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.

It’s sex, but not as we know it.

1) I’m early for my appointment. I stand by the lift. Why do people think that if they keep pressing the button it'll make the lift come faster? That works with women...NOT with lifts.

2) I stride into the waiting room, (callously) hoping that a sexual health clinic might be excellent blogging material. But there’s no-one else there; the pile of magazines and basket of help yourself! Condoms and dental dams are all mine for the taking. Strawberry? They only have flavours I don’t like.

3) the (gay) Nurse Practitioner is.. let’s say I could put her in my pocket, she’s that cute.

4) -While I get the room ready, would you mind reading through this leaflet on sexual health we’re working on? Feedback would be great, she says.
-Sure.
-We’re rewriting it because the old one had quite a lot of slang words and people didn’t like it.
-Oh, I smile. Maybe you should have different versions for different members of the public. Colour coded, so they’d know what level of slang they’re getting. Baby pink for ‘your lady garden 101’. Crimson for ‘Love your pussy, love yourself’. Deep purple for ‘your cunt and its tribulations’.
I’m high as a kite and very very anxious, I can’t seem to be able to shut up.

5) Later, confident in the knowledge that all is well with the lady garden (baby pink version), I run down the stairs (lifts, pah; don't come fast enough).

6) what if some day I run into cute NP Jenny in some dyke bar?
Hey, have we met? You look familiar. She'll already have a whole file on me!! Maybe she'd start reading it out at the bar. Screened for chlamydia, gonohrrea, HIV, B.V, thrush and syphillis'. Mmm.

6) To be continued.

What’s in a name, etc

1) At that time I wanted a girlfriend called Chris. Chris. A pebble of a name, smooth on the tongue, with just a hint of sharpness, and ambiguous enough for those who don’t need to know better (work, grandmothers, postman.). ‘What’s your boyfriend’s name?’ ‘Chris’, I would have said with just a shadow of a smile. Yes, I would have liked a girlfriend called Chris. I didn’t know any Chrises. Now it just strikes me as boring; or rather, it doesn’t strike me at all. I won’t give a Chris a second look.

2) Ok, I say, let’s say you have amnesia, you have forgotten your name and you can pick a brand new one for yourself. Don’t say ‘I don’t know’, just pick one. I’m in a bossy mood.
I’d have to think about it, she replies.
Cop out. Think now. Long? Short?
Short.
Girl’s name? Mildred? Margaret? What’s worse than Mildred? I know what’s worse. Molly. Especially because in French ‘molle’ means ‘limp’. It’s all wrong. That’s a million times worse than anything. In my first year English class, we had to have English names; my teacher called me Molly. I had a little card with Molly on my desk. Scarred, I am. In the second year we could choose. I had very little sense then, I picked Tracy. So. Boy’s name? Either?
Not a girl’s name.
Of course not.
We call my dad Joe, but that’s not his name.
Oh?
No. His name’s Alexander.
Of course. So you could be called Charlotte, and we could call you….
Brian.

We settle for Brian.

3) Maybe people called Dave have a better chance of pulling than those called Trevor. Maybe Alex is more desirable than Edna. Or Brigid, which spellcheckers change into 'frigid' if you're not careful, and that's unfortunate. I don't really have a punch line and it's lunch time.

Time for a Brazilian, or There are no mirrors in the jungle.

1) People of Blogland, in three weeks’ time, I shall pack my flipflops and a pile of books and propel myself to A Greek Island in the company of Jacqui (hello Jacqui!). I’m so excited I could pee myself, but I won’t, because I’ m a lady. Our plans are to swim, eat melon and read books.

2) Strangely enough, at exactly the same time, my lover and a friend will be propelling themselves to The Exact Same Greek Island. So, not exactly together, not exactly apart. In different rooms, though. Therefore I wonder how much light there will be on the beach at night. I wonder if there are any tips for getting rid of sand that got into places it shouldn’t get. Again, I’m so excited I could pee myself.

3) It’s this time of year when one has to purchase a Swimming Costume. My lover can casually fit her cute arse into size 10 bikini bottoms and add ‘ I don’t wear tops anyway’. Some of us find the process a tad more traumatic. Some of us were considering this:

4) WholesomeWear is a modest line of clothing for ‘wherever’. Swimwear that ‘highlights the face, rather than the body’ includes a garment with bright colors at the neck and shoulders to draw the eye to the face. The loose fitting outer garment limits cling and adds modesty and style.

5) Now doesn’t that sound good. Oh, look, I can choose between ‘skirted swimmwear’, ‘slimming swimwear’ and ‘culotte swimwear’, for the more active swimmer. Goody.

6) Alternatively, I could ignore mirrors for the weeks prior to my departure and reinvent myself as anything I like. Ask an antelope what animal it is ; ‘Me? I’m a butterfly! If one of them big stripey tiger things comes at me I’ll fly away’. Cos you see, there are no mirrors in the jungle.. I'm a butterfly.

7) That’s pretty much all I have to say for myself, because I’m hungry. Thanks for stopping by.

I just don’t know

1) As my train slows down, then stops in a tunnel, I wonder. What if; what if we’re stuck in here for long enough for people to freak out; what if some bit of the trains explodes; who in this carriage will scream first? Would I scream? Who will jostle and trample and push and shove and kick and pull and shriek? Would I jostle and trample? Would I push and shove? Or would I simply stay seated and feel cold absolute fear take hold of me? Scream and push and shove is for other people – I mean, I don’t even dance or sing at concerts...I stand there mesmerised and watch.
I don’t know.

2) Discovery: my bin liners are scented. No but really, they are. They smell of Fresh Something. Never in my life had I even imagined that some bored bin liner manufacturer somewhere would come up with such an idea. I was already in awe of scented panty liners and tampons – no, but really- but bin liners? I don’t even have a word for it.
I don’t know.

3) that’s pretty much all I have to say for myself, except that I’ll be on holiday tomorrow, and this prospects makes me positively giddy.

X is not just for xylophone

1) ‘Hey, where are you from?’
I give him three guesses.
‘Scottish Highlands?’
‘No’.
‘South Islands?’
‘No.’
‘Ok, say something else…. Say something!’
It’s becoming a challenge; of course I don’t want him to guess. I blather on, trying hard to make my accent impossible to place.
‘Not British?’
‘No.’
‘Israel?’
‘No. You’ve had your three guesses. French’.
I brace myself for the inevitable, and the inevitable comes:
‘Ah! Run away! Run away! Your people did it because we won the Olympics!’
He means the bombs, of course.
‘Oh, c’mon. If my people had done it, they’d made a much better job of it. And you haven’t won the Olympics, you’ve just signed up for a massive 20-year debt.’

2) Maybe the time has come to pretend to be Belgian. Or Swiss. Or Luxemburger. No one hates Luxembergers. Just so I never get to hear ‘if it weren’t for us you’d be speaking German right now’ ever again., or ‘we won against the French’ like it’s a war. Only in your head, because you need an anal massage.

3) I had a #3 but I’m too tired and grumpy. Still, I wonder if Luxembourg gives citizenship easily.

P is for paralysis panting

1) At 5pm yesterday I finally turned the television and the radio off and decided that I had heard enough emotional media crap for the day, seen enough pictures of ambulances and bandaged faces and buses torn open like cans of catfood; and my lover came over, through streets devoid of traffic, peopled with hundreds of idle workers talking in quiet voices.
So she came over..

2) Time to shake off the paralysis and live, for fuck’s sake.. Conjure up a bubble and be safe; forget, that her (highly cynical) job involves using and selling yesterday’s events; forget that I’d bawled earlier in the day.
Live, and run to the station to meet her, and sweat and pant a bit because I can’t run for more than three minutes; smile, and hug, and eat and drink, and shed our clothes, and fuck, because it’s life, and life has to win over paralysis.

3) Later after sweating and panting some more we lay entangled, paralysis fully at bay.
- no but seriously, what other grown up activity can you thoroughly lose yourself in? I ask.
The answer comes as I barely hit the question mark:
-Football!
- Ah. Of course. Should have known.
She laughs.
- This is blogging material, you know, I threaten.
- So now I’m blogging material. I see.
- Honey, everybody and everything is blogging material.
- Even this? And this? What about… this..?
Breathtaking. Can’t possibly blog about it.
Personally, I think it beats football anytime.

I’m angry.

‘If you have pictures of the bus’ top being ripped apart, do send them to us’, says BBC2.
‘Let’s hear the tales of survivors’, they say.
‘A couple is reunited after the blast’

They don’t need to tell us how to feel.
They don’t need to tell us if we should cry.
And they shouldn’t ask for pictures of the wounded and the dead and people running away with blood on their face.
It’s obscene, more obscene than donkey porn.

That’s pretty much all I’ve got to say for myself this morning, except that my friends are all in one piece and I better call my mom. Then bawl, or something.

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.

Clouded

Yesterday, people of Blogland, was pink Saturday, which I had forgotten all about; that says rather a lot about my wish/inability to belong. Pink Saturday is when the million gays put on either their leather outfit, sailor’s suit and stick feathers either onto their head or up their arse, march for a while, then proceed to get drunk gaily together on Soho square -which is roughly the size of a Jacob’s cracker- til nightfall, then go to gay parties. There are two other pink Saturdays this summer in London, which confuses people. The march, which is free; then there is the Big Gay Out, which isn’t; then there is the Soho pride, which is a big mess but apparently the most fun of them all. So now you know.
Did I mention I had forgotten all about it?
I was busy sampling different kinds of absinthe around London Bridge with a tall blonde, then our minds obviously clouded, we said in perfect unison ‘pah, there won’t be anyone in Soho, they’re all in Hyde park for the live 8 thingy. Let’s buy some beer and have a quiet drink on Soho square, a bit like tramps’. No wonder that absinthe thing is notorious for making people crazy. Soon we were surrounded by leather outfits, sailors’ suits and all kinds of feathers; we stayed and watched and drank.
Then it turned out that there were past dates and friends and acquaintances on the Jacob’s cracker, as well as my lover in a wedding dress and some of her friends, and we all met up and I got gaily drunk and started talking to everybody and then it was nightfall and my tall blonde friend was hungry and since this was supposed her day she and I left to go in search of sustenance, and now my lover is extremely pissed off with me and I don’t know what to do.

Perhaps I should have forgotten all about pink Saturday properly, and none of this would have happened.
I suspect that today, people of blogland, will be Morose Sunday, and will chiefly be spent in bed with the cat.

That’s pretty much all I’ve got to say for myself.