotes

I flick my eyes to the spot on her shoulder where her freckles match the constellations in the sky, and I smile. I get lost in her skin, sipping my drink and mapping the stars on her arm while everyone else talks and eats and laughs around me.

Young men are all very well in their place, but it doesn’t do to drag them into everything, does it? Diana and I are thinking seriously of promising each other that we will never marry but be nice old maids and live together forever

GUYS, GALS, & OUR NONBINARY PALS.

Another door on the right led to a half bathroom with a sign hanging on it that read: GUYS, GALS, & OUR NONBINARY PALS.

Her mom could easily clue in on the whole Iris likes girls thing just by looking at her room, but straight people do really love to gal-pal us up rather than face the truth—even when it’s hung on the walls.

Or, as a dear pal of the RevGals once advised, whoever you are and wherever God sends you, “Be fierce and fabulous for Jesus.

People who think that queer life consists of sex without intimacy are usually seeing only a tiny part of the picture, and seeing it through homophobic stereotype. The most fleeting sexual encounter is, in its way intimate. And in the way many gay men and lesbians live, quite casual sexual relations can develop into powerful and enduring friendships. Friendships, in turn, can cross into sexual relations and back. Because gay social life is not as ritualized and institutionalized as straight life, each relation is an adventure in nearly un-charted territory—whether it is between two gay men, or two lesbians, or a gay man and a lesbian, or among three or more queers, or between gay men and the straight women whose commitment to queer culture brings them the punishment of the "fag hag" label. There are almost as many kinds of relationship as there are people in combination. Where there are -patterns, we learn them from other queers, not from our-parents or schools or the state. Between tricks and lovers and exes and friends and fuckbuddies and bar friends and bar friends' tricks and tricks' bar friends and gal pals and companions "in the life," queers have an astonishing range of intimacies. Most have no labels. Most receive no public recognition. Many of these relations are difficult because the rules have to be invented as we go along. Often desire and unease add to their intensity, and their unpredictability. They can be complex and bewildering, in a way that arouses fear among many gay people, and tremendous resistance and resentment from many straight people. Who among us would give them up? Try standing at a party of queer friends and charting all the histories, sexual and nonsexual, among the people in the room. (In some circles this is a common party sport already.) You will realize that only a fine and rapidly shifting line separates sexual culture from many other relations of durability and care. The impoverished vocabulary of straight culture tells us that people should be either husbands and wives or (nonsexual) friends. Marriage marks that line. It is not the way many queers live. If there is such a thing as a gay way of life, it consists in these relations, a welter of intimacies outside the framework of professions and institutions and ordinary social obligations. Straight culture has much to learn from it, and in many ways has already begun to learn from it. Queers should be insisting on teaching these lessons. Instead, the marriage issue, as currently framed, seems to be a way of denying recognition to these relations, of streamlining queer relations into the much less troubling division of couples from friends.

The four formed a clique, and while I wasn’t really in the clique, I hung out with them on occasion. I was Kristina’s friend, but she was the type who was friendly with everyone. If this had been high school, I would’ve given up because Kristina would’ve had thirty other friends. I was lucky. I got her the first week of college when she didn’t have umpteen friends already. Besides the other three, I knew Kristina considered me one of her closest gal pals at college. I needed it. I needed her. My other option was my stuffy roommate and her friends. I frowned. Maybe I was the problem? Nah. I shook my head and moved forward with the line. That couldn’t be the case. I oozed warmth. I drew people to me like sap to bears. Come and eat me, animals. My lip twitched. Even my own jokes were pathetic.

I have an idea," Annabelle said, "Let's go to the kitchen and peek in the larder. I bet there's still some gooseberry cake left from dessert. Not to mention the strawberry jam trifle." Lillian lifted her head and blotted her wet nose on her sleeve. "Do you really think a plate of sweets will make me feel better?" Annabelle smiled. "It can't hurt, can it?" Lillian considered the point. "Let's go," she said, and allowed her friend to pull her up from the bench.

Vivien (spelled the same way as Vivien Leigh, lucky thing) was quite possibly the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. She had a heart-shaped face, deep brown hair that gleamed in its Victory roll, and full curled lips painted scarlet. Her eyes were wide set and framed by dramatic arched brows just like Rita Hayworth's or Gene Tierney's, but it was more than that which made her beautiful. It wasn't the fine skirts and blouses she wore, it was the way she wore them, easily, casually; it was the strings of pearls strung airily around her neck, the brown Bentley she used to drive before it was handed over like a pair of boots to the Ambulance Service. It was the tragic history Dolly had learned in dribs and drabs- orphaned as a child, raised by an uncle, married to a handsome, wealthy author named Henry Jenkins, who held an important position with the Ministry of Information. "Dorothy? Come and put my sheets to rights and fetch my sleep mask." Ordinarily, Dolly might've been a bit envious to have a woman of that description living at such close quarters, but with Vivien it was different. All her life, Dolly had longed for a friend like her. Someone who really understood her (not like dull old Caitlin or silly frivolous Kitty), someone with whom she could stroll arm in arm down Bond Street, elegant and buoyant, as people turned to look at them, gossiping behind their hands about the dark leggy beauties, their careless charm. And now, finally, she'd found Vivien. From the very first time they'd passed each other walking up the Grove, when their eyes had met and they'd exchanged that smile- secretive, knowing, complicit- it had been clear to both of them that they were two of a kind and destined to be the very best of friends.

She thought about all the baking therapy she and Char had done together during that time. Usually in the wee, wee hours. Those sessions never had anything to do with their respective jobs. And everything to do with salvation. Their worlds might be uncontrolled chaos, but baking always made sense. Flour, butter, and sugar were as integral a part of her as breathing. Lani had long since lost count of the number of nights she and Charlotte had crammed themselves into her tiny kitchen, or Charlotte's even tinier one, whipping up this creation or that, all the while hashing and rehashing whatever the problems du jour happened to be. It was the one thing she truly missed about being in New York. No one on Sugarberry understood how baking helped take the edge off. Some folks liked a dry martini. Lani and Char, on the other hand, had routinely talked themselves down from the emotional ledge with rich vanilla queen cake and some black velvet frosting. It might take a little longer to assemble than the perfect adult beverage... but it was the very solace found in the dependable process of measuring and leavening that had made it their own personal martini. Not to mention the payoff was way, way better. Those nights hadn't been about culinary experience, either. The more basic, the more elemental the recipe, the better. Maybe Lani should have seen it all along. Her destiny wasn't to be found in New York, or even Paris, or Prague, making the richest, most intricate cakes, or the most delicate French pastries. No, culinary fulfillment- for her, the same as life fulfillment- was going to be experienced on a tiny spit of land off the coast of Georgia, where she could happily populate the world with gloriously unpretentious, rustic, and rudimentary little cupcakes.

All rights, guy, gals, and nonbinary pals,” Creed said, clapping his hands together. “The piano bar must close for the night.

Lana is a voluptuous brunette with a seductive smile and big, sparkling, cocoa eyes. Flirtatious and fun-loving, she has a couple of boyfriends, but enjoys her gal pals just as much, if not more. Though she loves to party and play practical jokes, she’s a conscientious mom and respected leader in her community. Gentle yet assertive, she can be fierce when crossed, but she’s also quick to forgive, turning hostility into harmony with remarkable empathy and a playful flair. In many ways, she’s just like a lot of wonderful women we all know. But Lana is not a woman, nor even human. Lana is a bonobo.

We shared deep passions. John Hughes movies, the New Romantics, the Chicago Bears. We both loved chicken-flavor Ramen and hated the shrimp flavor. We liked thin-crust pizza over deep dish, and wine over beer, and gin over vodka.

We'll start with Un Petite Flamme. It's our espresso macaron. Go on, try it." She looks down at her plate. "This one? With the gold?" "Yup, go on." She puts it against her tongue like she's taking communion. "Good?" She nods quickly. Then I place a purple one on her plate. Rilla lifts it up. "This one has the jam inside, right?" "Yes; it's Remede de Deliverance. Black currant filling, in the middle of the cream." She closes her eyes while she eats it slowly. So slowly I worry she will need to come up for air. "What does that mean?" she asks when she has finally swallowed the last tiny mouthful. "Remede de Deliverance? 'Rescue remedy.' It's violet-flavored.

Your man is looking mighty fine," Toni remarked. "Hey, eyes to yourself," I said then sighed. "But yeah, he totally is.

We held each other’s hands tightly. The same hands we sometimes dropped in public when we felt unsafe—we had that privilege unlike so many others; whiteness meant we could remove our otherness like a sweater if we wanted. We could walk five feet apart and temporarily become gal pals.

As I reveled in yet more confirmation that Hannelore was a reliable gal pal,

Something smells amazing. What are we having?" "Moules marinières," Rachel said. "It seemed a shame to let mussel season close without making it at least once." "Oh la la," Melody said. "Paris must have been in the air today, because I made a napoleon." Ana handed over a half-filled wineglass and gave Melody a quick hug. "You're killing me, Mel. I'm still recovering from last week's Death by Chocolate Mousse.

Lani and Alva had decided on molten upside-down cakes. If there were laws on the amount of chocolate one cupcake could have, molten cakes would break every one of them. The cake was her take on devil's food, the filling was was a melted, gooey blend of dark and Dutched chocolates with a spicy kick thrown in, and the glaze was a thick, glossy chocolate ganache. Alva declared them heavenly.

I had a weakness for warm baths with lavender candles,