Suburban Mayhem

There is some good news.

I think I've found my sexual identity: a trashy femme called Sylvie. All thanks to cheap black wigs from the $2.00 shop and cheap black micro mini's from the $5 scragg shop, and cheap pink breasts from… err.., well the tit goddess, I guess. I've had them for about 25 years……. they don't cost very much at all. a bit of pain now and then. decent Bras. TLC & touch wood.

As the trashy femme, I feel like one of the Bronte sisters, being urged into a mask by their Papa " If you put htis on, you can be whoever you like, say whatever you like, it's not you, it's the mask".

so mayhem went out and was totally trashy on wednesday. Dancing like the whore of babylon, feeling up girls on the dance floor, following butches into toilet cubicles. getting other butches to follow me home. My mother would not be impressed with this at all.

Isn't lesbianism meant to be some sad, reclusive reflective decent thing, done between decent malephobic deeply in love sensitive beings who have no other choice than to seek refuge in a feminine caress?

Aren't lesbians lesbians only in couples and just sad spinsters while waiting for the perfect girl?

Can't we be cured by the perfect senstive non threatening man?

Aren't those piggies in the sky so damn pretty?

Last week, feeling mangofied, lusty, happy, energetic, I SMS'd my favourite femme icon of the month and posted a link to her blog. (see regal bits).

Like zoo (Milky and Ouchy) I too admire her eloquent posting on romance - and wish my browser wasn't so spastic that I can't stick up a link rightaway.......

All this midnight oil burning while the consort slept. He'd retreated into some world of pain/exhaustion/goodexcusefornotfuckingmeapprentlybut tryexplainingthattomycuntcozIain'tseenherearshaveyou?

feeling sexually deprived I naturally thought of the infinite sweetness of breastmik washed down by black bitter beer. Of the smoky succulent residue of ladylips lingering through more beers. Desire burned into me, and lay smouldering all week.

I wanked. a lot.

couldn't write. Wanted to sob. did sob. missed Abel. Listened to too much music. Wanted more. My head started throbbing. I had to get out. I took my migraine to yoga, and gently breathed. Realised that I had to get out. and move.

I had to go out and shake my bits, move like I was fucking and being fucked, and maybe even be fucked - but even just going through the motions lets off some thing.


my vagina, strange phallophillic and deaf creature that she is - is a marvelous dance instructor. (even more, I dare say, than the consort - though no-one's paid $80 an hour for her lessons).

she of course, leads. she leads me, she moves and moves me where and when and how she wants to go. Ever other limb, every other muscle follows her.

this explains the beatific smile on my face when I dance. It's like fucking nothing.

and I delightedly got led home by some incredible crinkle eyed butch, wiht a husky voice and eyes like the ocean, and hands like GOD (if a decent once exists) and Jesus - there's a whole world of women I need to sleep with because I think i've been missing out up to this point.


and I realised what I like in a man was being taken in the way that I want a woman to take me. hard, strong. No doubts. that self assurance.......

dykes don't ever ask if you've come or not.

when I told the consort he sobbed a lot but said it wasn't about me, and I'm still stupidly hoping for some sex from him, and meanwhile the saphhic sex god has been texting me every hour, and my twat throbs and I need to wank, and it's REALLY HARD to write.

the downside of the saphic sex god is that she is a chain smoker. and she doesn't drink coffee. She rang me one morning before I'd had mine. she didn't try again. I don't form words before coffee. (All the more Kudos to the consort for being the same way). I'm also scared she wants another girlfriend, she's talking about not moving interstate after all and has already tkaen her sex toys out of storage (ohhh lucky me!). i'm scared to tell her I've been bonking a man.

I wandered donwstairs and sought the advice of TEDG - whose a bit of a postgender sex god after her talk on thursday.

I asked her if I should maybe solve my problems by telling these inadequate, confusing and demanding people that I've FALLEN IN LOVE WITH ABEL AND WE'RE BACK TOGETHER.

those nice bonk/play buddies wouldn't have to be told - coz they don't make any demands. Just proffer bits of flesh, soothing caresses and naughtiness in between meals, coffees, conversations, mangoes..... which is all I want to do with anyone right now.

No fucking demands, no fucking expectations, no fucking dramas, no fucking posession.
Just lots of angst free, smoke free, game free fucking.

TEDG tried to persuade me that I shouldn't make up stories about Abel coz they might come true and that I probably do have the skills to actually ask for my needs to be met, directly from the intimates concerned.

but times like these I wish life could be like one of those ads for working dogs in the "the Land" newspaper.

Bailing, binding half-bull bitch. No time wasters.