schrödinger's pussy

2002-05-28T22:36:00.000+03:00

Q-online - womyn: The morning after the night before

Lesbianspotting!!
by Ulla Kelly and Sharron Irwin

Lesbianspotting is one of my favourite sports - c'mon admit it, you do it too ... on streets, in bars and clubs, at the dentist, walkin' the dog, in books, on TV ... I don't have MNet or satellite, so the pickings are slim, but it's the first subconscious question that drifts to the surface of my mind no matter what I'm looking at; "Does it contain lesbians?"
Since the end of the very groovy 'Dark Angel' series (remember 'Original Cindy'?), there just isn't any guaranteed lesbian content on SABCTV (and as far as I'm aware, only the occasional glimpse of one on eTV). There's the occasional jokey reference to lesbians on SABC3's Will & Grace, but I haven't noticed much besides that lately.

I kicked myself sharply and repeatedly when one of the Q forum regulars posted about a programme at 18h30 on a Tuesday on SABC1, where two black lesbians proclaimed their love for each other. I contemplated keeping the TV on permanently, accessorising with a pink safari suit and a pair of Jane Bond spy-binoculars and hiding out behind the couch in order not to miss another rare sighting of that exotic creature - the televisual lesbian.

Saturday morning rolled around and unusually, we were parked in front of the TV and the SABC programme was repeated. It was a youth magazine style programme called 'Get Real' and one of the inserts was proudly captioned 'Lesbian Love'. Two black women (Lamour and Zanele) were being interviewed by one of those laconic 'hey duuuude' type of guys they seem to pick for that sort of programme. His eyes were bulging somewhat, but he was definitely respectful, even when asking those old groaners of questions, like, "So, like, if a hunk had to walk in here right now, you wouldn't feel anything hey?" and "Would you ever change?" The reply was, "Noooooo baba! You want me to eat fruit I don't like for the rest of my life?"

The women's responses were stunning - they seemed unrehearsed and completely authentic. That most crass of queries about how lesbians actually have sex, was answered by a slightly bashful looking Lamour, "Kissing, massaging ... her vagina and mine, they meet together - it's magical!" which is as valid a reply as any, since as far as I'm aware, there isn't a formula for lesbian sex - we do what makes us feel good. Upping the crass-quotient a little, the duuude asked who was the man and who was the woman; Lamour looked a little peeved this time, raised her eyebrows eloquently and said, "She washes dishes, I wash dishes ..." Zanele said, "I love Lamour too much!" and they gazed at each other in complete bliss. It was cute, it was touching, it was real - and if the interviewer came over as a rather gauche little straight boy - well hey that's a real enough reflection of widespread attitudes too. The poor boy - there he was, interviewing two lesbo's on a bed - every straight man's wildest fantasy and all they were doing was looking at each other. It was a little slice of TV heaven - honest and relevant and I enjoyed it more than an entire series of Ellen.

In the same week, Branda Fassie finally came out publicly. I prefer Lamour and Zanele's googly-eyed comments to the Fassie-hype, but TWO examples of black lesbians in the media in one week is, I think, worthy of a very loud and joyous "wooohooooooo!!" They're up against a whole lot more cultural/social opposition than a white chick like me - they make me proud to call myself a lesbian.

Paint me pink and call me Petunia, 'tis a fine time to be a lesbo - I'm off to the lusciously lesbo-filled fabulous film festival!

2002-05-24T21:23:00.000+03:00

Q-online - womyn: The morning after the night before

Breakfast in bed - The pinker option
by Ulla Kelly and Sharron Irwin

A lesbian St Valentine's Day breakfast in bed on Planet Fluffy would be served in a big brass bed, with crisp, white Irish linen, artfully rumpled, but miraculously uncreased by a night of unbridled passion. A shower of rose petals as crimson as heart's blood would precede the arrival of the breakfast tray, as beautifully laid as the lover lying waiting, gracefully sprawled and just waking up, with carefully tousled hair. Orange juice would have been freshly squeezed on the thighs of an Amazon warrior princess, aromatic coffee freshly brewed - in a coffee pot, let's not get carried away here. Somehow the toast would stay warm while the lover, seduced by being so spoiled, would pull the breakfast chef to her for fragrant and lingering kisses. On Planet Fluffy, nobody wakes up with furry teeth.

Consider your traditional English breakfast (and for a start let's hope it wouldn't be trying to wage war on your Irish linen). How romantic is it really to be given a plate consisting of fungus that has been left to grow in compost; a gelatinous mound of white and yellow that could potentially have been an Easter chicklet running around on a farm, instead of waiting to be swallowed? Let's also not forget various bits of animal flesh wallowing in melted butter; it's thwarted ambition - the animals would certainly rather spend Valentine's Day frolicking about in greener pastures. The humble tomato is also known as the love apple; is that really something we should be frying?

No smoochy soft-focus breakfast in bed would be complete without that most euphemistic of breakfast optional extras - the strawberry. Have you ever looked at a strawberry before? I mean really looked at one? They're every shade of red, with granular little dark bits which rake across your tongue, assaulting your taste buds. Strawberries are succulent, aren't they? Whether you're nibbling on one of those little pink suckers yourself, or watching your lover wrap her sultry lips around one, the allusion to cunnilingus is unmistakeable. Speaking of which, strawberries taste that much better served elsewhere … they're a taste sensation on their own, but when combined with the juices of love and maybe even a good champagne ... mmmmmm!

Breakfast in bed might be a bit much to expect on Valentine's Day this year, it being on a Thursday and all … and who needs bedcrumbs anyway? I'm guessing most of the South African lesbo population has to rush to get to work in the mornings and probably a large proportion of them are cursing Hallmark and all things red and heart-shaped for yet another commercial conspiracy to make the single sistah feel even more single. Still, that's no reason not to indulge in sheer unadulterated fruity pleasure. Strawberries anyone?

2002-05-23T12:46:00.000+03:00

Q-online - womyn: The morning after the night before

(thoughts on attending a clit-tering event)

by Ulla Kelly and Sharron Irwin

Clubbing lesbians … slightly more humane than clubbing seals, but the headache's the same.

One of Cape Town's 'dykes nights out' is Pridenite, held once a month at The Valve … aka the Vulva … they used to have it at Fatboyz, so namewise, I guess you could call it progress. You enter and pay yer R15 to the Ladies With Clipboards, who immediately take down all your details and inform your mother that you attended a lesbian event … no, I'm kidding, all they do is try to add you to Myrna's thoroughly efficient mailing/smsing list so you can be invited to future events. You then saunter casually past the lesbo's hanging round the stairwell and begin the interminable meatmarket march across the dancefloor to the bar, to be served by very efficient and hetero looking staff.

The venue's kinda kitsch-baroque-ballroom-lounge, with a chandelier feel to it and a look of decaying elegance, complete with a black guy in a waistcoat who circles endlessly, clearing the dykes' fag-ends and glasses. I always feel guilty when he moseys on by, I always want to ask what he thinks of it all. There are plenty of squishy chairs and couches to slink off to - ideal for furtive smooching, outright groping, or just to watch the passing parade.

The music hops from Mandoza to 'Oh Mickey' without warning, but the dancefloor always seems to be full of bright young dykes and the DJ bobs about on the balcony with superstar attitude. I'll be honest, I hate the music. I thought it might just be a case of boring old fartdom, till I noticed two upholstered tannies and some rather mature trannies shaking their thang happily on the dancefloor.

There were butch dykes thinking they epitomise trendiness, yet their tight little t-shirts and hipsters sort of lost themselves between the baby rolls of skin y'know? And whilst we're on the subject of misfitting clothes, what is it about some women who absolutely insist on wearing these micro-minis, all with the best intentions of course, yet their legs should in all honesty be covered up for a more flattering effect.

Funny actually, watching people strutting their stuff on the dance floor. All those body movements could actually make you dizzy. Lesbos gyrating with each other, with fairy friends (which by the way, is a turn on for who?) … bending backwards almost onto the floor, steadying the body with one hand resting on the floor …. Oops, there's one down ….. much laughter to hide the obvious embarrassment. Speaking of which, have you ever really noticed the smiles plastered on faces? So I guess it's not just me who doesn't enjoy dancing; unless of course I'm slightly trashed or have become a recent member of the fluffy brigade. Those smiles paint a thousand pictures …. or lead one to ask a question … why dance if you feel uncomfortable about it? Now there's a thing …. why do so many of us dance if we don't actually enjoy it?

Leather-trousered Myrna is a fabulous hostess, as energetic as hell and a people person through and through. I hope she's making money. I hope lesbian events become so successful that we end up with more choice, so that I can stop feeling grateful to the poor overworked souls who organize them, and start getting picky. Although I'm grateful for the audiovisual irony of hordes of shorn lesbians bopping to 'Let Your Hair Down' and 'It's Raining Men'.

2002-05-22T23:45:00.000+03:00

Q-online - womyn: The morning after the night before

I've been pondering what makes mornings different for lesbians, apart from the glaringly obvious fact of being a womyn and waking up with a womyn next to you in bed, and perhaps a copy of the latest Jeanette Winterson novel on the bedside table. My toothbrush has no apparent deviant leanings … my bedlinen isn't even pink. What would it be like to wake up in a lesbian separatist world?

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! The alarm goes off, "Good morningggg Lesbos, this is Radio Dyke! It's 6am and the daughter is already high in the sky!" (The word 'sun' would have been discarded for it's patriarchal references) Hop out of bed and into a tastefully venuslike shell shaped bath, scrub with Sapphic soap™, wash the regulation dyke brushcut hair-don't with shampoo that was never tested on heterosexuals, brush teeth with 69 AfterPaste™ splash on the Eau de Doos™ and leap into standard issue dyke-gear (dykeboots, jeans, t-shirt with militant slogan, labyris earrings - all of which would never have been in a closet, naturally).

Stride womanfully into the culinaire ("kitchen" being a term herstorically derogatory to wimmin) and indulge in Pop-Tarts™ … er pardon me … Pop-SexWorkers™, for breakfast; cooking having been overthrown and stomped out in the new lesbo regime. Or perhaps real lesbians only eat muffins in the morning, while discussing the latest trends in orgasmic bliss and mistressbation. There'd be no fried ovum and certainly no bacon ('Pork'?! With the sexual connotations of that word? The horror!).

Personally, my mornings-after are a little less lesbocentric. In fact, even the nights-before would sound horribly tedious to any hardcore dyke-joller. I do wake up with a womyn beside me and there is generally a selection of lesbo-literature scattered about the place, but apart from that, there's really nothing much to write to your local press about, in terms of leading an alternative lifestyle. We get woken up by the kid, we brush our teeth, we eat breakfast cereals advertised by ideal, smiling hetero-couples-with-2.4-kids. I wake up perving my naked and lovely lover, sure, but I'm sure there are a hell of a lot of straight men doing the same thing, so even that isn't a particularly lesbian way to start the day. I live in fear of lesbopatrol arriving to confiscate my Official Lesbian Card, for engaging in unlesbian activities.

My mornings are, on the surface, very mundane. Or should that be womundane?