Archive for the 'lesbians' Category

19
Mar
11

because sometimes, you do it to a girl…

I have spent 5 months of my life dating a girl.

Yep.

A girl.

She is so pretty that it makes your heart break.

She is thoughtful, and understanding, and compassionate, and
well-intended.

In essence, she is everything that I am not.

Anatomically, we have all the same shit.

Boobies, check.

Girlbox, check.

I like fancy clothes. She likes fancy clothes. Different,
fancy, but fancy, nevertheless.

I like eyeliner and mascara. She likes eyeliner and mascara. Different brands, but eyeliner and mascara, nevertheless.

Mind you-

I’ve never really been attracted to women.

I can’t remember there ever being a time when I have looked at a woman and thought, “My land, she could get it.” Ever.

Conversely, the thought occurs to me regarding men 12-14 times a day.

And those are the days when I stay indoors.

But there she was—so pretty, so thoughtful, so well-intended…

Who was I to say “No?”

Who was I to accept, unthinkingly, this compulsory societally-imposed manufactured standard of human sexuality?

Sexuality was fluid, was it not?

Kinsey Scale and all of that bullshit.

And maybe this was different than everything else.

Because, in all of her compassion, in all of her thoughtfulness, in all of her well-intendedness, she was more than happy to fall back when I took to my moods.

She didn’t complain when I fell silent, or cut short her questions; when I corrected her on grammar or points of order when I felt her wrong.

She didn’t utter a hint of complaint when everything had to be my way, when I said “No” where she would have said “Yes.”

She was nothing, if not accommodating, and accepting.

And, in the beginning, I didn’t mind us being around each other constantly, because she so easily molded herself into my stark world. If an unbreakable silence was the order of the day, she was still. If it was my manic and incessant chatter that colored an empty afternoon, she was attentive and engaging.

She didn’t read the books I read or watch the cable news I preferred, but she was sweet.

She was more an appreciator of jokes than an author of them, but I was at home with my shtick and her rejoining laughter.

And sexually—sexually I was all in. I’m a far cry from prudish, and have certainly engaged in the more unseemly elements of heteronormative sex, so nothing freaked me out. I was down for whatever. And it was good.

And for a while—a quiet, contented while—I was satisfied to let the earth, and indeed, my life, fall away, if, but for one blissful moment, and enjoy the novelty of her. “…and possibly… the thrill / of under me you/quite so new…” as cummings would say.

Here’s the thing—

Failed heterosexual or no–

The fact remains—

My basic, sad, elemental truth is—

That I am a monster.

A devourer of men (and apparently the occasional woman).

I’m all about confronting truths, you see.

I’m not built for sustaining ever-lasting unions with people.

I’m selfish.

And perhaps—even a little bit cruel. Not because of words or sheer abuse of action, mind you.

But because I’m not unhappy.

Neither with my present state or circumstance.

And monsters should be unhappy right?—

Cast out from all good society, grumbling irascibly under their breath, skulking about, ever-present grimace on their goblin-y faces.

We’re not.

We walk among the decent, and the upright.

We laugh gaily (pun intended), and make you comfortable, and you trust us when you shouldn’t.

In the ten years that have comprised my active romantic life, I have never not divulged the truth of my makeup to anyone I’ve been involved with.

And no one’s ever believed me—
Until it was too late.

 

 

 

 

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08
Feb
11

let’s call a spade a spade and a post a post, or, “a deluge of f-bombs & (non)sex talk….”

“Do you have a jumpoff?” I asked Kate over bbm.

I was doing that thing straight girls do when they’re trying to play it cool with gay girls they think are kinda cute.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but…I just thought I’d ask,” I anxiously typed in an attempt to preserve my awesome.
Kate gave me what I was beginning to recognize as her standard, initial “WTF…lol…” response, but followed it up with “No, I don’t have a jumpoff. I do have a cuddle buddy, though.”
So, here’s the thing.
I have this sort of disability where I ask a quick succession of questions, that, to a casual observer, might make me appear rude, or insensitive, or abrasive. I’ve been trying to work on it, and decided, immediately, that I would seize upon this opportunity to be diplomatic in my information-gathering. I would be respectful, and endeavor not to overburden Kate with queries that might make her feel uncomfortable, or stupid, or regretful that she’d shared.
“The fuck you mean you have a ‘cuddle buddy’? What the fuck is a ‘cuddle buddy’?”
(These techniques take time.)
Another “LOL” from Kate.
She began again. “You know, a friend who comes through every now and then to kick it. Nothing really happens. We mainly just chill and, you know, cuddle.”
Me, again. “Look. I’m doing the best I can not to throw up, here. Just walk me slowly through this. Am I to understand that this is a no-fucking arrangement?”
“Nope. No fucking,” answered Kate.
“Just *chokes back vomit* cuddling?” I asked
“Occasional kissing, but, yeah…generally…just cuddling.”
“But why?” I pressed. “Why would you do this?”
“It’s more for her, really,” Kate replied. “Her girl’s away, and she just needs a warm body. I like to think of myself as just being a good friend.”
“Riiighhht….even though you stand to benefit nothing from this arrangement?”
“Yep,” came her matter-of-fact reply.
“Have you never done this before?” she asked. “Never had a cuddle buddy?”
I didn’t even have to deliberate.
“No. I pay a mortgage in my house so that I can fuck here. You’re talking nonsense.”
My mind was reeling.
I could feel sweat beading at my temples.
My heart was practically skipping out of my chest, and these hot rushes of blood kept surging to my cheeks.
“What about this is so crazy to you?” asked Kate.
I ignored her question, momentarily, and made two frenzied phone calls, both confirming Kate’s dreadful account, and my worst fears.
This can’t be…This.just.can’t.be
…. I thought to myself.
I feverishly looked at my bbm, and saw Kate’s emboldened name staring back at me.
I consulted my contacts, and made one, final go at it.
I sighed with brutal resignation. This was going to be painful.
My thumbs flew across the qwerty keyboard.
Me: “Elodie, you’re soft. Lemme ask you a question. You ever heard of a ‘cuddle buddy’?”
Elodie: “Yes! Of course! It’s SO fun!”
*insert gnashing of teeth on my end*
Elodie: “It’s so much affection by definition. Essentially, it’s someone you spend quality time with. Holding and touching. Doesn’t involve sex. Maybe kissing. A lot of close proximity and time together.”
Me: “Oh. My.God.”
Elodie: “I love it. I personally enjoy the cuddle buddy who knows how to run his nose ever so lightly across my skin…”
(Look. I know y’all think I’m making this up, right now, but I swear, I’m not. This is all verbatim. This is so real.)
Elodie: “…massage my earlobes…”
Me: “Are you joking? Are you shitting me, right now?”
Elodie: “…intertwine my fingers with his….”
Me: “This is serious, Elodie.”
Elodie: “No,  I’m dead serious. Serious as a heart attack. It’s very special QT. It’s nice and really makes you feel special.”
Me: “I’ve heard enough.”
Elodie: “Oh! Don’t forget spooning. Are you about to get one?”
The fuck?
Me: “Have you ever met me? Like, ever? Ever talked to me at all? Had a conversation with me?”

Elodie: “I mean. You asked.”
I had. I had, indeed.
I returned my attentions to Kate.
“Sorry. This is so much. It’s just that…no man on eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrpppppphhh would EVER agree to such a
thing…unless he was like….the loneliest, ugliest man ever,” said I.
There was a brief pause before I saw that she was typing, once more.
“I’m not a man, hon.”
No. No, she was not.
And she sure the shit wasn’t ugly.

****************

Women of America—
What
In the
ENTIRE,
SPHERICAL
WORLD
Of FUCK
Is the matter with you?
Seriously.
I wanna know.
WHAT
In
THEEEEE
FUCK
Is the matter with you?
I KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW y’all are behind this shit.
I got two lesbians, one linesister, and one powerfully JuliaRoberts/CameronDiaz/JenniferAniston/AshtonKutcher straight bitch confirming the existence of what HAS to be THE most HERETOFORE INCREDULOUS nonromantic romantic institution known to man.
Really?
Look.
Overly-sentimental though she may be, my friend, Elodie, is the best. Really. She’s tops.
And I’m sure whatever lucky broad Kate idly passes time bunning up with is worth more than her weight in giggles and tickles.
But, notwithstanding these two…
And not to sound like some two-pence slut, but…
Ladies….
Who in the SHIT do y’all think y’all are?
That’s a serious question.
I mean it.
Who in THE SHIT do y’all think y’all are?
I’m gonna say something controversial.
Wait for it.
I get sooooooooooooooooooo tiiiiiiiiiiiiired of hearing about the fact that there are no good black men in this world.
Sooooooooooooo tired.
I don’t hear a lot of lesbians saying “Black bitches ain’t shit,” but….I’m certain, if black women, in any way, are able to corner the market and have the franchise on lesbianism, we’ll be sure to complain about a lack of appropriate girl on girlers as well.
Somebody, somewhere
has sold y’all broads a bill of goods.
Some lying, deceiving, misguided, trying/to/get/the/ass/quick/soul has convinced you all that your drawes are gilded in gold and your elbows can’t be ashy.
Every day, I see motherfuckers on Facebook giving themselves these empowered middle names; regarding themselves as the lost imperial Nubian queens of the Motherland, and can’t fry a damned fish.
Whoooooooooo are y’all?
AND nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow…..
To marry INSULT with INJURY in the UNHOLIEST of matrimony, I hear tell of women taking showers, doing their hair, and rolling up in cribs smelling good, titties riding high, jeans cut tight, to snnnnnnuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggle up in a dude’s arms  (or chick’s….whatever your pleasure)………………………..
And cuddle.
I don’t have the time or space to address the simpin’ ass mentality that permits such an EGREGIOUS violation of interpersonal relations.
So, let me just say my piece/peace, and be on about my own way….because this is a blog about me.
(friends, family, spouses of friends and family, colleagues, spouses of colleagues—please disregard)
*Ahem*
STAY
THEEEE HELLLLLLL
HOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMME.
Do NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT
Come in THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS house
With annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnny expectations of preserving your chastity, your moral strongholds, your righteous high-ground………hell…..your fucking dignity……
STAY HOME.
If you come in THIS house….smelling good, showered, finely adorned under the cover of night, or at the occasional noonday hour, I’MA ASSUME……I’MA take it as GOSPEL TRUTH….
That you’re ready to rock.
Ain’t noooooooooooooooooooo cuddling going on in this house.
This shit right here…
NO
CUDDLE
ZONE.
DON’TYOUDARECUDDLEMEINTHISMOTHERFUCKER.
Does everyone understand that.
I pay real bills.
I want real sex.
This shit right here….
This “cuddle buddy” shit right here…
This is why we can’t have nothin’.




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a history of my meanderings….

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