Celebrating Hogmany (December 31st to all you non Scots) from the ages of 14-17 involved getting wasted on WhiteLightning cider and/or vodka and mixer in a plastic bottle and roaming around Union Street swapping saliva with as many strange men as possible, for no other reason than it being a new year. Truly a grotesque experience by all standards and from a young lesbo’s point of view: disappointing and retch-worthy. Midnight would come and my mouth would be awash with boy’s prodding tongues which of course tasted like roll-ups and beer. My mouth would be used as a vessel for passing on cold sores and herpes for about two hours and because everyone else did it, I let it happen, hoping one time I’d open my eyes and in place of a swollen man tongue there would be a beautiful female pinning her soft lips to mine. By the time I was 17 I’d kissed only 3 girls and was always on the look out for eager volunteers to help me expand on this figure. My first girl action was when I was 15 and I had a serious, but pretty much unrequited, crush on my friend who let me kiss her a few delightful times. After this followed my ‘girlfriend’ (using the term more loosely than her lips) from Cornwall who I dated for about two years until she came for a visit and ended up doing whatever with my lesbo friend in the toilet of a nightclub. My third girl kiss was with a friend from school and we vaguely fancied each other and had some good kisses. Three kisses in three years really wasn’t much to report however so like I said, I was keen for more action. Anyway, it was new year 96/97 and my gob was doing the rounds, trying to attach my lips to any passing female and very nearly getting flattened each time. I was ready to give up, to give a guy my number and practice heterosexuality when a pair of lesbos passed, one very femme and the other very, very butch. I thought if I tagged onto them they could introduce me to some friends: butch, femme, ugly, acned, whatever, as long as it was female I didn’t care. Butchey disappeared however, and I was left with the beautiful Femmey. I explained my plight to her, that I’d spent a few hours kissing beards and having men’s tongues flapping around in my gob and before I could burst into tears: she kissed me. It was a really good kiss, although kissing any female would have been fabulous compared to what I’d been kissing that night. We broke apart, reluctantly, and she looked furiously around, ensuring that long-term Butchey wasn’t in the vicinity: she wasn’t. She told me her name and asked that if I were to ever meet her again to never mention our kiss. And off she skipped, looking back very frequently, to be reunited with Butchey who’d probably just scored a bunch of drugs and had her head re-shaved in the time I’d been kissing her girlfriend. Anyway, for months after I always looked for her in the gay bar, hoping for a repeat performance and hoping that she hadn’t told her girlfriend who would now be looking for me to kick my gay, disrespectful ass. But alas, I never saw her again. Until yesterday, 9 years later. I was sitting in a pub and glanced out the window and saw the Butchey girlfriend. Woah. I recounted my tale to The Oldest Lesbo I Know and of course it transpired that she knew who I was talking about. Well this is Aberdeen and the scene is as small as my ass is big. And then...‘No way, don’t look now’ says my lesbo chum so clearly I turn right round in my chair and here is the Femmey, on her own, ordering a pint from the bar and she takes the seat directly in our eye view. How very weird is that? I haven’t thought about her since early ’97 and then I see her and her girlfriend, in two apparently unconnected incidents. She looks over a few times but most likely at my friend who has a distant connection with her. Neither my friend or I make eye-contact. It’s so weird. She must be about 40 by now but pretty much looks the same as that night which I remember pretty clearly. S___: kiss number 4. I listed all my kissing compadres up to number 14 when I realised just how immature it was to number then amount of girls you’ve kissed. Not because I stopped kissing them at number 14...
That’s it though: the story ends there, quite undramatically. There’s no big reunion where she drops a chip at my table and tells me she’s been searching for me for years and I tell her sorry, she had her chance 9 years ago. There’s none of the dirty looks I’m so used to receiving from lesbos for one reason or another and to be honest there’s no actual recognition on her part whatsoever; I mean who would remember me, the vaguely pubescent lesbo whose hair would have been massive, who would have tasted of men and who was probably wearing a man’s suit and sporting a stupid hat. Yeah actually, pretty memorable after all, for all the wrong reasons...
Ah I love reminiscing about my early lesbo life, you know because at 26 I’m so old school…
Anyway, so I go don my manly toolbelt and pretend to assemble our new wardrobe while being thankful that I no longer have to man kiss strangers with dirty, and possibly diseased, breath and wandering, callused hands.
Autumn equalling good soup, lots of
The dreaded family event: not so dreaded after all
The Gentleman aka The Beast
One week 2 days till Glasgow
Sugary tea, helps a whole heap when feeling queasy
Venus Envy – Rita Mae Brown, waited 2 years to read it and oh the disappointment
Feeling like a mouldy turd currently with sore throat and other fluey symptoms
People with superiority complexes
Meet the Fockers, just shite
Waiting for new glasses, so better be here tomorrrow