Dress Me Up: Salacious Sapphic Salads

One of the juicy joys of summer, is crunching into a hearty, healthy salad. Unless, you’re me. I like vegetables, but only under certain conditions. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who believe that vegetables were primarily created for salad dressing. I’ve always felt that way. As a child I’d only eat my veggies, if they were covered with creamy dressing. The only exception to my rigid rule for raw roughage, are tomatoes. During August, which is the only time in the Pacific Northwest that they abundantly grow – I’m in tomato heaven. I can practically eat them for every meal. A fresh tomato just picked from the vine, sends my savory senses spinning. To even think of putting dressing on those luscious red orbs, is tantamount to tomato treason. I know, I know – you didactic, die-hard dykes are saying, “But technically, a tomato is a fruit since it has seeds.” Yet some of the greatest chefs in the world still consider tomatoes vegetables, and I side with them. But you might, however, change my mind temporarily; especially, if you’re a hot butch who’s slowly sliding the dripping “fruit,” into my eagerly awaiting open lips. And then I’ll want seconds.

Although I love salad dressing, I’m very particular about what I like. I’ll admit that I’m somewhat of a salad snob, when it comes to drenching my veggies with dressing. I have a collection of dressings in my frig, that are comparable to having the right shoe for every occasion. I have everything from a casual, Newman’s Own Vinaigrette: (Flip flops, Keds or Crocs), to a dressier, Marie’s Chunky Blue Cheese Dressing: (Cole Haans, Kate Spades or Salvatore Ferragamos). If I were Imelda Marcos, I’d be in big trouble; since my condiments compartment can contain only ten bottles, not two hundred – plus.

I know that salads aren’t ordinarily considered sexy; but I had one memorable date that changed my attitude. She cooked an incredible meal for me, and saved the salad for last (she was European). Talk about food foreplay! She hand feed me the entire salad: each leaf of lettuce, each piece of carrot, and each cherry tomato. She gazed into my eyes the entire time, and by the time that she was finished, I was more than ready for dessert.

I’m working on eating vegetables without dressing, but it’s like having sex without an orgasm – it can be satisfying, but also incomplete. Maybe I’ll just “lighten up” on my desire for decadent, delicious dressings. I could even learn how to make my own, if I got ambitious. And if I had the right woman, wrapping her arms around my waist as I measured and mixed the ingredients – I might even consider becoming a vegetarian. Don’t get me started about cukes.

Port Townsend to Portland: Pilgrimage “Pillage!”

In the next few days, I’m preparing for an event that equals the Olympics in terms of skill, strategy and savvy: I’m having a moving sale. Recently, I wrote about my impending move to Portland, OR. Although I’m excited about my new life, I’m dreading getting rid of my old one. In my community: Port Townsend, WA – garage, yard and/or moving sales, are the small town sporting equivalent, of a yearly, Nordstrom’s lingerie sale. During the first five feverish minutes. Envision sweet little old ladies competing with surly teens, for coveted cashmere sweaters. Guess who wins? Usually, age triumphs over youth. Those seniors really know how to use their very wrinkled and sharp elbows. I’ve even witnessed pet-loving people show their claws, over who gets the box of cat toys. Unfortunately, I’m not exaggerating.

Once, I was literally “run over” by an elderly woman at a church rummage sale. I was ahead of her in line, patiently waiting for the sale to start. So was she. We had a friendly short schmooze, making idle talk about the weather and where to buy sexy shoes (nowhere!) in PT. But all of that girl talk abruptly ended, when the doors opened. That brazen bitch actually had the chutzpah not only to push me out of her way, but to head straight for the sweaters. I watched in awe, as she scored the only two cashmere sweaters in sight. She caught my eye, in between grabbing goodies and smirked. I mentally flipped her the “finger,” and acknowledged my defeat. Thanks to her, all that I wound up with was a holey, purple acrylic sweater – as my consolation “prize.” But if she dares to show up at my sale, I’ll charge her double for everything. Triple for cashmere.

Now to be fair, I’ll also admit my own culpability and creatively conniving capers – at sales. I’ve been known to greedily grab items, and to hog and hoard, too. I used to be well-behaved, but I’ve been forced by my competitors to change my manners. Seriously, if you’re nice instead of nasty – you don’t get the booty! I’m considering hiring a bodyguard for my Saturday sale. Not because I have Ming dynasty vases and Tiffany jewelry; but because my collection of thrift store ceramics and artisanal earrings are wayyy cool. And in PT, that’s what counts – not just cold cash.

Which brings me to an even greater dilemma, than worrying about pushy people: it’s pricing my priceless paraphernalia. How can I sell that gnarly wood lamp with the pussy pink linen shade? And if I do – what is it worth to someone? It’s not only the stuff that I’m selling, but the memories attached to it. And that’s what’s so challenging. I don’t ever use that lamp anymore, but I found it on a special date, with someone dear to me. If I lose the lamp, I lose the way that she smiled at me, when she bought it. But I definitely won’t lose the way that I thanked her that night. I’ll bet that she still has a permanent hickey on her inner, upper right thigh – as a memory of my gratitude. I’ll price that lusty lamp at $50. That way, if it sells – the money will be a small consolation for its great loss.

I hope that I don’t get a lot of “early birds.” In PT, fanatical folks almost sleep on your lawn (just like waiting for a rock concert), so that they can be the first to buy your Barbies. I usually write something witty like: “Early birds must bring coffee,” in my ad – in order to prevent them from waking me up at 6am (for a discount on the lesbian erotica). This time, I wrote: “Early birds will be eaten!” But I know that my neighbors will still show up, long before I’m open for business.

I need to wrap up this post, and start wrapping and packing for my Portland move. I sure hope that my sale is a success, and that I survive it in one piece; unlike my valuables. I don’t mind some broken dishes, but don’t touch my tchoctchkes! Unless, you want to “pay the price.” And it’s gonna be high.

Blubber Ad Blab, on Bad Ab Flab

“They’re baaack!” Those fat-phobic, flab-fanatic folks at Sensa are at it again, with their new, weight loss ads. Apparently, Dr. Hirsch (Sensa’s “flab-mad scientist”) either didn’t read my post, entitled: “Sensa You’re Densa, Show Some Mensa,” or care. Perhaps they were slightly offended. I don’t know why?! I simply made a few, gentle suggestions for improving their asinine ads. Maybe they’re just thin-skinned, when it comes to fat folds.

I honestly didn’t think that they could “improve” upon, the gross-out factor of their previous ads. How wrong I was. I discovered their new ads, yesterday. I’d just eaten dinner (wish that I’d waited), and went online to check my e-mail. Fortunately, I hadn’t seen their old ads for a while, and was unprepared for the visual assault of their latest campaign. Once more, in glaring garish color – were expanding and contracting stomachs, necks, and my absolute fav: a sexy, swinging saggy slab of underarm fat. WHOO HOO!!! Subtle and sweet. Guess you made your pudgy point, with that one Dr. Hirsch. Although it’s clear to me (and anyone else who isn’t brain dead), that no amount of dieting will get rid of that “tissue issue.” We’re talkin’ major lipo, baby.

If one wants to motivate people to lose weight, I don’t think that offending them first, is a wise idea. Especially, if you want their moolah. Wouldn’t it make more sense, Sensa – to show before and after pics – without the breezy blubber? Call me critical, but I don’t understand their fixation on grody graphics. Maybe their advertising department has a thing for flings of fluctuating fat. I also feel sorry for anyone foolish enough to believe, that a dietary aid can diminish their disgusting gut; without the hard work that it takes, to achieve a hard body.

If they’d only hired me, none of this would’ve happened. As their media consultant, I’d have ixnayed the obnoxious ads and started from scratch. By the time that I’d finished with my repairs, no one would be frowning. In fact, they’d be laughing so hard that they’d pee in their pants. My funny ads would feature quirky quotes on weight loss. And they’d concentrate on images that enhance, not degrade people. But would they sell Sensa? Probably not, but they’d be so entertaining that I’d win a Clio for creative copywriting. And Dr. Hirsch might even reward me, with an expensive and rich in calories dinner. We could schmooze over steak, lobster, and garlic butter with sour cream mash potatoes. We’d finish off our feast with some chocolate mousse, and then waddle off into the Splendad Sensa sunset – to plan our fatastic, future campaigns.

Limerlick Lezzie – #31

If a “rose is a rose” as they say -

then a “nose is a nose,” the same way.

But his nose at the end -

was destroyed – couldn’t mend.

It was buried with him, as he lay.

Limerlick Lezzie – #30

She was just a bimbo, at first -

the feminists hated her, worst.

But over the years -

she allayed all their fears.

With her talents, the stereotype burst.

Limerlick Lezzie – #29

His heyday is now in the past -

thank God, that the freak didn’t last.

He preyed on young boys -

for his jollies and joys.

Why lower the flag to half-mast?!

Defeated Desert Dyke, Ditches Depressing PT

It occurred to me, sometime ago – that if I ever wanted a romantic relationship (let alone getting laid), that I’d have to move. Moving is never easy, especially for me. I love many things about my small town: Port Townsend, WA – but it lacks something special that’s necessary for my sanity, sexuality, and survival: lesbians. That’s a slight exaggeration, but not much. There are dykes in PT, but most of them fall into two categories: 1. fat, frowsy, and flatulent (I’ve been to enough “Out to Lunch” gatherings to speak from experience, and 2. married for thirty years, with frequent flier miles to France, and a timeshare condo in Tuscon. Unfortunately, none of these “well-padded” (both physically and financially) ladies – know of any single dykes, that they could fix me up with.

Therefore, after over two years of diligently trying to either meet someone in Seattle or on the net – I’m waving my rainbow Pride flag of sapphic surrender; and moving to Portland, OR. I’ve been in Portland for only two days, and have already seen more hot butches – than in all of my six years in PT. And not only have I checked them out, but they’ve checked me out, as well. I can’t adequately describe how I feel. The best way is to simply say: that I’ve been “drying out” in a dyke desert, and now – I’m in pussy paradise. I’ve felt like the Ugly Duckling: dropped and dumped in the wrong family; and now, I’m suddenly surrounded by stunning swans; who admire and appreciate my beauty. I’ve been joking that my main reason in moving, is to “pick up chicks.”

Fuck “one in ten,” folks – butches are everywhere that I look: driving trucks, riding their bikes, swaggering down the streets, and hanging out at cafes. In fact, as I write – I’m not-so-subtly scoping one out. I can barely concentrate, and I haven’t even moved here yet! I’ve found an apartment, in under a day (owned by two gay guys), and I’ll be saying “sayanora “sisters,” by the end of July. Not only am I not in “Kansas anymore,” I’m also not in a dyke desert; I’m driving out of Dodge.

And not a moment too soon. I was actually at the point in PT, where I started envisioning my cunt atrophying from neglect. Not to brag, but I’m far too lovely, luscious and lusty, to trade in my twat for Twilight Zone reruns on a Saturday night. Gee, I’m really gonna miss all of those lonely weekends – cuddling with my cat. And the many months, where my only date was my dependable but dull dildo. Eventually, I’ll donate my lesbian erotica collection to a feminist bookstore. Because I’m counting on being far too busy with the “real thang” – to need or want to read about it. I’ll no longer accept any substitutes, since I’ll have my wild woman’s wicked and wanton ways, to stoke and satisfy my sensuality.

Someday, I’ll proudly parade into PT with my beloved butch. I’ll finally be part of a couple, instead of watching others from the sidelines. We’ll neck, nibble and nuzzle in public, because we can’t keep our hands off of each other’s bodies. And if, perchance, I see a single and lonely looking lesbian, I’ll approach her and whisper in her ear: “It ain’t you babe, move to Portland!” Then I’ll wave goodbye, and slowly saunter off into the sunset – (because I’m too damn sore to speed!).

Kumbaya BM (Bernie Madoff)

VERSE ONE:

Kumbaya BM, kumbaya

Kumbaya BM, kumbaya

Kumbaya BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE TWO:

You’re a schmuck BM, kumbaya

You’re outta luck BM, kumbaya

Your tight tusch they’ll fuck BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE THREE:

They’re in pain BM, kumbaya

Their loss your gain BM, kumbaya

You’re insane BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE FOUR:

You’re in jail BM, kumbaya

They got your tail BM, kumbaya

You sure did fail BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE FIVE:

You’re a disgrace BM, kumbaya

To the Jewish “race” BM, kumbaya

Hide your face BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE SIX:

You’ll rot in Hell BM, kumbaya

May your hemmies swell BM, kumbaya

We won’t kvell BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE SEVEN:

You stole their gelt BM, kumbaya

Kept your wife svelte BM, kumbaya

May her facelift melt BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE EIGHT:

Where’d it go BM? kumbaya

All that dough BM, kumbaya

You’re their foe BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

Dyke Dating Deal Breaker – #52

It’s the rare person, who doesn’t have at least one relationship deal breaker. Most of us, have many more. That funny term has become so ubiquitous and mainsteam, that no one questions what it means. Because it’s fairly obvious: deal breakers are issues that bother you enough, to potentially imperil a relationship. Deal breakers are a sensitive subject; especially, when it comes to romantic relationships.

I never realized until recently, that one of my deal breakers is the fondness for certain smelly soaps: like Irish Springs. Although the usage of Irish Springs isn’t in the same category, as either drug, alcohol, and/or nicotine addictions – it’s still something that annoys me. Considerably. One might ask, how can a soap possibly be a deal breaker? It is, if you’re someone like me. Numerous scientific studies have proved, that generally, women are more sensitive to scents than men. Unfortunately, my nose’s discerning ability to sniff out stinky smells, makes me like a human scenthound.

According to information on the net: “The scenthound breeds are regarded as having some of the most sensitive noses among canines.” I can relate to that. In a yoga class, for example, I can detect the delicate drifts of a distinktive and disgusting Avon perfume – from across the room. And in an elevator, I always know who it was that farted. It’s a shame that my olfactory gifts, can’t earn me boochoo bucks. Perhaps, I should apply for one of those coveted jobs, where women are paid to smell mens’ putrid pits. Apparently,despite how high tech we’ve become, it’s the best way to test deoderants’ effectiveness. Frankly, unless I were offered a house in the Hamptons, and a personal French chef – I wouldn’t do it. And it isn’t because I’m a dyke. Even though I love butches, I don’t wanna smell their underarms. Except, if she’s flat on her back, and I’m bathing her body with my tongue. You get the picture.

So several weeks ago, when I was on a first date – I used her bathroom and recoiled in revulsion. Not only did she have one bar of Irish Springs soap, halfway used in her shower, she also had another bar – decoratively displayed in a dish. Oy! And if that wasn’t enough, to distress my sensitive schnooz – I peeked inside her closet. There was enough Irish Springs secreted away, to cleanse an entire branch of the armed services. Apparently, when she went to Wal-Mart, they must’ve had a super sale on this stinky shit. And she binged and bought it all: every last barfy bar.

I know that many of you are thinking: “Would she really be that superficial, to dismiss a dyke on the basis of her soap choices?” The answer is both yes and no. While I can’t roll around in bed, with a woman who reeks of cheap chemicals and synthetic smells – I can buy her some new, sensationally scented soap. Never underestimate the powers of provocative persuasion, that a femme can wield in the sack. And it also doesn’t hurt, if she’s dressed in a slutty silk slip; and, wearing ruby red lipstick, too. I’d do whatever it required, to subtly sway her soap style.

But ultimately, I vastly prefer the alluring aroma of her intimate, erotic elixir – over any exquisite and expensive soaps. If I had my way (and I usually do), I’d seductively sell her on the numerous benefits, of not smelling of any scent, other than her own. It might take a few hours, or the entire night – but I’m a very patient and persistent woman. And while she’s sleeping, exhausted by my lengthy, lusty lovin’ – I’ll sneak into her bathroom. I’ll steal all of her Irish Springs soap; and then, trash her stash. I’m counting on her to be so contented, that she never even notices the missing bars. Because they’ll be replaced with my own, sweet soap!

*Nose Note: After I wrote this post I discovered, that even moths are repelled by Irish Springs. Apparently, if you want to deter them from chewing and chowing down on your cashmere sweaters – you hang Irish Spring balls in your closet.

“Secret Agent Dyke”

VERSE ONE:

There’s a dyke who leads a life of danger

Even when she’s drivin’ her Ford Ranger

In black leather she looks bad, with her hair buzzed she is rad

Odds are she won’t call you ’till tomorrow

CHORUS:

Secret agent dyke, secret agent dyke

She’s easy and she’s sleazy, she’ll give you what you like.

VERSE TWO:

Beware of pretty faces on the net

Even if the woman makes you wet

Ah, be careful what you say

Even while you play

Odds are she won’t call you ’till tomorrow

CHORUS:

Secret agent dyke, secret agent dyke

She’s easy and she’s sleazy, she’ll give you what you like

VERSE THREE:

Swingin’ with your sweetie on a Sunday

Then gettin’ up to cruise, to find your next lay

She looks sexy in her slip

But she’s crazy, and could flip

Odds are she won’t call you ’till tomorrow

CHORUS:

Secret agent dyke, secret agent dyke

She’s easy and she’s sleazy, she’ll give you what you like