“Justin Bieber’s Guide to Lesbian Dating”
by Isa Hopkins, editor-at-large
It’s a familiar pop culture observation by now, memorialized in a Tumblr blog that will — surely — make its way into book form any day: there are dozens (hundreds?) of lesbians in America who look like Justin Bieber. Angelically featured and with the same sideswept haircut made famously cool by this teen idol, some of these young women have even had the police called on them while out at bars. In case after case of mistaken identity, they find themselves explaining that they are not, in fact, sixteen-year-old boys with androgynous coiffures and YouTube-record-holding music videos, but rather twentysomething women who are legally allowed to consume alcohol.
Perhaps in an effort not to alienate his fan base, comprised primarily of young girls whose sexuality is yet nascent, Bieber has commented little on this phenomenon. This is a wise move; the truth would assuredly send teenyboppers into a tailspin of confusion and despair, for if twentysomething lesbians look uncannily like Justin Bieber, than the inverse is also true: Justin Bieber is easily mistaken for a twentysomething lesbian. And as it turns out, he has capitalized mightily on this fact.
For every unnecessary call to the police about a Bieber-esque woman at a bar, there are dozens more incidents which remain unreported — odds that any gambler would take. Bieber is, it turns out, a canny gambler.
“I go into these dyke bars,” says the precocious singing sensation. “These girls, they tell me I look like Justin Bieber. It’s a great conversation starter. I use different names, place to place, liquor them up with the good stuff. Damn, those bitches let me do things that none of my fans would ever be cool with.”
Bieber snorts a line of cocaine off the wood-polished bar table before continuing; his bodyguard quickly cuts another.
“That’s the thing with these teenage girls,” he says. “They adore me, which is great, and they’ll, like, blow me, which is pretty good too. But they’re all concerned about their virginity and shit. I’m never getting anywhere with those chicks — I mean, sure, some titty-flashing and getting sucked off everywhere I go is nice and all, but let’s be real: the Bieb is all about the pussy.” He rubs his nose and leans back, and another bodyguard begins to rub his shoulders. “I can show you, if you want.”
Bieber is, at this moment, “on vacation,” not touring or in the studio. He has sent his mother on a week-long trip to a villa in the south of France (“I get her off my back all the time — dangle something shiny in front of her and that bitch is gone”), his father is not a part of his life, and his publicist is passed out in a corner.
“She’s easy,” he says of the publicist. “Same shit I always do. T-Bone cuts a line of Valium, tells her it’s coke, she goes for it. Every time.” He high-fives T-Bone, the bodyguard who manages Bieber’s drugs. “Dealers, payments, the cops — this dude, man, he deals with all of it. This motherfucker is a champ.” There is a pause. “Unfortunately, he can’t come into the dyke clubs with me. It’d be fun, but it’d tip ’em off. I gotta buy him hookers instead.”
Bieber’s venue of choice for this evening is a dive bar by the name of the Bearded Clam; T-Bone provides him with a fake ID, claiming he is a twenty-three-year-old resident of McAllen, Texas, by the name of Rachel Wyatt. “Lesbians love nicknames,” he says with authority, scrutinizing the ID. “Something I’ve figured out. I think Rachel’s nickname tonight is . . . hmmm.” Another pause, and T-Bone chimes in: “Digger?”
Bieber smiles. “Fuck yeah, Digger! That shit is a straight-up panty-dropper for a lez.” He high-fives T-Bone once again and throws an arm around his massive shoulders. “This guy, right here, this guy is my right-hand man. How many whores you want tonight, T?”
*
As Rachel Wyatt, Bieber enters the bar without issue and promptly sets his sights on two attractive, tough-looking blondes in a corner. He saunters up to them confidently, extends a hand in greeting, and motions for the bartender.
“One shot of Patron,” he guesses, eyeing the girl on the right, who nods and smiles delightedly before he turns to her friend. “And for you — Johnny Walker black label, neat.” Another nod of approval. “Oh, and a Blue Moon for me.” (Bieber later explains his strategy: “Getting them shots seems generous, and when I stick with beer, it’s non-threatening. Women are so fucking predictable, man. And Blue Moon tastes like piss.”)
“Good guess,” one of the girls volunteers, and Bieber smiles and shrugs. He is cute and friendly; it is easy to discern why legions of teenage girls have fallen for him.
“You know, you look just like that singer — what’s his name?”
Bieber rolls his eyes; the performance is masterful. “Justin Bieber,” he says, his voice softer than it was earlier, as he snorted coke with T-Bone. “I get that all the time.” He shakes both of their hands, introducing himself. “I’m Rachel, but everybody calls me Digger.” The girls grin and are putty in his hands before they’ve even had a sip of alcohol.
Bieber is attentive to them for the better part of an hour, escaping only briefly, to use the bathroom and place bets. (“I’ve got a lot of money riding on dog-racing and midget-tossing. Plus a cockfight up against Nick Jonas — whoever picks the winner gets to take a shit on the other.”) He buys shot after shot, letting his new friends talk about themselves as they grow drunker and drunker. Soon, it’s time to leave the bar.
“You can come watch, if you want,” he says, an arm around each girl, but I cannot bring myself to accept the offer.
“Well then,” says Bieber, hailing a cab. “I’ll just tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna take these ladies to a fineass hotel, and I’m gonna suck on their titties, and I’m gonna lick their cunts. And then I’m gonna put on a strap-on” — he makes air-quotes around the word, unnoticed by his drunken lesbian conquests — “and I’m gonna fuck them until they can’t see straight. In the pussy, in the ass, in the pussy again.”
One girl is giggling; another is rubbing her crotch against Bieber’s hip. He turns away slightly, lest she notice that his “strap-on” is less artificial than biological.
“Only one rule, ladies,” he says, addressing them now, serious but still effeminately voiced. “Nobody wears the strap-on except for me. OK?”
There are giggles; one of the girls musses his hair. “I knew you were an alpha dyke, Digger,” she slurs as a cab pulls up to the curb. “Can I put it in my mouth?”
“We’ll just have to see about that,” says Bieber, grinning and muscling the girls into the cab. He takes a moment to give me the thumbs-up as the car pulls away.
Two hours later I get a picture message, pornographic enough to make Brett Favre blush. Bieber clearly snapped the photo mid-coitus, both girls bent down in front of him. There is a caption, apparently thumb-typed during the act: “Gotta get em from bind so they dont c its REAL! haha suck it teenyboppers!”
*
The next day Bieber’s publicist is present, apologetic for missing our meeting last night (“unexpected illness” is blamed) and controlling the responses of her young charge.
“Justin is a role model for young men everywhere,” she says, and sitting behind her Bieber raises two fingers to his mouth in a v-shape, waggling his tongue between them in a symbol of cunnilingus. “He has tremendous respect for women, for music, for his parents, for all his fans.” The conversation goes on like this for twenty minutes before she apologizes to run to the bathroom.
“T-Bone’s got some coke in there,” Bieber explains as soon as she is gone. “Or, I mean, Valium, but, same difference. She runs for the drugs. Dumb bitch.”
How did the bets turn out last night? Bieber perks up.
“I won ten grand on the midget toss. And guess who’s gonna eat Indian food for a week so he can shit all over Nick Jonas?” Bieber points at himself with both thumbs. “This guy.”
So, I say, your cock won the fight?
“Listen.” Bieber leans in. “If there’s one thing to know about the Bieb, it’s that my cock always wins.”
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