Let me count the times

Sometimes things just blurt out, I can’t seem to help it – or want to:
- This morning in my meeting I was daydreaming about having a threesome with you and another woman. It’s not a question, or a proposal, just saying how I spend my working hours, you know. Daydreaming.
- Nothing wrong with threesomes.. she replies, cryptic.
It’s not a proposal. Honest.
I smile.
- Four is problematic, though, she adds. Even numbers never work, people pair off..
- Four??? What do you mean, four?? I gasp.
- Yes, four. What?
- You harlot!!
- Yes; anyway, it never works. 5 is.. different. But I’m not a harlot!
- That ain’t right.. oh no.
- What ain’t right? That I’ve slept with more than 3 people at the same time? It wasn’t a regular thing!! Only done it once or twice or something..
- No, what ain’t right is that I haven’t. Anyway, doesn’t that qualify as an orgy?
- I don’t know what the qualifying number is for an orgy, but if you think 5 is then it more than that probably is.
- I like to put my labels on things. So, shall we take this one there home then?
- I think she’s straight, you know.
- Pah. Straight girls are like noodles anyway: straight until you get them wet.
- True.

Just a fantasy, of course. We’re not harlots, you know.

I never thought that one day I would break into a sweat in a museum.

This afternoon, J and I went to see this at the V&A, because it sounded good; and it wasn’t really that good, apart from the room right at the end before they cunningly ensnare you into the shop-trap and try to sell you crap, like in all museums. I don’t know about you, but when I walk into an exhibition, I put on my serious, almost respectful, I’m-expecting-to-be-enlightened mood.. I think I even squint a bit. But today, in the last room right before the shop full of crap, we could play. Do you know those big; big bouncy balls with tits to hold onto, the ones you sit on and bounce, bounce, bounce? And bounce some more, til you laugh so hard you fall off? So J and I bounced, bounced, bounced through the exhibition, and no-one even stopped us. J fell off.

The rest of the exhibition was rather crap, but we also had a mean game of ping-pong and tickled each other with feathers. We left rather sweaty and dishevelled, especially me, because J doesn’t really have any hair to dishevel.

That’s pretty much all I have to say for myself today.

Wimblewhat? Or Theory #567: lesbians and sports

So, do you like tennis? she asks.
No, I say. Most spectator sports bore the shit out of me. Wait, that’s not quite correct. All spectator sports bore the shit out of me.
Have you ever played tennis?
Yes; too much running and grunting. Not ladylike. Being a creature of airy grace, I much prefer badminton.
Oh. I played tennis for years. Yes it is a game of running but I don’t recall ever grunting. I have a disturbing memory of playing badminton with my family as a young girl. My dad fell over trying to get the shuttlecock and in the tumble one of his balls squidged out of his shorts. I have been traumatised ever since and can no longer play or watch the sport.
Oh, the trauma!!
Yes. I think this is why I’m a dyke.

I think there should be a warning on the shuttlecocks tube thing. ‘Playing this game might result in childhood trauma.’ Or more to the point ‘ Warning: Playing this game when not wearing tight enough underpants might affect your daughter’s sexuality.’

I can’t decide if that means sports is bad or you or not.

Gargantuan, still

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1) Oh, Richard K Juarez. Darling Richard K Juarez, with the beautifully multi ethnic name, virtual embodiment of the cultural melting pot that is modern America, Richard! Thank you for your offer, Richard. Mind you, in those emails it's always 'Elizabeth Alonzo', 'Louise Lu Chang', never the other way round. No Consuelo Rogers-Smithers. Or Juan Jose McLeod. Some kind of social graduation through your first name. If I ever have a son I'll call him Pedro. But I digress, Richard. Do you mind if I call you Richard?

2) Thank you for your offer anyway. If you only knew how much I do not need those, you'd wet yourself. No, but really.

3) when I click the link it says ‘how to become the best guy for her’. Ah; Richard, Dickie baby, I don’t think she’d like that much, you know.

4) Following my latest post, however, I was wondering if you had anything for gargantuan appetites? Cheap cake-burning pills? Might need those soon. Or possibly, pills to stop me from behaving disgracefully in public parks on very hot Sunday afternoons? I know there were shrubs and things and that I don’t think anyone saw just for how long I had my hand down her pants, but still. A disgraceful behaviour at my age. But I digress.

5) and anyway, if anyone saw us, they didn’t say a thing.

Ganet

1. Breakfast: tea and toast
Lunch : soggy lettuce, parsnip soup, slice o’ ‘I can’t believe it’s not cardboard’ bread, tap water.

2. On the way to work I was dreaming of fluffy pancakes with maple syrup; then throughout the morning it was crusty baguette with goats cheese, juicy white flesh nectarines, coffee éclairs; then as lunch approached I conjured up images of rare steak with shallot butter and sautéed potatoes washed down with a chilled rosé d’Anjou. The afternoon was devoted to ideas of tomato and olive oil bruschetta, then rhubarb crumble and perfectly ripe strawberries.

3. dinner, goddamnit: every single of those things til I burst, twice, and I don’t even care.


4. I wonder what’s going on, though. I’d like to read this as the very outward sign of my newly-found appetite for life, or something; I can’t think of anything I have to compensate for right now, besides the fact that work underfeeds me..and yes, I ma getting some, so it's not that either.

5. There’s no punch line. I’m too full to think.

Tart

Half an hour after she’s arrived, she hands me this little parcel with cake in it. Like it’s no big deal, in fact she almost looks embarrassed. It’s not just any cake, it’s a pink box with a ribbon around it, from that posh place, Pâtisserie Valérie on old Compton street. The other day I was leering at the chocolate creations in the window. After I’ve done my little dance and squealed like a girl, I grab a spoon. It’s perfect: a light pastry casing with the thinnest layer of chocolate, fluffy cream, huge juicy raspberries. It shuts me up for five minutes.
As if she needed to get me cake to get into my pants…

Purposeless

1) I know. Distinct lack of update. But you see, this is what happened, and I'm not making anything up or anything:

2) I was kidnapped by strangers, thrown into the back of an unmarked white van and driven, bound and gagged and kicking, to an unknown location. 'No! I shouted through the fitly rag covering my mouth, You can't ! I have responsibilities! I have a readership! Of at least 30 people! I can't leave them without an update on the wondrous life of Y! And who will feed the cat? I kicked and thrashed in spite of the bondage white tape binding me. Then one of my kidnappers, breathing a lager and vinegar crisps kind of breath, said that a bunch of fed up readers had in fact paid them good money to kidnap me, tie me up, gag me and throw me into the back of that white van, and that later on I would be sleeping with the fishes, as they say in that movie. Oh, I said quietly. Fine. If I come out of it alive, I promise my blogposts won't expand on the shiny happiness that is my daily existence. Later on I escaped, because I was brought up on Nancy Drew and I'm incredibly resourceful. On that note, I 've always wondered why in the French translation she is called Alice Roy. Mmm? Anyone?

3) I'm so lying. The white van, the lager and vinegar crisps breath, the gag, the kicking, the fishes and the money are all inventions. The bondage tape, on the other hand..

4) I have spent most of the week being bored at work, so bored that I have tried to finish all my sentences with "In accordance with the prophecy." People didn't react, so I considered stapling myself to my desk for excitement. Or stapling someone else to my desk. Or as often as possible, skip rather than walk. Or write in a colleague's planner, in the 10am slot: "See how I look in tights." In my book, if it's not forbidden, it's allowed.
Just bored.

5) last night I dreamt that the French president was dead. Mm. Interesting choice of embodiment for my father/autority figure. What do I do now? Organise elections and find a new one? Suggestions, people of blogland, please.

6) I'm being ridiculously happy.

So much to do in London on a Sunday afternoon

1) I gave the
non sexual vegan and vegetarian gay group indoor veggie picnic

(as advertised in Time Out, do check, I’m not making it up) a miss,

2) and dragged my lover to a dark room for 153 minutes

3) to see Kings and Queen, which features a large number of unhinged people with anger management issues, and queasy camera work, then

4) later, back outside in the bleak June afternoon we were slightly dispirited so

5) I took her home and to bed, and drew the curtains because otherwise my neighbours get to know precisely what I’m up to and

6) this morning all I could think about was when I flipped her over onto her stomach and

7) I couldn’t concentrate on my work at all.

Confession

She says: sometimes you only have to look at me.

I think: I know.

She writes: I have to go to a meeting now , where I not only have to participate ... I have to be pro-active .... problems & solutions and stuff ... be answerable & make sense ... make notes & implement things .... justify myself and be accountable .... and I’m still wet .....

I think: so you should be.


It’s a form of power, isn’t it.
And I have to confess I’m enjoying it.
At this point, I have to be honest, step off my proud pedestal, and add that it’s shared and reciprocal.

Adventures in gayland

1) I work with a somewhat cute guy in his late thirties, nice eyes, bright smile, impeccable sense of dress, and unmistakably camp mannerisms; not gay, no, ever since he was 15 people have been asking him, but he’s straight, although not in any kind of a relationship, and waiting for The One. (noun, feminine singular)
Although those two things are unrelated, Michael is a born-again Christian and cycles to work. Nice legs, I chirp. Thank you, he gushes. Not that nice, really, I was wearing a dress for a fancy dress part once, borrowed from a friend of mine.. dreamy blank. It was a very nice burnt orange thing, very unusual, perfect cut. I smile and refrain the urge to wink knowingly. Not gay, just a cross dresser, then? After a pause, he adds: I wish I had seen her in it, though. The afterthought doesn’t quite ring genuine.

2) The person sitting three seats away across from me on the tube could either be a very cute, delicately featured 16 year old boy, or a very short-haired lesbian. I stare. I can’t help but stare. I look for clues. Impossible to tell from this distance. Then she looks up from her book and returns the stare. I don’t think a 15 year old boy would hold my gaze this steadily.eventually I’m the one who has to look down.

Update : the Week End by the Sea

1) Contrary to what Greavsie's (anxious? hopeful?) line of questioning might have led you to believe, people of Blogland, I am not still stuck in the shower. When I said that it did indeed fit two people, I meant in a graceful, photogenic kind of way. Not stuck.

2) No I did not catch any crabs…

3) But we did a lot of eating out….

4) I suspect that in the Big Book of Lesbian Mythology, a weekend by the sea with your lover falls into the chapter entitled 'Possibly Pivotal'. This one was delightful; yet this breezy, one-day-at-a-time policy we're implementing (no U hauls, no marriage proposals, no shared felines, and absolutely no matching accoutrements) means that it was just that.. a week end by the sea with my lover.

5) Strolls in the cold wind, seashells on the seashore, seagulls splatter, greasy fish and chips; and smoking hot sex.

6) sex in the shower is definitely not one of those overrated things that you try once, get bruises from, just for the sake of having done it . Unlike the back of cars, or skateboarding ramps, or cemeteries in December, or phone booths, which were all a bit of a disappointment.

7) on the train back to London, she leaned over and for a few seconds rested her head in my lap; I couldn't decide if I wanted to stroke her (very short) hair, or bite the back of her neck. I only did the former, but only because there were people watching.

8) Yes, I would definitely go away with her again.

J didn't bludgeon me to death with a hammer for eating all the rhubarb crumble

1) in true blogger style, on Friday morning I should have posted 'Bollocks to this, I'm off to the seaside' but I didn't have a minute.

2) I went off to the seaside.

3) The shower did fit two people.

4) update tomorrow. I think.

Scruples versus need

"My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it's on your plate."
-Thornton Wilder

1. Since this morning when I got up at stupid o’clock I’ve eaten every single sweet thing I could get my hands on.

2. Should I eat the second (and last) Rhubarb crumble? Technically it isn’t mine, it belongs to J.

3. J doesn’t know that the second (and last) Rhubarb crumble belongs to him.

4. So I could just eat it and cunningly hide the packaging.
Perhaps he’d never find out. Perhaps he would find out and forgive me in my hour of need. Perhaps he would bludgeon me to death with a blunt hammer.

5. J is reasonably calm, but is prone to violence if dessert is involved.

6. Fuck it, I’ll take my chances.
And hide the hammer.