Hi, I’m the Hostess and I suffer from the SLiPs.
For those of you  that are new to this problem. I will give a true incident that will send this dreaded problem home.
“Two lesbians walk into a neighborhood pub…” (that would be me and my girlfriend)
We sit in a booth right next to the bar. We order food and drinks. We begin to eat.
“Two more lesbians walk into the same bar…”

My immediate reaction is to jump up, tail wagging and give them both a big hug. It is possibly a Southern girl living outside of Philly “thing”
I’m delighted to see that 1) there are gay people that live in my neighborhood, and 2) the are functioning alcoholics and fried food/sports fans like myself.
This is what I call the SLiPs…

The reality is they walk right past me, and I might…just might look in their direction. If I make eye contact, I immediately look down like I’ve seen them both naked.
They sit at a booth not 6 feet from me. This is excruciatingly painful, because I am close enough to watch them and want to literally lick the beer foam off their cute short-haired faces.

Reality and a small bladder sets in and I walk past them to go to the bathroom.
In the bathroom, I devise a plan where I buy them a round of drinks and we shake hands and comment on how nice it is to see “family” at the neighborhood bar.

The plan fails when I walk past them with my head down like a puppy that has missed the kitchen newspaper and just sh*t all over the floor, instead of just going to the ladies room. I have quickly seen that the bartender will perceive this action as the simple fact that all lesbians are swingers and wife swap. I hear the story being whispered to “Dolly” the regular that holds down the last seat at the end of the bar every Friday night.

I have not heard one word that my girlfriend has said about her painful day at work because I’m trying to find the best angle to watch these women in a beer advertisement mirror. I do notice that one of them might suffer from the same affliction because she keeps looking at me and looking at her right hand like it may fall off any moment.

After the third drink and the seventh inning, it is time to head home. My last attempt to “get petted” is a lame act of starting to walk out the front door, and then going back to the table to a) look for my keys or b) leave a better tip. The lesbian who is in danger of loosing her hand looks at me then check to see if her hand is still attached. I look at her and quickly glance at a very intriguing commercial on the nearest TV.

I will be back at the neighborhood bar next Friday to try and train my inner puppy…hopefully the other lesbian couple will too.