A regular correspondent emailed me last week and chided me for not writing more about lesbian issues in this blog.
I'm not sure I'm aware of any to be honest. It seems to me that ladies-who-lunch-on-ladies are doing pretty well these days.
But I'd like to see some lesbian issues of Vogue or maybe Heat.
We’re quite fashionable actually. People like the stunning supermodel Kate Moss and/or actress Sienna Miller (allegedly) are reported in the red-tops as mutual rug-munchers. More seriously, Sarah Waters, the writer of Fingersmith etc was a hot favourite for the prestigious Booker Prize for her novel about lesbian and straight love in the Second World War.
In the USA, Christine Aguillera and Drew Barrymore have shown some enthusiasm for getting close and personal with women (late as always compared to the goddess Madonna who was apparently ‘Into the groove’ of Sandra Bernard years ago) and The L Word (which I despise) is very popular.
So, no obvious prejudice here. Plus lesbians are also getting ‘married’ in public ceremonies (like my gay friends a couple of weeks ago).
In fact, life is very laid-back for us lady lovers at the moment. Any fuss about females in the Daily Mail is currently aimed at rather sweet Muslims who choose to wear veils. Or Madonna’s adoption issues.
I’m putting some hot sweaty lesbian lurvvve into my book so no surprises there! But I’m not expecting an outcry – the stuff with the margarine and the goat will probably achieve that.
Just joking. Which gets me neatly to some supposedly witty lines that an American friend emailed me – who says we don’t have a cunny bone?
1. What do you call a cupboard full of lesbians?
...A licker cabinet.
2. What do you call an Eskimo lesbian?
...A Klondyke.
3. What do you call 100 lesbians with guns?
....Militia Etheridge.
4. Why can't lesbians diet and wear make-up at the same time?
…Because they can't eat Jenny Craig with Mary Kay on their face.
5. What do you call two lesbians in a canoe?
…Fur Traders.
6. What is a lesbian dinosaur called?
…A Lickalotapuss.
7. What do you call a lesbian with long fingers?
…Well Hung.
8. Did you hear that Ellen DeGeneres drowned?
...She was found face down in Ricki Lake.
9. How can you tell a tough lesbian bar?
...Even the pool table doesn't have balls.
10. What do you call lesbian twins?
...Lick-a-likes.
11. What's the definition of confusion?
...Twenty blind lesbians in a fish market.
12. What's the difference between a Ritz cracker and a lesbian?
...One's a snack cracker,the other's a crack snacker
13. What do you call an open can of tuna on a lesbians coffee table??
…Potpourri
Ha ha ha, gosh my sides are splitting!
Love Sadie xxxxxx
Exploring the dark places of the body and mind.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Bizarre mating rituals
I’ve been to two weddings recently.
The first was rather unusual because there wasn’t a bride (well, not in the accepted sense) and the only thing white was the faces of some of the shocked passing Brighton shoppers as we posed for photographs on the pavement.
The second, however, was far more bizarre with strange rituals, weird clothing and a night of lustful and drunken celebration.
You’ve guessed it. The first was a cool and civilised gay getting together and the second was a family affair in East Grinstead.
The guys were a couple that my friends Dolce & Gabbana knew well (probably in the biblical sense too if I know my boys). They’d been sharing a flat for years and decided to formalise things – and why not I suppose?
Well I could list some reasons but I’d probably cause Blogger to crash.
My marriage was a dream. By which I mean a series of uncoordinated events and surreal happenings that might have been imagined by Hieronymus Bosch. So I’m a bit jaded about the overall cost of a diamond ring.
Mention of rings gets us back to the chap’s ceremony – well I can never resist an obvious joke. It was just like Elton and David’s, except we had the reception in someone’s flat and there were no talented millionaire celebrities attending. Although I had one woman pointed out to me whom I was told had been an extra in Eastenders.
The registrar managed to keep a straight face throughout. Which I suppose was impressive when you think of the sexual inclinations of the majority of the wedding guests. But to be serious for a second, it was all rather touching and I’m sure I detected a tear in Ms Hasting’s eye.
Right, a second’s passed.
The couple looked blissfully happy. They wore similar Oswald Boateng suits with little differently coloured carnations in their buttonholes – some gay code I imagine but sadly I forgot to ask.
At the reception we drank pink champagne and tucked into mini versions of junk food – little hamburgers and tiny fish and chips in teeny newspaper cones. All a bit twee I suppose but then this was a gay wedding. The guests, mostly happy homos and laughing lezzies behaved impeccably, we chatted and networked and finally left quietly into the Brighton night.
All in all totally different from my other event – which was a decidedly queer wedding.
For a start it was a family affair, and, as you might imagine, being a foul-mouthed, tartily dressed, pervy, enthusiastic lover of lady’s bits means I’m somewhat estranged from my church-going, Conservative voting relatives.
I invited Ms Hasting’s with some trepidation. She may have seen some terrifying things like the inside of a BDSM club, girl’s night at the Revenge club and my fanny – but nothing would prepare her for my family enjoying themselves en-mass.
A cousin of mine was getting hitched to some bloke. I watched his face steadily falling as my uncles and aunts filed into the church looking like they were attending a casting session for Texas Chainsaw Massacre 3.
I really get on well with my cousin. She was in virginal white which was sweet and faintly ironic because, I’m pleased to say, she has had a few intimate casting sessions herself before selecting her leading man. The dress was, in the great tradition of these things, totally hilarious. It billowed so she looked like a Victorian shepherdess caught in a hurricane. I asked her what was old, new, borrowed and blue. She proudly admitted that she’s combined three of these in one, by wearing an old blue thong that she’s borrowed from her sister.
The ceremony was old and ritualistic. The priest intoned, we called out in response and I was amazed we all didn’t dance in a circle around the sacrificial victims.
I stood at the back trying to be inconspicuous. However one or two of the women present would occasionally look in my direction and whisper something like “that’s her’ to their companion who’d then give me the once over. They seemed disappointed that I’d forgotten to bring my thigh boots and whip.
But, bizarrely, later at the reception in some big country hotel Ms Hastings and I were the best behaved. The married couple had left for their honeymoon and everyone else had left their senses. We’d sat through a heavy dinner and even more stodgy speeches that the gallons of warm white Chardonnay had failed to lighten.
But all this juice has certainly lightened the inhibitions of the guests. Old uncles danced too closely to young bridesmaids and lots of boozy blokes tried to prove they were the best man with the smashed female smashers.
Ms Hastings and I sat, like staid Brighton matrons, watching this bacchanalia. And then I thought, WHAT THE FUCK! I’m letting myself and my reputation down here.
I’d have preferred to have stripped her there and then and ravished her over the dining table but I didn’t want tiramisu stains on my Prada pants. So I grabbed my comely companion and led her to one of the many rooms off the ‘ballroom’.
She was the tastiest thing I’d enjoyed all night. I was really hoping an aunt would peer in and see me on the sofa with my arse in the air and my face between Ms Hastings thighs – but then I’m kinky that way.
When we left my cousin’s parents sniffily bid us goodbye. He gave me a peck on the cheek as if he’d catch something and she pointedly shook my hand. They always liked my ex-husband and, possibly correctly, blamed me for screwing it up. In that moment, they really made me feel a twat.
But I had the last laugh as our hands parted because I bet she never guessed where my fingers had just been.
Love and kisses from sticky Sadie xxxxx
The first was rather unusual because there wasn’t a bride (well, not in the accepted sense) and the only thing white was the faces of some of the shocked passing Brighton shoppers as we posed for photographs on the pavement.
The second, however, was far more bizarre with strange rituals, weird clothing and a night of lustful and drunken celebration.
You’ve guessed it. The first was a cool and civilised gay getting together and the second was a family affair in East Grinstead.
The guys were a couple that my friends Dolce & Gabbana knew well (probably in the biblical sense too if I know my boys). They’d been sharing a flat for years and decided to formalise things – and why not I suppose?
Well I could list some reasons but I’d probably cause Blogger to crash.
My marriage was a dream. By which I mean a series of uncoordinated events and surreal happenings that might have been imagined by Hieronymus Bosch. So I’m a bit jaded about the overall cost of a diamond ring.
Mention of rings gets us back to the chap’s ceremony – well I can never resist an obvious joke. It was just like Elton and David’s, except we had the reception in someone’s flat and there were no talented millionaire celebrities attending. Although I had one woman pointed out to me whom I was told had been an extra in Eastenders.
The registrar managed to keep a straight face throughout. Which I suppose was impressive when you think of the sexual inclinations of the majority of the wedding guests. But to be serious for a second, it was all rather touching and I’m sure I detected a tear in Ms Hasting’s eye.
Right, a second’s passed.
The couple looked blissfully happy. They wore similar Oswald Boateng suits with little differently coloured carnations in their buttonholes – some gay code I imagine but sadly I forgot to ask.
At the reception we drank pink champagne and tucked into mini versions of junk food – little hamburgers and tiny fish and chips in teeny newspaper cones. All a bit twee I suppose but then this was a gay wedding. The guests, mostly happy homos and laughing lezzies behaved impeccably, we chatted and networked and finally left quietly into the Brighton night.
All in all totally different from my other event – which was a decidedly queer wedding.
For a start it was a family affair, and, as you might imagine, being a foul-mouthed, tartily dressed, pervy, enthusiastic lover of lady’s bits means I’m somewhat estranged from my church-going, Conservative voting relatives.
I invited Ms Hasting’s with some trepidation. She may have seen some terrifying things like the inside of a BDSM club, girl’s night at the Revenge club and my fanny – but nothing would prepare her for my family enjoying themselves en-mass.
A cousin of mine was getting hitched to some bloke. I watched his face steadily falling as my uncles and aunts filed into the church looking like they were attending a casting session for Texas Chainsaw Massacre 3.
I really get on well with my cousin. She was in virginal white which was sweet and faintly ironic because, I’m pleased to say, she has had a few intimate casting sessions herself before selecting her leading man. The dress was, in the great tradition of these things, totally hilarious. It billowed so she looked like a Victorian shepherdess caught in a hurricane. I asked her what was old, new, borrowed and blue. She proudly admitted that she’s combined three of these in one, by wearing an old blue thong that she’s borrowed from her sister.
The ceremony was old and ritualistic. The priest intoned, we called out in response and I was amazed we all didn’t dance in a circle around the sacrificial victims.
I stood at the back trying to be inconspicuous. However one or two of the women present would occasionally look in my direction and whisper something like “that’s her’ to their companion who’d then give me the once over. They seemed disappointed that I’d forgotten to bring my thigh boots and whip.
But, bizarrely, later at the reception in some big country hotel Ms Hastings and I were the best behaved. The married couple had left for their honeymoon and everyone else had left their senses. We’d sat through a heavy dinner and even more stodgy speeches that the gallons of warm white Chardonnay had failed to lighten.
But all this juice has certainly lightened the inhibitions of the guests. Old uncles danced too closely to young bridesmaids and lots of boozy blokes tried to prove they were the best man with the smashed female smashers.
Ms Hastings and I sat, like staid Brighton matrons, watching this bacchanalia. And then I thought, WHAT THE FUCK! I’m letting myself and my reputation down here.
I’d have preferred to have stripped her there and then and ravished her over the dining table but I didn’t want tiramisu stains on my Prada pants. So I grabbed my comely companion and led her to one of the many rooms off the ‘ballroom’.
She was the tastiest thing I’d enjoyed all night. I was really hoping an aunt would peer in and see me on the sofa with my arse in the air and my face between Ms Hastings thighs – but then I’m kinky that way.
When we left my cousin’s parents sniffily bid us goodbye. He gave me a peck on the cheek as if he’d catch something and she pointedly shook my hand. They always liked my ex-husband and, possibly correctly, blamed me for screwing it up. In that moment, they really made me feel a twat.
But I had the last laugh as our hands parted because I bet she never guessed where my fingers had just been.
Love and kisses from sticky Sadie xxxxx
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Wot I did this summer
Ok ok, I know what’s the use of a fucking blog if months pass without any news? It’s supposed to be a log – a daily sort of thing – you know Captain’s log Stardate whatever and all that. So I’m going to attempt to squash 120 days or so into a few paragraphs.
First, Brighton. Hot, v hot for most of June and July, no surprises there and none on the nude beach either. Ms Hastings finally stripped off on sands scattered with gaily-coloured beach balls.
That’s right, she dropped them in full view of 100 disinterested blokes in brightly hued speedos. It’s still a mystery to me why the majority of hunky homos keep their knickers on. Hey guys, its…a…nude…beach, and you are supposed to be free-thinking, convention-breaking exhibitionists. Otherwise you’d be up the other end of the promenade with your baggy shorts, complaining wife and screaming kids.
Second, concerts. I saw Madonna, I’ve always loved her music and rather admired her, but it felt like my duty to be there, considering my relatively recent change in sexual preferences.
In fact, on the night we were there, there must have only been about three straight couples in the entire Wembley Arena. The rest of us wore our trashy but hideously expensive T-shirts and stupid cowboy hats and low slung jeans and howled for our kinky goddess. It was her birthday too and several muscled guys celebrated this by wearing singlets bearing the slogan ‘Birthday Bitches’
But us real bitches weren’t disappointed either. Madonna in riding gear with totally revealing skin tight breeches pole dancing and ‘riding’ a mechanical saddle….mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmoist or what?
I also saw the Stones. I like the rock but not the wrinkles, so I wasn’t that keen to go but Morgan (my writing partner) was going to see them with his advertising partner and he was very enthusiastic.
So we went to Twickenham Stadium. In my advertising days I accompanied clients to rugby matches there. It was fun to watch but what with the banter and the boozing it wasn’t long before they were trying it on with me and going for a tackle. But none of them scored, I’m pleased to say.
But it was different at the concer because Ihave to say the Stones were fucking fantastic. Jagger is extraordinary and thoughts of zimmer frames and bus passes immediately disappear when he appears. I was dancing around and punching the air and I really did ‘get some satisfaction and girl reaction’ from Ms Hastings later that night. So thank you boys.
Third, my book. We’re three-quarters of the way through and its still hard work. Of course, I’m not being ‘arty’ about this, you know…that ‘writing is like giving birth to a pineapple in a raging storm’ sort of shit. Farmers and firemen do hard work while we’re just press the keys of the mac but it’s still ‘hard’ to be satisfied with what we’re doing.
Other writers do an outline and a couple of chapters and try to sell this to agents and publishers. We, or rather Morgan, thinks that just an outline might suggest we’re writing pure porn and miss the point about the laughs and, of course, the high literature. So we’re putting the whole thing together and, by the way, I lied about that last bit.
Lastly, I’m still amazed about the number of Penny Smith posterior fans (or fanny fans for my US chums) who are constantly accessing my site because I’ve mentioned her. I wonder if the gamine GMTV presenter realises how many men out there are going berserk over her buttocks. Maybe she should do a special 2007 calendar with a different shot of her bum for each month. A furry thong for January and bare and tanned for July, for instance, and how about a bit of holly shoved up it for December. Great idea eh, but I’m sure all her admirers will still be checking in to my site whatever I say and imagine the increase in volume if I also mention the words ‘ Carol Vorderman’s bum’.
Bottoms up
Love and kisses Sadie xxxxxxx
First, Brighton. Hot, v hot for most of June and July, no surprises there and none on the nude beach either. Ms Hastings finally stripped off on sands scattered with gaily-coloured beach balls.
That’s right, she dropped them in full view of 100 disinterested blokes in brightly hued speedos. It’s still a mystery to me why the majority of hunky homos keep their knickers on. Hey guys, its…a…nude…beach, and you are supposed to be free-thinking, convention-breaking exhibitionists. Otherwise you’d be up the other end of the promenade with your baggy shorts, complaining wife and screaming kids.
Second, concerts. I saw Madonna, I’ve always loved her music and rather admired her, but it felt like my duty to be there, considering my relatively recent change in sexual preferences.
In fact, on the night we were there, there must have only been about three straight couples in the entire Wembley Arena. The rest of us wore our trashy but hideously expensive T-shirts and stupid cowboy hats and low slung jeans and howled for our kinky goddess. It was her birthday too and several muscled guys celebrated this by wearing singlets bearing the slogan ‘Birthday Bitches’
But us real bitches weren’t disappointed either. Madonna in riding gear with totally revealing skin tight breeches pole dancing and ‘riding’ a mechanical saddle….mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmoist or what?
I also saw the Stones. I like the rock but not the wrinkles, so I wasn’t that keen to go but Morgan (my writing partner) was going to see them with his advertising partner and he was very enthusiastic.
So we went to Twickenham Stadium. In my advertising days I accompanied clients to rugby matches there. It was fun to watch but what with the banter and the boozing it wasn’t long before they were trying it on with me and going for a tackle. But none of them scored, I’m pleased to say.
But it was different at the concer because Ihave to say the Stones were fucking fantastic. Jagger is extraordinary and thoughts of zimmer frames and bus passes immediately disappear when he appears. I was dancing around and punching the air and I really did ‘get some satisfaction and girl reaction’ from Ms Hastings later that night. So thank you boys.
Third, my book. We’re three-quarters of the way through and its still hard work. Of course, I’m not being ‘arty’ about this, you know…that ‘writing is like giving birth to a pineapple in a raging storm’ sort of shit. Farmers and firemen do hard work while we’re just press the keys of the mac but it’s still ‘hard’ to be satisfied with what we’re doing.
Other writers do an outline and a couple of chapters and try to sell this to agents and publishers. We, or rather Morgan, thinks that just an outline might suggest we’re writing pure porn and miss the point about the laughs and, of course, the high literature. So we’re putting the whole thing together and, by the way, I lied about that last bit.
Lastly, I’m still amazed about the number of Penny Smith posterior fans (or fanny fans for my US chums) who are constantly accessing my site because I’ve mentioned her. I wonder if the gamine GMTV presenter realises how many men out there are going berserk over her buttocks. Maybe she should do a special 2007 calendar with a different shot of her bum for each month. A furry thong for January and bare and tanned for July, for instance, and how about a bit of holly shoved up it for December. Great idea eh, but I’m sure all her admirers will still be checking in to my site whatever I say and imagine the increase in volume if I also mention the words ‘ Carol Vorderman’s bum’.
Bottoms up
Love and kisses Sadie xxxxxxx
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