Womyn in the mist.

I had two fears while heading co the Russian River Women's Weekend, the biannual blowout (there's another one every fall; this year's begins September 17) that has been bringing thousands of, well, women-identified women to tiny Guerneville, Calif., for the past 24 years. One was that some overaggressive woman might molest me. The other was that she wouldn't. Because, like many a vanilla married her girl, though I have some issues with some of the trappings of lesbian life--the mullets, the cats--I've long been curious about same-sex snogging. Perhaps the pool parties, golf tourneys, and beer burst of the three-day fete would be stocked with lush-lipped Angelina Jolies who would impromptu nookie.

Instead, at the Russian River Resort's wet T-shirt contest, a cross section of the most ordinary ladies watched as the buoyant-breasted allowed viewers to dump buckets of water on them for $1 or hurl them into the pool for $20. Though I expected to feel a bit mismatched with the crowd, assuming that my pink hair, tattoos, and sundress would be swallowed up in a sea of muscle shirts and khaki shorts, the narrow space around the pool was well-stocked with blond Britneys, plump punk rockers, Gap wearers, volleyball player's, suburban moms. And they're nice too, in contrast with the somewhat clannish, cooler-than-thou lesbians I know back in San Francisco.

"This is the strangest wet T-shirt contest I've ever seen," marvels my husband who, like the other two straight men ogling the multiboobed wet-tacular, doesn't fit in here nearly as well as I do. "They cheer for anyone!" he says, indicating the zaftig 50-ish contestant.

"It's more like a wet T-shirt affirmation," I agree, heading into the bar, where the drink special of the day is the Cocksucker. "They should have changed it for the weekend," bitches the shrill woman behind me in line. "Yeah--to the Strap on," cracks her friend "Hey, have you noticed there are a couple of straight guys here?" returns the shrill woman angrily. Seems like a good time for an exit.

Knots of women roam the three blocks of downtown, eyeing each other, calling out friendly hellos. Feeling adrift, I make a beeline for the Inn at the Willows and its evening Pagan Ritual, where a group of saronged hippie chicks in flower wreaths are holding hands around a maypole. The leader encourages us to skip around the pole, calling out the names of the spirits we'd like to have present. "Buddha!" cries a lusty voice." Shiva!" "Allah!" "Jesus!" DO NOT call out "Mr. Peanut." I admonish myself sternly, trying to ignore my neighbor, who's panting Lamaze-style and howling like a wolf under her breath.

It's dark when I leave to make the seven-block walk to the night-time pool party. After a long day of watching uninterested women sauntering by, the men are angry and menacing "Hey, are you straight?" one demands, spitting on the sidewalk. I hurry on to the safety of Fifes, where hundreds upon hundreds of women making out on the lawn, stroking each other's necks, gripping down to tank tops to dance to the strains of "Lady Marmalade" How do they do it? And why can't I? I'm an eddy in the river of women, a wallflower, unchatted-up by my sisters and unsure how to start something in the absence of the comforting assertiveness of men.

The next morning we drive out of a town that looks curiously neat after a night of fervent partying, save for the pink and black boa feathers drifting through like tumbleweeds. Though I did get to peek in on a exotic-to-me scenario and spend time with some mighty nice women who treated me like I was welcome in their clubhouse, I never met Angelina, or even a lady who looked at me with lust in her heart and a question in her eyes.

"Did you do everything you wanted to do?" asks my innocent man.

Not even dose, I think to myself. But what comes out of my mouth is "Sure."