"Twenty hot lesbians in a cabin in the snow. It sounds like a budget porn plot from the 70s, but it was the pitch my sister gave when she convinced me to try out skiing for the first time. I am not a sports dyke. I am a like-to-read-books-and-sit-in-saunas dyke. But, like an understimulated editor on a slow news day, I fell straight for the pitch."
"Until that weekend, I am not sure I had ever seen a pair of skis before. Skiing was for rich white Harrys and Hannahs who could pronounce Thredbo properly and point out Aspen on a map. But, armed with some quickly borrowed snow clothes and a deep mantra of life is for living, I rocked up to the mountain to meet these 20 hot dykes. The pitch did not lie."
"To get to the top, we had to take the longer chairlift up. When I realised this, I panicked. I felt as though I could feel my blood pumping. My mouth went dry. I am terribly afraid of heights. I had been so confident, so ready for the next run. I did not feel the same about the chairlift. I dropped my hand into my pocket and pulled out half a prescription muscle relaxant. I swallowed as we got in line."
Twenty queer women and nonbinary people gather in a snowbound cabin and persuade a bibliophile-leaning lesbian to try skiing for the first time. The narrator borrows snow clothes, takes a lesson, and quickly masters the bunny hill, shouting at slower skiers and picturing Olympic dreams. Confidence grows until the group plans a harder run that requires a long chairlift ride. An acute fear of heights triggers panic; the narrator takes half a prescription muscle relaxant while queuing. On the descent the narrator crashes badly, prompting immediate care from friends and shifting the weekend from exhilaration to pain and vulnerability.
Read at www.theguardian.com
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