Surprisingly, things are really not Like They Used To Be

1. Look, bloggers, at the mess that is Soho and especially the once-upon-a-time gay microcosm that is Old Compton Street; as if the weekly hen parties from South Bromley weren’t enough to cope with! At this time of year the place is heaving with herds of very straight, very clueless people out on their Christmas work do, gawking at the gay homosexuals like they’re in a gay safari. And the jokes they crack! Are not funny.
My Special lady Friend and I didn’t stick around for too long; it was a clear, crisp night, perfect for walking away from the very full bars.

2. this cat of mine is a disgrace, a renegade, a taint on the name of felines everywhere. Or is my education?
-Pancho, look, here’s bits of real chicken for you.
-Miaow.
-What, is it too hot still?
-Miaow!
-Not enough salt?
-Miaow..
-It needs to be cut into smaller bits?
-Miaow.
-What do you mean, sushi? You’ve never even seen sushi.
-Miaoow!
-Fine. I’m taking the remote control away from you., that’s too much daytime tv, missy. And anyway, what happened to the gratitude cats owed their masters?
-Miaow!
- I’m not making it up at all. In my days, cats dreamt of sucking on a dry chicken bone. So eat up.
- Miaow!
- I know you were abandoned at birth….Sure, I’ll hold it up for you so that you don’t get your whiskers dirty.

They say it’s September already

1. Blogfolks, I haven’t felt like blogging recently, have you noticed? I flew back from Greece, recovered from the bumpy landing, and threw myself into the Sunflower Project (painting the kitchen yellow, in order to not think about going back to work.) My Special Lady Friend came to help with the second coat.
I like it that she’s better at it than I am.

2. The day of the second coat, she was wearing a ring, a thick silver one. I’d never seen her wear a ring before. She has nice hands. I stared and stared and when she realised I’d gone quiet, I was blushing.

3. Now the paint’s dry; I slept for three hours the night before going back to work. Tonight all I’ll manage to do will be sit in my sunflower of a kitchen for a while, perhaps eat a slice of J’s carrot cake, listen to Joaquin Sabina, find out if my SLF would let me take her out on a date tomorrow to see Volver again, and go to bed early.

Buenas noches.

The Pink Badge of Gayness

1.People of blogland, something disturbing is happening – Abi wants to take away our gay badges for not staying out on Pride night!

2.After all there were thousands millions of gay homosexuals revelling around Soho square that night, clad in gay rags/gold leather hotpants/matching suede lederhosen, and we could have been two of them for a little bit longer!
I can tell you what happened, blogfolks, it was the gold leather hotpants, I just had to take my special lady friend home.

3.Therefore Abi wants to remove our pink badges of gayness from us.
What she doesn’t know is that we went home to do further gay things, which also involved lederhosen.

4. What did other people do?
look after a drugged up ex. (Perilous behaviour factor: 2/5)
kissed an ex. (Perilous behaviour factor : 9/5)
proceed to have a fight with an ex.(predictable behaviour factor: 12/5)
received the obligatory apologetic 2am phone call from said ex. (pathetic behaviour factor: 5/5)
got dumped. On Pride night. (duh factor: 22/5)


5. Perhaps Pink badges of courage shouldn’t come with compulsory drunkenness.

6. We don’t care. We’re way gay.

P is for..

Blogpeople, have you had a good Saturday? I have. This morning I set out to meet up with my Special Lady Friend and be Proud. We were Proud for a few hours but mostly we people-watched from a Perfect Vantage Point (a bench in heaving Soho square.) There was very little leering involved, and it mostly involved gay homosexual boys rather than girls. There are some couples out there I would gladly watch, let me tell you that. Later on I panicked a little when we almost got swallowed up by a forest of sweating torsos; I let my SLF lead me by the hand and tried to banish any thoughts of crushing and crowd-induced dismemberment from my mind.
People of blogland, my Special Lady Friend missed the England-Portugal match to hang out with me! She must really love me. I did push her into a pub to allow her a token five minutes of footbalistic action, but I spoilt it for her by repeatedly nibbling her earlobe, at which point she gave up.

Pebbles

1.One day my Special lady Friend will write in her diary: "And that’s when I started to hate her", and she won’t be referring to my cooking but to the fact that I forced her to walk all the way to Brighton town centre from the marina along the wind-swept beach.

2.She’ll also add "she wouldn’t even let me take the little kiddie train, the cow". I sadistically ignored the yearning in her eyes. We walked. And walked.

3.We browsed shops full of long, flowing garments but bought nothing since none of us want to start out own religion. So we had pie and mash instead and went home on the train.

4.My mother is coming over tonight for a week, and I can’t even start telling you what it means, people of blogland. Perhaps I’ll try, next time. Until then, be well.

I wonder if it’ll work on my Special Lady friend when she gets bored with me (eventually.)

When Pancho the cat gets bored, or sullen in that way that cats have mastered, all I have to do is go out the front door for a minute or two – take out the bin, for instance. Such display of joy when I walk back in! You’d think I’d been away for hours.

Tonight, I took the rubbish bags out one by one. I feel felinely cherished.

Play, record

1. Blogpeople, today I felt like being ignored, so I went to Dixons, that emporium of all things technological. I urgently needed a camcorder tape, if you need to know, and that is strictly for professional use. (I haven’t broached that topic with my Special Lady Friend yet.) I love going to Dixons; the inevitable bunch of young guys with half a GCSE between them who stand around chatting always make me feel so welcome! (I’m a girl, girls have no business in Dixons, didn’t you know?) I try to take it as an exercise in self-assertion. Yes. I mentally gave myself 50 points for getting a shop assistant to the till under 3 minutes, with just a raised eyebrow and an insisting glare.
Then this afternoon, after being patronised by the bloke who lent me the camcorder, I gave myself another 50 points for not biting his head off and/or shoving his tripod up his ass, then I made a little movie with my brand new tape; that didn’t feel like the beginning of a new, more glamorous career, but it was fun nevertheless. I've always liked that word.

2. Now I am wondering what’s up with my Special lady friend; she’s not returning my random emails and she’s been sounding a bit.. a bit… something, recently. I hope it’s not me. Maybe there was no point in keeping that camcorder for the weekend after all. Better call her. Be well, all.

Sigh

1. Blogfolks, do you know what my problem is? I don’t like asking anybody for anything.

2. I blame my grandmother, who at 86 years of age chops up her own logs with an axe for fire, and forbids anyone to wind up her clock, even though winding up the clock involves standing on a chair, which itself has to be placed on the kitchen table. Every other day. We tried giving her one with batteries in it, but she gave it away for the village’s summer raffle.

3. I think all I want to say is, thank you Special Lady Friend for looking after me when I was ill, bringing me food and making me tea and bullying me into steaming my face at regular intervals. In exchange I’d like to wind up your clock, or something…yes.

4. Blogfolks, February is fizzless and lumpy and cold, even when you tango. Fortunately, an impending holiday complete with an imported friend, my SLF and my Spanish homework are keeping me afloat. (I like doing my homework.) Still, I can’t wait for Spring, can you? Thank you for stopping by, and be well.

That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

-Actually, I thought my name was Spam until I was 6. That was my dad’s favourite food, so that’s what he called me.
I look at my SLF in shocked disbelief.
-He what?
-Yep. Well, I didn’t know what my name was ‘til I went to school, she adds. When they took registration on the first day of school, I didn’t know what I was called.
-Right…. What do your parents call you now?
- No-one calls me by my full name; it’s usually Bren.
- Oh. You know, I found out the other day that ‘bren’ is an old French word for shit. Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. oops. That’s rather unfortunate.
--…..or it’s ‘B’. But from the age of 16 onwards people called me ‘Con’.
… and you realise that in French that means ‘cunt’, right?
-Perfect. ____________________________________________________________________________________

I don’t think it’s possible to beat that

1.Blogfolks, I was still thrashing under the clawed foot of the Dreaded Lurgy this weekend; various parts of me were hurting, aching or even exploding. Nasty.

2.Well, do you want to know what love is, blogpeople?

3. It’s when your special lady friend offers to rub your belly even though she has been (graphically, extensively) warned about the fact that such a thing will make you fart like there’s not tomorrow.

4. And she does it anyway, and she doesn’t even care, and she doesn’t even kick you out of bed.

Just like home!

1. People of Blogland, I was out on the town last night, and it was just like being in Paris! Really, it was: I was patronizing a cosy candle-lit gay establishment in the company of a lovely friend (all my friends are lovely, though) when I saw outside a gang of hooded youfs gathering, lining up and seemingly up to something dodgy, or stupid, or both. They were looking at the windows of said establishment, but apparently decided against starting a siege and started throwing stones at passing women instead, before moving on. It felt just like home!

2. Prior to that, I went shopping in the most expensive furniture and decoration shop in the galaxy, Heal’s on Tottenham court road; I was painfully reminded of my inferior financial and economic status. I did, however, find a belated Christmas present for my Special Lady Friend. I wonder if it’d have made a good weapon should the potential riot described in 1. above had actually unfurled. I think it might have done.

3. Last night I was trying to convince Abi (who is, although a tall blonde, very lovely) of the many merits of inviting her own SLF over to her place and cook her dinner.

Good wine? Check.
Decent glasses? Check.
Candles? Check.
Music? Check.
A succession of home-cooked, light yet mouthwatering dishes? Check.
A playful dessert? Check.
100% Egyptian cotton bed sheets? Check.

So the following section is dedicated to Abi. Thank you for stopping by, blogfolks.

MENU
1. Green lettuce with walnut and blue cheese (Stilton is fine). Drizzle walnut oil if you have some. Balsamic vinegar won’t work.
2. Today’s suggestion is to combine the hearty mushroom risotto with rare steak. You’ll need an onion, some dry white wine and mushrooms. I recommend Gallo’s risotto rice. A full-bodied red wine with steak, definitely.
3. Poached pears with homemade chocolate sauce (melt over a low heat, add vanilla and cinnamon), sprinkled with grilled almonds and a scoop of good vanilla ice cream. I’ll practice this afternoon and get back to you with details.
PS: Aprons are sexy.

Sweet grapes

People of blogland, I have to tell you about last Sunday.
My Special Lady Friend was visiting. I’m very fortunate, because she often visits. If I plead and wring my hands in a sufficiently convincing manner, she even spends the night. (I won’t tell you what she agrees to do when I get down on my knees.) So, yes, my SLF was visiting, we were in the middle of some serious hanging out, when she foraged into her bag and said, casually – oh by the way, I have a present for you. Before I had time to do my usual little excited dance she’d pulled out a bottle – I might not be materialistic, yet the word ‘present’ is nearly pavlovian- ‘Here’, she said with studied nonchalance.
I gasped.
How?
Where?
Wow!
I nearly got down on my knees then, you know.
Vendanges Tardives, the best goddamn wine in the whole world, people!
She’d found some.
She made it sound like it was easy. Just something she’d picked up after work.
After I tied her to the chair and threatened to torture her, I got the whole story. She’d been trying to trace it for weeks, had ordered it online and had just gone into an infinitely posh shop to collect it.

We drank it then we went for a walk along the river.
We met six months ago, you know.
Santé.

Withdrawal symptoms.

So, yes, I admit it, it was Lesvos we went to. I say Mitileni, but really you and I, people and Blogland, know that it’s Lesvos. Greavsie totally blew my cover.

Anyway. Withdrawal symptoms.
I think I may be having them, people of blogland. Seriously. It’s serious.

Ah, the simple life on Lesvos. Ah, the Sappho Guest house and its sunburnt guests in various states of undress! Ah, the measly trickle of cold Lesbian water in the shower! Ah, the tiny gravy granules-like stones from the Lesbian beach that hide in your crack, get carried to the bathroom/bedroom, then pepper the floor for days! Ah, the ‘Unleash your creativity with other like-minded women in a safe environment’ workshops!

It’s just not the same here you know.
All this middle class London comfort, and not the tiniest workshop on how to write bad poetry about orchids or how to worship your vulva.
I might sulk.

Therefore, I’ve just stood in the bathtub and washed from a cold trickle of water; afterwards, I covered the floor in Bisto granules, for more authenticity. Later my lover is coming over, so we can play the ‘find the granules in your crack’ game, and then unleash our creativity together, in a very Lesbian way. Just like on the island. Yay. That’s how we treat withdrawal symptoms in my world.

Love thy pussy, love thyself

Abi says , If I were going to have any kind of plastic surgery, I ‘d get a porn star pussy.
What’s one of those? Kerry’s bemused.
You know, when everything’s in the right place and everything.
How do you know that yours isn’t?
Because.. I’ve looked?
You have? How?
With a mirror, silly.
More bemused looks.
Me too; I have a hand mirror just for that purpose, I pipe up.
Kerry’s mouth forms a perfect ‘o’.
That’s because you’re straight, Abi says. Straight women don’t look at their pussy.
They don’t? I chirp. I thought every one did. Maybe not. It’s like that scene in The color purple.
Abi nods vigorously.
Kerry hasn’t read The Colour Purple, but she’s seen the film. The mirror scene didn’t make it onto the screen.
Abi offers to have a look at Kerry’s and tell her if she has a porn star pussy or not. Kerry declines.

Now that I think about it, I think I have one those, actually.

Cherry bomb Part One

1. Because it’s cold, I’ve had to have three desserts tonight. Look out for headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers: ‘Girl explodes. Cherries suspected.’

2. Saturday night's storm was only a little one. I blame the gay day and the gay beer and the infinitely cute lesbians in kilts, which distracted me and affected my vigilance. On Sunday, we made up over a bottle of mineral water, and tried to define the terms of our non-relationship relationship; then we went to our respective abodes, perhaps to confirm, solemnly, the fact that it’s not just about shagging.

3. It’s not just about shagging, you know.

4. But it’s not a relationship.

5. I wonder if she’s got a kilt…

Cherry Bomb Part Two
or 'TMI, sometimes'

- B, I say, I’m going to have explosive diarrhoea. 1 kilo of cherries.
- Nice. Thanks for sharing. Who said romance was dead?
- Romance IS dead. It was acquired in a hostile takeover by Disney and Hallmark, homogenised and sold off piece by piece.
- Such cynicisms in someone so young, it’s heartbreaking.. I need a card to make me feel better. A personalised one.
- Oh, honey, I’ll make you one, to go with the apron I’m going to knit for you, remember?
- Just make sure it has a pocket, so I can carry the card with me always… and stop it now, you’re scaring me.
- Hey, you’re the one talking about romance.. I don’t want romance.. therefore I share information about my ‘splosive ass. It’s a preventive measure.
- Commitment phobe.. and there’s me, going through the yellow pages.. .remov.. can’t spell U-heals…joke!
- HAUls. U-Hauls. Page 56. I got it book marked.
- Where is my inhaler? Crash cart, anyone?
- But seriously.. winter wedding maybe? You’d look so good in black against a back drop of snow.. and we could have little flower girls dressed as fairies.. or maybe big flower boys dressed as fairies.
- Oh no. eek.
- Hey, you were the one in a wedding dress on Saturday.
- This is an automated message service. Freda isn’t available at the moment; she’s rounding up the chickens and goats for sacrifice. 23.30 Friday. Don’t be late. Anyway, I’m sorry… Do I know you? Where did you get this number? Stop hassling me.

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.

People of Blogland, I have some serious questions.

1. Is there a cut off age for making out in cinemas, and if yes, what is it?
2. Have I been suddenly rewired? How else can I explain sudden explosions that happen whenever I put my hand under my lover’s tshirt?
3. Is it so wrong to whisper filth into someone’s ear as the opening credits for ‘Downfall’ appear on the screen and everyone else is bracing themselves for a harrowing war film?
4. In this B&B by the sea we’re eloping to at the end of the week, will the shower fit two people?

Such a hard life.

Oh yes

So, apart from Jeffrey Dahmer, I share a birthday with my err my lover, and that’s today, people of blogland. I’m not sure how I feel about this shared birthday thing. The Jeffrey Dahmer connection is an interesting chatup line, the lover thing is..I don’t know yet. I’m not the only special person in the room, she’s entitled to wear the same badge and I have to share the cake more equitably that I otherwise would have done. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go back for some double birthday sex birthday party thing . And no it’s not the kind of party where you can join if you turn up with a bottle. Hope you’re all having a good day, I know I am.

An extremely brief date summary

I’m wearing my ‘I share a birthday with Jeffrey Damher’, she said. Your photos don’t do you justice, she said. I recognized you easily, still, shame you’re not wearing the peach frock you promised, she said. I was taught how to dance by a gay born again christian celibate priest, she said. You need your back done, you carry all you tension in your lower back; I know, I’m a massage therapist, and it’s not a line, she said. Well, it is a little bit of a line, she said.
What would you have done?
I had to lean over and kiss her, didn’t I.
I don’t know how I made the last tube home.

I wanted to call this post ' Spring's in my pants', but I am aware of how cheap and vulgar that makes me sound.

Now it’s time to go out and frolic in the sun. Still, Spring is in..

Homophobia and my mother

1. 1987, April, Kitchen at home
A stranger told me she liked my style!, I chirp excitedly.
Really? You should be careful; it was probably a lesbian. my mother replies.

2. 1989, September, same.
Mum, if I’m understanding properly the theories in Introduction to psychoanalysis, and if we consider the lack of positive male role models in our family, [my brother] and I should both be gay homosexuals. I blurt out.
Where did you read that drivel?
It’s only Freud. I reply, with a detached air of superiority.
She sniggers. What rubbish. Go finish your homework and stop being so disgusting.

3. 2004, December, on the phone
What you need is to meet someone else. I don’t care if it’s a man or a woman, but you need someone. she said as a feeble and frivolous attempt to galvanise me out of depression.

4. 2005, April, on the phone after a week holiday with a long time friend of hers
She’s nice, but so close minded, and she says such stupid, offensive things..
like what? , I prod.
A slight pause. Well, like ‘he’s such a fucking fag’, ‘bunch of faggots’, you know.. she trails off, embarrassedly. I know she won’t have challenged her friend. She won’t. Not just yet.

But don’t you think she’s really made an awful lot of progress?

A visit to the zoo, or A slice of possible internalised homophobia

So, what kind of lesbians do you want to go and look at anyway? ask my two friends and escorts. For a split second, Sarah’s lured me into believing that there actually is a choice and that it’s mine to make. I should know better. So as we make our way through foggy Soho, we carefully avoid the much despised Candy bar and head into its clone on Old Compton Street.
After I’ve regretfully kept my hands in my pockets as we make our way through a roomful of gayboy muscles in tight tshirts, we find the back cupboard devoted to womyn the broads what we’re there for.
We scan the crowd. It’s not just policemen that look young, you know, I mutter between two sips of bubblegum-flavoured alcopop. Everyone in here looks about 16 with similar hair, clothes, mannerisms. I bet they’ve all applied to go to fashion school after they’ve done their A-levels. I inwardly kick myself; I’m getting seriously, cynically annoying, and I don’t want to try the patience of my willing friends. Make an effort, Y. ‘Anyone you like?’ chirps Maria. No. Wait, what about her over there, she’s nice.. No. I mean, yes, she is, but she looks, somehow, like a younger A. Let’s not even go there. I toy with my bendable straw and practice my wise, mysterious but still approachable look. Oh no, a girl is attempting eye contact; I can’t look away, but mainly because she looks uncannily like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. Can’t she see I have wrinkles ahem lines, for the sake of Pete? We retreat and spend the rest of the night in an old man’s pub, eating old man’s pub grub. Contentedly.