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SX News Columns©Katrina
Fox 2003-2006
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 ©SX News 2004 |
The following are samples from my weekly column in SX News, Sydney's leading arts, news and entertainment magazine for the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender (GLBT) community in Sydney.
Designer Vaginas
Even the lesbians are at it now. Plastic surgery, that is. But it's not only mini-lifts, boob jobs and liposuction that are becoming more popular with previously PC sisters of Sappho. No, it seems that a bit of nip and tuck in the nether regions is now all the rage too. Procedures available include Designer Laser Vaginoplasty (DLV) which is the "aesthetic surgical enhancement of the vulvar structures" (otherwise known as chopping off bits of your downstairs lips) and even a G-spot injection. Yes, girls, you can now have collagen pumped into your fanny to plump up your hotspot and give you better orgasms.
But
surely this is just for the straight girls, I hear you ask? I decided
to find out and contacted Dr David Matlock of the Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation
Institute of Los Angeles. He told me: "Lesbian women are particularly
interested in our DLV procedures. The most common is laser reduction labioplasty."
Why, you may wonder, would any dyke in her right mind want her pussy pulled,
snipped and rearranged? Dr Matlock said it's a matter of aesthetics. "One
of my lesbian patients told me, 'doctor you have to understand that we
are interested in oral sex and we want things to look good.'"
We know that every new trend starts in Hollywood and Dr Matlock was keen
to point out that in his Beverly Hills practice, he has "a significant
number of celebrities, and this includes lesbian celebrities."
Naturally he wasn't giving out any names but he did mention a lesbian
comedian who wanted "the little man with the oars (clitoris and labia
minora) taken care of." And while any side effects of injecting bovine
collagen into your beaver are as yet unknown, don't be surprised if a
new variant of BSE pops up in the future. Watch out for MCD - Mad Cunt
Disease, and remember, you read it here first.
Tip
Top
While I've been having lots of fun going to all these girley parties and
happenings around town, the past few Wednesday evenings at home in front
of the telly have been very interesting too. I'm talking about Tipping
the Velvet, of course, the much publicised dyke drama brought to us by
the traditionally conservative BBC in England. Whoever thought Aunty Beeb
would be first in line to show lesbians doing it with strap-ons? Of course
they expected a barrage of complaints from morally sensitive viewers…what
they didn't bank on though were the letters complaining that the scenes
between Nan Astley and her succession of lesbo lovers were not explicit
enough. As one who has fallen hard for many a straight lass, only to be
passed over for a man, I could so relate to poor oyster girl in the first
episode when she discovered her beloved in bed with the boss and let out
a heartbroken wail: "Oh no, Kitty, you're MINE!"
Thank goodness for women like Mistress Diana Leatherby who take innocent
young chickies like us under their whip…er, I mean wing and turn
us into wanton floosies.
Hurry
Up and Get a Date!
It's surely only a matter of time before the newest craze sweeping America
hits Aussie shores. Lesbian speed dating is what we have to look forward
to, girls. Gay website Planet Out, which is organising the HurryDate events
in bars and clubs across the US, promises participants the chance to meet
up to 25 women in one night in a string of three-minute dates. Yes, that's
all you need apparently. "Most women will agree that you don't need
that long to know if someone is a hit or a miss. So, we think three minutes
is enough," says PO. "And at around $1 a lady, it's worth it
for the amount of women you'll meet."
Scared yet? Wait, it gets even better. At the start of the evening, you're
given a scorecard and HurryDate number before being seated at a table
for two where you have three minutes to get to know the person opposite
you. A whistle is blown to let you know when it's time to move on to the
next table. After each "date", you circle a "yes"
or "no" next to the person's number on your scorecard to indicate
whether or not you'd like to see them again. With me so far? You then
take your scorecard home with you and enter your scores into an online
system. If you marked "yes" to a particular girl and she did
the same for you, you're a match. After that, you're on your own and have
to get down to the nitty gritty of real dating. Musical chairs, scorecards
and data entry - it's all a bit complicated for me. Personally I find
old-fashioned methods such as lurking around the dunny with a saucy glint
in my eye and simple one-liners like "Hi gorgeous, wanna shag?"
just as effective.
Handle with Care
"The most beautiful women deserve the finest erotic adult toys."
This was the subject header in a spam email I got recently that caught
my eye. Well, it certainly made a change from the 50 or so that keep popping
up in my mailbox each week asking if I'd like to know how to make my penis
bigger. I was directed to a website in the US that sells glass sex toys.
Vibrators and butt plugs with exotic names like Mini-Rocket and Power
Fist are all made from 100 per cent hand-blown glass. Once I got over
my initial "ouch" reaction (glass and pussy are not words that
usually sit well together), I discovered the toys are rather pretty. And
distributor Melis assures prospective buyers that they are made from high
quality Pyrex glass, making them "safe and highly durable".
In addition, they're "dishwasher safe". Great, so straight after
pulling one fresh out of your fanny, you can just toss it in among the
cups and saucers for a scrub and rinse. I wouldn't advise telling dinner
guests this though…
More info: http://www.melis4glass.com
Sex Tips from Sexpo
A recent excursion to Fox Studios for the annual Sexpo exhibition proved to be most enlightening and even educational. Did you know, for example, that you should never use certain well known brand batteries in your vibrators? Me neither. But according to the Funtasia sex shop rep, they are physically too short to make the proper connections inside for the vibrator to work effectively. And if you're wondering what to buy your girlfriend, or even yourself for Christmas, here's a couple of ideas. First there's the talking vibrator. Well, it doesn't actually talk as much as moan, but it's quite cute. You press one button to switch it on, then another to turn on the "voice". The female version consists of lots of "oh, oh, oooh baby, yeh, yeh" noises. If you fancy a bit of "company" when flying solo, it's just the ticket.
Then there's Body Bitz. Fed up with well-meaning friends or rellies giving you hideous ornaments to place on the mantelpiece? Well, for just $27.50 you can buy a Little Bitz kit and immortalise your own pussy. The kit is seaweed based, you mix it up, put it in place for 45 seconds to set. Take it off, fill it with plaster, peel the gel away and leave to harden overnight. The perfect gift for her indoors. Just don't get too drunk during the festive season and mix up the labels when you wrap it…remember, your Great Aunt Maud may not appreciate such an original work of art as much your loved one…
Watch your Pearls!
I also got my hands on a free sample of Womanzone sexual enhancement gel and agreed to give it a test run for SX readers. Now, director Hugh Bannehr did tell me to use just a little bit and the instructions do state clearly that you should apply only a "pearl sized" portion to your nether regions, but subtlety has never been my strong point and I've never really understood the meaning of the phrase, "Less is more". So when nothing happened after the initial "pearl", I upped the dose to a huge rock that Liz Taylor would have been proud of. Ooops! After hopping around the room for a few minutes wondering if I should call the New South Wales Fire Brigade, things calmed down and settled into a pleasantly warm tingling sensation which lingered for a couple of hours or so and left me feeling quite horny for the rest of the day. The good news in particular for lesbians is that Womanzone is "a totally natural product, with a licorice flavour and contains no harmful ingredients if ingested." In other words, yes, it's ok to go down with it on! So if you need some help getting wet, girls, give the gel a try, remembering to follow the instructions properly…or look for a picture of Debbie Harry, which works just as well for me…
www.funtasia.com.au
www.womanzone.com.au
www.bodybitz.com
Celebrity Lesbian Action
So who else thought the recent photo in the Sydney Morning Herald of Madonna kissing Britney at MTV's Video Music Awards was much sexier than the video clip? The photo made it look like a lingering tongue jobby and I was most disappointed when I saw the real thing, which was nothing more than a quick liplock. But, it was better than nothing and I admit to being easily pleased at any remote hint of lesbianism among celebrities. I confess that browsing through Who Weekly or Now magazines and seeing pics of Kim Cattrall (Samantha in Sex & the City) canoodling topless with another woman on her balcony gave me a thrill. Even the anorexic Lara Flynn Boyle kissing a girlfriend on the lips was enough to bring a smile to my face. And while I know deep down that Yulia Volkova and Lena Katina (aka Russian pop sensation Tatu) are probably manufactured faux lesbians, I still love hearing that they don't have time to explore the foreign cities they visit because they're "too busy having sex".
It's all about suspending reality. A story, a photo or a scene in a movie between two hotties can stimulate the wildest of fantasies. One website that recognises this is Clublez.com. This fabulous site contains stills from a variety of movies, photos of famous chicks kissing other chicks and lesbian celebrity profiles. Then there's Kissing-Babes.com. Here you can watch video clips of some of the hottest girl-on-girl action found in movies or television shows.
Of course this may not be enough if you're a pervert like me and if so, you might want to go a stage further if you really want to see your favourite celebrities getting down and dirty with each other. Fancy gawking at a pic of a nude Gillian Anderson aka FBI Agent Dana Scully feeling Geena Davis's tits? How about Jerry Ryan as Seven of Nine in Star Trek Voyager fisting Captain Janeway? Or Gabrielle kissing Xena where it really matters? Well, courtesy of sites such as Lesbiancelebs.com, which use digital technology to put the heads of celebs on the bodies of porn stars (so it may not be terribly ethical but do you really want to turn down Jodie Foster taking a gorgeous brunette from behind?), your fantasies can take a teensy step closer to being realised - all for just $40 a month.
www.clublez.com
www.kissing-babes.com
www.lesbiancelebs.com
2 October 2003
What
fun it must be for academics to use up hundreds of dollars in their research
studies to come up with conclusions about people based solely on their
sexuality. Among the latest "findings" is the little gem that
lesbians get turned on by watching lesbian, gay male and heterosexual
porn, in contrast to gay men who are aroused almost exclusively by male
erotica, and straight guys who prefer girl-girl action. In other words,
dykes don't care who's doing the fucking, as long as someone is. Well,
I shall sleep better at night now that this little known fact has been
made official and will even appear in a scientific journal.
Then there's the study conducted at the University of Texas, which claims
that lesbian and bisexual women don't hear as well as straight chicks.
But, every cloud has a silver lining and you'll no doubt be pleased to
know that our hearing is more sensitive than our gay male counterparts
and heterosexual men. According to this amazing piece of research, the
reasons for this are that there are subtle differences in the way the
brain and central nervous systems develop in lesbian and bisexual women.
And not only is our hearing inferior to our straight sisters, our hands
are different too, it seems. In fact, the researcher in New Jersey who
measured finger ratios in gay women found that their hands resembled those
of straight men. In spacial awareness tests lesbians also tend to perform
more like men than heterosexual women, she concluded. Well, that's it
then - I'm not a real lesbian. My hearing is fine, I have pretty little
hands, I get lost all the time and have to turn street maps upside down
to face the direction I'm travelling to get back on track. My world is
shattered.
Chat, Chat, Chat
Well, lesbians may like to watch all kinds of porn, but they don't seem to want to get any cybersex action. If you're looking for general chit-chat and gossip, the women-only chatrooms on sites such as Gay.com or Pink Sofa are great. You can make new friends, meet the girl of your dreams or learn a new recipe involving tofu. But where's the hot action? When my alter-ego logs on to the men's section at Gay.com, the most popular topic rooms are Discipline and Wet & Messy. In less than five minutes I've been restrained in bondage, had my cock sucked and been rogered senseless. The most popular girls' rooms, however, seem to be Older Lesbians and Married Women. The latter sounded promising - saucy suburban housewives gagging for a bit of lesbo e-sex perhaps? Alas, no, it was still the same old getting-to-know you "How's your cat now Steph?" banter. I've been reduced to slipping into the "sauna" in a mixed adult chat room trying to elicit bi babes to talk dirty to me, while fending off the het guys who are only too keen to get into my knickers. Hmmm, maybe the researchers were right and for all my campy girly glamour, I'm really one of the boyz after all.
www.thepinksofa.com.au
www.gay.com
6 November 2003
How many times have you made love today? And how many of you just pictured naked bodies writhing around or felt horny after reading that question? For those of you that did, San-Francisco-based writer and performance artist Wendy-O Matik invites you to expand your definitions of love, sex and relationships in her new book Redefining Our Relationships: Guidelines for Responsible Open Relationships. Matik, who is about to start a tour of Australia, promotes open relationships and non-monogamy. But this doesn't necessarily mean jumping in and out of bed with all your friends and colleagues. "An open relationship is a radically different, re-defined relationship outside the status quo, where partners encourage non-restrictive paths of love," Matik explains.
"Open relationships are not just about open sex. There are a thousand or more ways to be loving with someone - sex is the easy part. It's being creative enough to actively commit to being a loving person on a multitude of levels, such as cuddling, holding, listening, love letters, the exchange of inspiration and so on, that separates you from the norm. I'm asking people to be aware of their own stereotypes of what an open relationship means."
According to Matik, the majority of people tend to choose monogamy, partly because they have never been offered a choice and this is particularly true of women. Speaking to SX News, she says: "Unfortunately, social stigmas such as 'slut' and 'whore' are still ingrained in most women's perceptions of themselves and how they believe others to perceive them. If a woman is promiscuous or desires sexual freedom and sexual liberation, then she risks being judged as a slut. And we know this to be the opposite for men - gay or straight. How this translates into the freedom to choose an alternative relationship model is the real challenge for many women. First, women must shed this old stigma. We must address our stereotypes of openly sexual people in order to dispel those social myths and the guilt that is attached to them."
A punk anarcho-feminist whose work has been lauded by the likes of post-porn superstar and sex guru Annie Sprinkle, Matik believes in a revolution. "When you commit to honouring all your relationships, whether you are intimate with them or not, then you indirectly begin to think and act outside the box. This is revolutionary," she says. "Loving openly and freely in this day and age is a political act, whether you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, or pansexual. Under my definitions, making love equals being loving - anything and everything that you put your heart into, including sex, a peace offering, a handshake, S/M, art, music, masturbation, fantasies, a warm embrace, whatever feels good - the sky is the limit."
So, how many times have you made love today?
For more information on Matik's work, visit www.wendyomatik.com
Gurlesque
Returns
After a few months break while two of its performers took Europe by storm,
the popular lesbian strip club Gurlesque is back. Set up in 2000 by Sex
Intents and Glita Supernova, Gurlesque is far more than just striptease.
"We've been performance artists and promoters for 10 years in Sydney's
underground gay scene as well as strippers," Intents says. "We
wanted to create an environment that was giving of sexual creative energy
- a sexual heaven for women."
The two women met in 1993. "Glita thought I was handsome and I thought
she was a mistress so we hit it off real well," Intents explains.
"Our relationship has changed and evolved over time as it will forever
more."
She describes the first ever show as "overwhelmingly spiritual",
despite initial reservations about how lesbians and striptease would go
together. "It amazed us all," she says. "The girls loved
it and so did we. We cried because we couldn't believe how liberating
it was for everyone in that room."
From its inception in Sydney, Gurlesque has become a national and now
international phenomenon among women in Melbourne, Darwin, Adelaide and
Brisbane, as it has toured and been accepted into festivals. "It's
been treated an extraordinary liberating timely concept for all women's
liberation," Intents says, although initially there were threats
of actions from hardline feminists. "They threatened to picket out
the front. We were excited by the stir - that we could challenge old stagnant
viewpoints held by women for all women to follow. They didn't follow through
though - apparently we split the feminist group in question in two and
many are now sporting our lovely Gurlesque t-shirts."
Intents and her colleague Annabel Lines (just watch what the latter can
do with hula hoops!) have just returned from a trip to London where they
had mixed reactions. "We went down pretty well in some places and
not so well in others," Intents says. "We performed at the famous
Raymond Revue bar and I think we freaked them out. They didn't quite get
the theatrical bent of our style of stripping. And the lesbian strip club
over there is still caught up in the patriarchal presentation of how a
woman should look and act. The lesbian audiences in London that we performed
for definitely could do with educating. Our Aussie audiences are far more
liberated as far I'm concerned."
With a possible bi-monthly show and a special party for Mardi Gras, Gurlesque
is always looking for new performers. "There's no casting couch unless
you want one," Intents says. "The only requirements are that
it's your interpretation of striptease, the shows are six to ten minutes
long and you aim to have a great time." I was thinking of having
a go myself. But when I told my girlfriend, she said: "You'd better
tone up then, dear - your arse is going south." Thanks hon. And I'm
buggered if I'm getting a Brazilian wax. A neatly trimmed map of Tassie
will do nicely.
More info at http://www.gurlesque.org
Stocking Fillers
Even if you can't stand all the commerciality of xmas, it's as good an excuse as any to buy pressies for cute girls - either your own or just any cute girls. With just two days to go, here's some ideas for last minute pressies:
The Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus: How to Go Down on a Woman and Give Her Exquisite Pleasure by Violet Blue. Ok, so this book might be better suited to the novices among you, but it doesn't hurt for the more experienced among us to pick up a few extra tips occasionally. Blue offers step-by-step instructions for eating pussy in all manner of ways and positions, as well as accurate and up-to-date information on female anatomy and response. This is one of the few books of its kind specifically targetted at a lesbian audience. It's also a great present to give as a "hint" to current or prospective muff divers, to make sure their techniques come up to standard.
If you're planning on whisking your girl away to far-off lands, why not surprise her by packing the Impulse Mile High Aviator. This is not just any old vibrator - it's a "vibrating and pulsating silicone aeroplane with sensation enhancement wings for incredible clitoral sensation." You can either "soar solo or with a co-pilot". The manufacturers also claim it's "discreet" and has a quiet function. Well, for nearly $100 let's hope the sensation enhancement wings have a special button to torpedo the little machine into warp speed drive.
For those of you with a few thousand dollars and not enough to do, you could invest in a fucking machine. Ok, so you may not be able to get one of these in time for Christmas, but you can have fun looking at the very graphic moving pictures on http://www.fuckingmachines.com/meetthemachines These babies make the strap-on look like kids stuff. The Monster, for example, claims to be able to "fuck at any angle between vertical and 15 degrees down." The downside is it must be "inserted into the pussy while in motion." Hmm, it gives the concept of "chasing cock" a whole new dimension. Then there's the Fucking Chair, which should appeal to eco-feminists as it claims to be "ecologically sound" because it requires no electricity. An added benefit is that it's therefore blackout-proof. Thank goodness for that - I mean, what else are you going to do in the dark?
My favourite is the Jetaime - a red padded tube with a holder for your personal dildo that will thrust into you at up to 170rpm speed with a five-inch stroke depth. This delightful piece of engineering can be tipped over and moved around to enable you to get banged in any position you like. Despite the manufacturer's warning that "Jetaime does not make a surprise gift - we have had several returns due to the wife refusing to ride Jetaime", that only applies to straight girls. If the little beauty turns up uninvited in my bedroom, I'm ready to climb on board.
The
Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus is available from The Bookshop, Darlinghurst,
$29.95. http://www.thebookshop.com.au
Impulse Mile High Aviator is available from the Toolshed, Oxford St &
King St, Newtown, $99.95. http://www.toolshed.com.au
New Year Madness
Happy New Year to you all! How are you doing with the new year resolutions? Given up smoking? Going to the gym three times a week? No, me neither. Well, actually, I don't smoke unless I'm on fire (ah, the oldies are always the best!), but in the spirit of rebelliousness and anti-herd mentality, I've made the following irreverent resolutions for 2004:
1. Watch more porn. There are plenty of dyke sex movies made by and for dykes from the US on the market now and rumours of the first home-produced one on the way. Of course we all know that lesbians are hard to please…erm, I mean like different things. Shaven-headed butches or Waltons-style girls-next-door are simply not my cup of tea, for example. And while my copy of the 1987 tongue-on-clit epic Rugmunchers 2 is really good, I'm kind of bored with it now. Imagine my delight then when I received a copy of Where the Boys Aren't 14 from www.sharonausten.com over xmas. Ultra femme girls with big hair, big heels and full drag make-up, including porn superstar Jenna Jameson (Britney Spears' favourite) eat each other's pussies like it was going out of fashion. This is where the Brazilian wax really comes into its own. Gone are the huge feminist bushes of the 80s - now you can see women's vaginas in their true glory. It's only a matter of time before they start showing these movies in biology classes…mark my words.
2. Take more recreational substances. Yes, that might seem a bit irresponsible, but I've been too good for far too long. Apart from a hit of nitrous oxide at a bondage party last year (they don't call it laughing gas for nothing), my only highs have come from deviant friends emailing me rock chick sex stories. I need to get out more and party!
3. Take my clothes off more often in public. It seems my recent exposure last month at lesbian strip joint Gurlesque has left me addicted to nudity. I may start a support group - Nudegirls Anonymous. But instead of ridding ourselves of this salacious habit, we shall be looking for more places to show off our fine feminine forms. I suggest a nude queergirl flash mob - one of those bizarre events gaining popularity in cities all over the world where groups of people gather at a destination, perform a simultaneous action and then leave as if nothing had happened (don't you just love the way popular culture is developing). Anyone interested in participating, meet this Sunday outside David Jones at Bondi Junction, flash your breasts at unsuspecting shoppers while yelling "It's not about the money, it's all about love." Oh, and just in case I don't make it, do it anyway and report back to me…
4. Take my first steps on the plastic surgery route. I can't actually afford it, but I'm hoping Australia will follow China's great lead and host its own Miss Ugly contest, where the winner receives $16,000 worth of nip, tuck and pull. Lipo's first on my list - if my arse goes any further south, it'll need its own (fake) fur coat.
Normal
service is expected to return next week.
A Sex Club for Girls!
Man Club, the 24-hour sex on premises venue for men, will open its doors for a special women-only night as part of the Mardi Gras festival. If successful, it's likely to be a regular event. Manager Brian Williams says women have been asking him for a space for some time. "I know girls like to get out and do the same things as boys but they just don't generally do it as often." Lubrication and dental dams will be provided, but you'll need to bring your own toys. As well as a chill out area with a pool table, there will be private rooms and televisions which will show lesbian porn. Personally I can't wait to try out the suckatorium!
Suckatorium Etiquette
For those of you unfamiliar with the details and rules of this deliciously titled phenomenon, I enlisted the help of my friend John in explaining it to me. "They're small one-person cubicles with oval-shaped holes in the wall about 10-15 inches high and 3-5 inches wide for anonymous sex," he says. Big enough for a pussy to be pressed up against one end and for fingers and/or tongue to come through the other? I enquire. John reckons so - yay! Anonymity is the key though and suckatoriums usually observe a strict no-talking rule. Hmmm. So how do you signal to the other party what you want? "Hand signals are en vogue," John explains. "You "signal" someone through a hole by pointing your two big fingers through or at the hole, kinda like hitch-hiking. That's the signal for the other party to put their pecker through." I wonder how this can be translated for chicks. How to communicate to a girl that you want her fingers rather than her tongue, and if you want her to concentrate solely on your clit, penetrate your pussy, or both? Poor John can't answer that one.
Ok,
once you've had your turn, is it expected that you'll swap over and reciprocate?
"There's no hard and fast rule. The other party can stick around
for their turn, or just rack off. They usually rack off."
But isn't that rude?
"No, in fact it's de riguer."
What if you realise you're not going to come, even though she may have
been tongueing or fingering you for five or ten minutes solid? Surely
if you just stop and walk off, the other person might feel insecure that
they weren't good enough?
"Insecurity doesn't exist," John insists. "If it does,
then what the hell are they doing in a suckatorium? Shit happens - just
try someone else."
Wow, it's a whole new world of rules and social graces, isn't it? I have
an idea. How about taking along a series of pre-typed (so your handwriting
isn't analysed and recognised) notes of what you'd like done and to do
and just post them through the hole? John's not convinced. "The boys
wouldn't go for it at all, but the girls...maybe." Whatever. It's
gonna be fun - see you there!
Wet & Wild
My recent excursion to the 24-hour sex on premises event at Man Club in Granville that opened for women as part of Mardi Gras proved most interesting. First off, there was plenty of sex happening, from twosomes and threesomes to whateversomes - both in the private cubicles and the orgy rooms between various chicks, some of whom appeared to know each other and others whose opening line upon meeting someone new was, "Hi, wanna have some fun?"
The suckatorium, however, just didn't happen and my quest for anonymous sex failed miserably. Yes, a couple of girls went in there for some dildo sucking but overall it didn't prove terribly popular among the 20-25 women frequenting the joint during the four hours I spent there. I hovered around this particular area several times but despite waggling a latex glove through the glory holes whenever I heard footsteps approaching, nothing happened. I guess glove waggling is not yet a recognised come-on in lesbian mating rituals. Or it could be that the suckatorium smelt of stale sperm, especially around the glory holes and grrls generally prefer something a tad more luxurious and better designed for our bodies. The holes were certainly big enough, but while men can come standing up quite easily and quickly, it takes a bit longer for us and it would be nice to have a soft bench to lie or kneel on while someone's licking or poking your pussy. Likewise the person doing the licking or poking would probably appreciate being able to sit down and manoeuvre themselves into more comfortable positions.
The porn on offer in the chill-out rooms was definitely to my taste though: super high femmes with super-high fuck-me heels and more make-up than a Revlon rep. The bright shimmering blue eyeshadow of one bleached blonde chick from silicone valley was enough to get my pulse racing but I do wish those girls wouldn't spit on each other's fannies. It's way too crass - just get the lube out, darlings.
It was great to see a bunch of women getting it on with each other with no inhibitions and kudos to Brian Williams, manager of Man Club for organising the event. When the club moves to its new premises in a few month's time, there may be a dedicated space for women - if you want to make any suggestions or comments on how you'd like it to be set up, drop Brian a line at 170 Parramatta Road, Granville 2142.
The L Word
I've been waiting for years for a lesbian version of Dallas or Dynasty. How I yearned for Sue Ellen to come out of the sanitorium, dump JR and run off with a hot chick, or for Alexis Carrington to have the occasional toy girl as well as boys. So when I heard about The L Word, an American lesbian soap opera, I hoped it would be the closest thing. Last week's pilot episode didn't disappoint - too much. While cries of 'They're too pretty, they pander to male fantasies, they don't represent real-life lesbians' have surrounded the show, I personally didn't think the characters were glamorous enough. Yes, they were smart and for the most part wore lipstick, but the make-up was subdued and there was not a mini-skirt, pair of seven-inch porn shoes or sparkly Versace ballgown in sight. They were basically ordinary LA lesbians. Ok, so maybe ordinary in LA is not the same as ordinary in Sydney, but if you want to see short-haired dykes in sensible clothes and no make-up, you can pop into any gay bar on Oxford Street or take a stroll through Newtown or Leichhardt. Finding the super ultra high femmes is hard, so I am grateful to the US networks for at least making an effort. So, there's not much of a plot so far, but there's 13 or so more episodes to go. And there's not much sex yet either - my girlfriend's reaction was 'I don't want to watch a lesbian series where the heterosexuals are getting it on more'. And forcing Jennifer Beals of Flashdance fame into a sexless relationship with an utterly pedestrian partner and doing the baby thing was just criminal. I mean, couldn't they have made her the horny lesbian pole dancer shaking her bits to What a Feeling instead?
But on the plus side, there's Shane the sexy slut who loves 'em and leaves 'em. She's proving to be the most popular character in my mini-survey of friends. My personal favourite is Native American beauty Marina, played by the gorgeous Karina Lombard, who's intent on seducing Miss Away With the Pixies Straight Girl Writer Next Door. While the latter may initially resist Miss Cheekbones to Die For's advances, we all know the cool seductress will eventually deflower her, hopefully with more sizzle and aplomb than was featured in the oral sex scene under a paper sheet in the hospital between Miss Beals and Miss Pedestrian.
The L Word is being hailed as a lesbian Sex in the City, so let's hope there's going to be lots more girl-on-girl sex. Another suggestion, which I feel would benefit the show is for the producers to offer Debbie Harry a guest role as a lesbian dominatrix and fly her to Sydney to film her scenes at Fox Studios, so I could have a small role. Doesn't need to be anything fancy - I'll settle for Girl in Bar who gets picked up by Mistress Harry for a kinky one-night stand. And I'm sure Debs could give the LA lesbians some tips in real diva drag make-up. If she'd only been in Dallas, Sue Ellen's life would have changed forever…
The
L Word, Channel 7, Wednesdays 10.30pm. http://www.thelwordonline.com
A Schoolgirl's Revenge
Fresh from our kinky little number Salvationary Sluts at Gurlesque recently, Kitty Minge and Jilha Dottsdorter will be making our Hellfire debut next Friday evening in an even kinkier number about headmistresses and schoolgirls. I'm rather nostalgic about schooldays, probably because teachers were the first women I had crushes on. Right from age five at nursery school, the smell of Mrs Harwood's perfume as she leaned over to look at my crayon drawings had a powerful effect on me. Then there was Miss Frith, an extremely pretty blonde in the first year of junior school, who used to walk me home at lunchtime. I would run across the grass outside our block of council flats as fast as I could, thinking the faster I ran, the more impressed she'd be. Then there was Mrs Harris. She was my first exposure to woman as dominatrix. As she stood there with a ruler in her hand administering punishment to Teresa Docherty's rear end, I was mesmerised and couldn't wait to get home and have a wank. These three women are evidence of my personal contribution to the whole nature versus nurture debate. Are we born a certain way or do we develop aspects of our character due to social and environmental influences? Some people are born gay and kinky, and I'm one of them!
Schoolgirl crushes can be beneficial to one's education though. My intense passion as a 17-year-old sixth former for Mrs Cottrell, the temporary English Literature teacher, led to me composing one of the best essays I'd ever written. No one knew more about me than Vittoria's character and motivations in Webster's classic play The White Devil. When Mrs Cottrell asked me to read it aloud in class as an example of an excellently written piece, I was in heaven. Ironically enough, I fell for Mrs Cottrell the moment she said the word 'penis' out loud in class. It wasn't that I was particularly interested in male members, but it was the first time a teacher had used a sexual term outside biology reproduction classes. When the word 'vagina' followed minutes later I thought I'd pass out, and when Mrs Cottrell's contract came to an end a few month's later, I thought I'd die. Ah, there's nothing like a bit of extreme emotion to make you realise you're alive.
Debbie Does Girls
Watch out for the June issue of UK lesbian magazine Diva which has my favourite blonde on the cover espousing "I've had my share of women". The "story" of Blondie superstar Debbie Harry admitting to sexual relationships with girls was picked up by the press but it's old news to many of us. Debs is not particularly forthcoming in the interview either. "How many women have you slept with?" asks the journalist. "Enough" is the star's monosyllabic reply. Not terribly exciting stuff, is it?
So, here's something a bit more juicy to whet your appetites or certain parts of your anatomy. Question: "Would you rather have a woman eat your pussy or a man eat your pussy?" Answer: "I think it depends on the person". Question: "Do you like the taste of pussy?" Answer: "Yes.". That's more like it isn't it? And no, I'm not making it up. Those were questions posed by US porn king Al Goldstein of Screw fame on his Midnight Blue chat show in the early 1990s to the same Miss Harry and those were her exact answers. The tape is pretty rare, but I managed to score a copy by telling one of the show's producers I was doing research on the blonde one for a gay magazine (which was true -see what I do for you SX readers). He wasn't going to give it up initially, but when he told me he loved my English accent and what a shame I was gay in a rather salacious manner, I told him I was bisexual and flirted outrageously with him over the phone. I had no qualms about switching sexual identities in this particular situation - hell, I'd have told him I like nothing better than three big creamy cocks in each orifice at the same time to get a video tape of Debbie Harry saying she likes the taste of pussy!
And bless her, darling Debs doesn't succumb to whole LUG (Lesbian Until Graduation) or Hasbian thing like so many before her. Despite saying she's "probably more heterosexual than homosexual or even bisexual", she still keeps her options open and lets us all think we've got a chance with her - "I've had and probably will still have a pretty exotic lifestyle." I'll be seeing her this month at a gig in London when I pop over for a short trip to visit friends and family. If you read any headlines about a mad lesbian in a blonde wig throwing herself naked at Debbie's feet…um, that'll be me.
Women Behaving Badly
In
last week's column I said that inspired by Courtney Love and in the spirit
of rebel women I was going to behave in a fashion not normally acceptable
for women. I think my Hellfire show fitted the bill. Being whipped and
spanked while dressed as a schoolgirl in full Enid Blytonesque manner
before changing into pvc domme gear and caning my friend Ms Jilha in time
to the final part of the 1812 Overture was my contribution to the cause
of women's sexual liberation - it's not all just about the fun, you know.
I'm a seriously political animal - purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
A Bit of Sex Education
I think it's always good either as a writer or performer to educate your audience in addition to entertaining them. New words, for example are always a fun thing to throw around in company to show how clever you are. A mixed pansexual crowd watching my recent Hellfire gig had the pleasure of learning a couple of words, all sexual of course because that's one of my favourite topics. Did you know for example that Baubon and Olisbos are devices used for the stimulation of the female genitalia? Why not forget "strap-on" or "dildo" for a while and have fun screaming, "Fuck me with your big hard Baubon darling" or, "Suck my Olisbos dry, bitch!". Let me know how you get on.
Continuing with the theme of sex education, did you know what the technical word for 'hot and horny' is? What about 'on the verge'? Thanks to the lovely people at http://www.the-clitoris.com I can now reveal that the former is known as 'vasocongestion' - the pooling of blood in the breasts and genitals which results in the body feeling warm or hot to the touch. The latter is called 'myotonia' or 'neuromuscular tension' - the build up of energy in the nerve endings and muscles of the entire body. The website offers some helpful tips on myotonia for the novice in female orgasmic responses. "Myotonia may be evident throughout the body, especially in the face, hands, and feet," it warns. "A woman's facial expression may indicate that she is in pain when she is having a pleasurable orgasm." And don't worry that your girl has kicked the bucket midway through your session because "at the peak of orgasm the entire body may become momentarily rigid." Surely a necrophiliac's dream.
There's even a posh name for a dripping cunt. Transudation is the little gem of a word used to describe the lubrication of the pussy, which happens, remember, after vasocongestion of the vaginal walls, which leads to a state of myotonia before the final big O. Well, I suppose it's one way of discussing sex with your old Aunt Maud.
Here Comes the Bride
Ever since I was a small child and forced to traipse along to endless weddings of cousins, half-cousins and neighbours, I knew it wasn't something I wanted to do myself. I didn't clamour to catch the bouquet - the cry of "you're next" was akin to being sentenced to prison in my young mind. Nothing much has changed, except I do come over a tad nostalgic whenever I hear Hi Ho Silver Lining or Rhinestone Cowboy, and I do rather miss the opportunity to do the Hokey-Kokey. But I need no excuse to don a big frock and look pretty - I don't need a special day to do it. As for children, unless they are furry, have four legs, a tail and miaow, I'm really not interested.
When my best friend Mandy in the UK, a truly independent, wanton and free spirit if ever there was one, emailed me a few weeks ago to tell me she was getting married to her long-term boyfriend, I felt a sick feeling in my stomach. Fortunately Mandy's eccentricity was greater than her desire to conform to notions of normality and she sent me a second email after the wedding which went as follows: "Lovely wedding (apart from mother-in-law who is very pissed off and not speaking to us). Only had two weeks notice so everything was quite mad. Exchanged battery and light bulb instead of rings, wore black (including trilby) and body glitter, walked down isle to the sound of two super jet aeroplanes, left to go to fetish club Torture Garden, had a chocolate wedding cake with label that read 'this product may contain nuts', and danced to You make me Feel Mighty Real by Sylvester."
But, personal reservations aside, there's nothing like a government telling me I can't have something to make me annoyed and want to fight for the right to do it if I do ever want to. I'm particularly annoyed with John Howard because if the new marriage bill that prevents gay marriages from being recognised goes through parliament, my girlfriend and I will never be able to get ourselves a couple of Russian mail-order brides. If my email box is anything to go by, there's a melee of Slavic beauties just waiting to make us happy by keeping house and cooking meals, just as a good wife should. The Mail Order Bride Warehouse at http://www.goodwife.com says so. I clicked on the site's link to 30-year-old Mariya. Her vital statistics sound impressive but I'm a tad concerned about her marital status - she's divorced which doesn't augur well. I move onto Nataliya whose English is described as 'bad' and then Julia whose current occupation is rather disturbing - "housewife". But there's Lene and Ludmilla, both pretty young blonde students as well as several other girleys who can apparently speak English satisfactorily and have rather nice breasts to boot.
So Mr Howard, I will be joining lesbians and gay men throughout Australia to lobby against your bill. I will not be condemned to a lifetime of domesticity. I want the right to order my bride now.
Contact
the Gay & Lesbian Rights Lobby to find out how you can campaign against
this offensive bill. http://www.glrl.org.au
Diary of a West End Girl
I'm writing this column from my old home London. Funny how you miss the little things you took for granted when you lived in a place. I'd forgotten, for example, how many people end up dead and mangled on the underground. According to the announcements over the loudspeakers, delays on all tube train lines are more often than not due to a 'person under a train'. It got me wondering whether this is the preferred method of suicide for those living in the metropolis and if so, why? Is there a shortage of heroin? Or is it the new method of stress relief for commuters to give the person in front of them on a ridiculously crowded platform a little nudge just as the train's pulling in? Or maybe some people really are desperate for a seat. Then there's the signs on the escalators leading down to the tube trains. 'Dogs must be carried' always foxes me. What if I don't have a dog? Will I be fined for riding down the moving staircase without one?
Then
there's the lesbian nightlife. My best friend Mandy and I got our butts
down to Rumours on Saturday night. as it mentioned retro music. Despite
the club being in the east end of London and me being a west end girl,
we made the effort to get there. The venue was good, the music was ok
too, but eye candy pour moi? Null points. Lipstick lesbian chic a la L
Word obviously hadn't reached Rumours. Mandy and I did our usual dressing
up thing that we'd done since 1989 - silver sequin mini skirt, matching
boob tube, six inch porn shoes and a smattering of diamante. One woman
was compelled to tell me she thought it was great that we'd glammed up,
but then followed it up by saying how 'brave' I was to come out in my
'costume'. I looked around the club and felt a bit sad. Gone were the
days of butch and femme. Instead casual androgyny seemed to be the order
of the day. I remembered why Mandy and I abandoned dyke clubs in favour
of drag balls years ago.
The following evening I hosted a party for Blondie fans at the Arts Theatre
Club in Soho. I got all frocked up again in a silver sequin ball gown
and the porn shoes and ended up being surrounded by very pretty women
with glitter eyeshadow, two tone hair and sexy outfits. The irony of the
situation dawned on me. If I want to cruise hot chicks, a women-only nightclub
is the last place to do it. I now have to go to straight clubs, fetish
parties, drag balls or Blondie parties - what a funny old world it is.
Cheered myself up by attending a queer comedy evening called Comedy Camp at a gay bar in Soho. Comics included Hattie Hayridge from UK TV series Red Dwarf and Ida Barr, a distant relation of Tina C. The club runs every Tuesday evening and is well worth checking out if you're in town. About to brave the underground again to go to Camden Town for more shopping - better see if I can borrow a dog.
Rumours
www.girl-rumours.co.uk
Comedy Camp www.comedycamp.co.uk
Fat Power
I was chatting to my friend Louis in the US recently when he told me that a prospective boyfriend had referred to him as a 'chub'. This was a relatively new term to me as I'm not quite so up on gay male terminology as I perhaps ought to be. I learned that a chub is one way of describing a person of large size. Further investigation led to the discovery of various gay chub websites and chat rooms, but only for men. "Where are the chubby lesbians?" I wondered and set off in cyberspace to find them. An initial googling of 'chubby lesbians' or 'lesbian chubs' yielded only a melee of straight porn sites featuring girl-girl action in which few of the women looked particularly chubby. But then it struck me. Lesbians like to put things their own way and more often than not in a no-nonsense manner. So, a cutesy word like 'chub' is not likely to appeal to plus-size sapphically inclined sisters who want to meet their ilk.
The words 'plump', 'overweight' and 'large' didn't produce any better results, until finally I realised that 'fat' was where it was at. Fat dykes in particular. It occurred to me that most people only use the word 'fat' in the most negative of contexts - "Does my arse look fat in these jeans?' as if it's the most terrible thing in the world. We're almost scared to use it, so it was quite a revelation to discover fat power for fat lesbians. If you're a fat dyke, read on. If you're a fat or thin dyke who fancies fat chicks, read on. If you're a vain thin lesbian like me who is considering lipo if your bum cheeks continue to wobble, read on as the following groups may give us all something to ponder.
First
off is the National Organisation for Lesbians of SizE whose mission is
"ending the oppression of fat people and creating a vibrant fat queer
community and culture". Although a US based organisation, NOLOSE
offers some quirky ideas for implementing fat activism. How about a National
Fat Lesbian Strut Your Stuff Lesbian Pride Day during next year's Mardi
Gras? My favourite though is Pretty, Porky and Pissed Off. "We are
a force of large and in charge women dedicated to expanding public awareness
and acceptance about fat issues," their website proclaims. "We
are sexy and we have pot bellies. We are pigs on our own terms, not out
of hate but out of love."
Finally, hats off to Marilyn Wann who wrote the book Fat! So? She calls
on fat people to reclaim the word "fatso," in the same way as
gay people have done with the word "queer." Wann encourages
the use of the word "fat" in new and unusual ways. Sexy fat,
fat and fabulous, fat pride, for example. "Use fat in a sentence,"
she urges. "You're looking good - are you getting fat?" Ok,
I'll give it a try. Next time my girlfriend asks me if she looks fat in
her jeans, I'm going to reply, "Of course you do, sweetheart, and
damn fine too!". If my column doesn't appear next week, it's because
I'm in hospital.
http://www.nolose.org
http://www.stumptuous.com/ppp
12 August 2004
I schlepped round the Sexpo exhibition recently to see what delights there were for the queer girl. There was of course the usual array of vibrators (aren't they just so hypnotic when you leave them standing up and switched on?). Most popular seemed to be the The Rabbit, which featured in Sex and the City. This is a multi-speed contraption containing pretty silver ball bearings in the phallic part and a clit tickler with ears. I must admit I found the latter a tad disconcerting. Am I the only one who thinks pussies and rabbits should stay well away from each other? Other sex aids included plastic arms with clenched fists, and a giant dildo which caused many an attendee's jaw to drop as the 'ouch' factor set in. I was fascinated with the silicon vaginas and wondered whether lesbians might get off on them. "I want to put my fingers in one," I whispered to my girlfriend. Being a sex therapist with few inhibitions, she helpfully yelled to the sales assistant: "Excuse me, have you got one of those vaginas on display?" The young woman didn't bat an eyelid as she replied: "No, too many sticky fingers." She did, however, put the packet containing the reasonably realistic-looking item in front of us and instructed us to press the circular lump on the outside to get an idea of what it feels like. It was all squishy. If I had an actual penis, it would probably be quite a bit of fun, but sticking your fingers into a jelly-like fake vadge just didn't do it for me.
My favourite thing was the Royalet bidet. Enjoy going to the hairdressers for a nice wash and blow dry? Now you can get one for your nether regions. The Royalet is designed to go on top of your regular dunny seat and contains several features to ensure your bottom and front bottom are spruced up a treat. You can sit on a warm seat to begin with. Then once you've done your business you press one of several buttons, depending on which hole your excretions have come out of to determine how forceful the 'wash' part should be. The male sales assistant explained that there's even a special button for 'ladies' at 'certain times of the month'. I think he meant when the blood flows and chunks of uterus force their way out of your gash. Anyway, once your bits have been scrubbed, squirted and massaged by water jets, you then press another button for the blow dry. You'll be pleased to hear that you can adjust the temperature of both the water and the air - warm water teasing your clit is one thing, but burnt pussy is no fun. And there'll be no more catching the seat in your knickers as you stand up only to have it crash down noisily - the Royalet has a pressure activated anti-slam lid.
So there you go. Buying one of these will certainly make going to the loo a truly pleasurable experience, but be warned - it's likely to make you late for work as you'll never get your girlfriend out of the bathroom in the morning.
A Question of Rights
I attended a rally two weeks ago organised by Community Action Against Homophobia protesting against the Marriage Bill. After a few speeches at Taylor Square, a small group of us with placards marched to the Family Court and then to the Labour Party office in the city, chanting as we went. I wondered why the numbers of protestors were so low and I suppose part of it is the issue of 'marriage', one which has divided GLBTI communities all over the world. Many gay people couldn't care less about getting married, and I'm one of them. Having said that, I got married legally to my girlfriend, Tracie in England in 1997. We did it for two reasons: one, because we wanted to protect our investment and pension rights and two: to highlight the ridiculous legal situation in the UK regarding gender identity. Tracie is a transsexual woman who has lived as such since the age of 15, but our relationship as a lesbian couple was not recognised in law by the government. Despite Tracie having lived as female for 34 years and having all her documents, including her passport, stating 'female', she was legally unable to change her birth certificate, which still stated 'male'. So we got married as husband and wife, both in high glam evening wear, full drag and cha cha heels, in a registry office with two of our friends as witnesses, and gave our story to a broadsheet newspaper.
The irony of the situation is that when we recently applied for permanent residency in Australia, having come here three years ago, the immigration department here refused to accept our legal British marriage and the fact that Tracie could be considered male. I got my residency on the grounds of being Tracie's interdependent same-sex partner, not her spouse. So while the British government insisted Tracie was male at the time of our marriage, the Australian government insists she is female and therefore our marriage is invalid.
It's all a bit messy and silly really, isn't it? Frankly I couldn't give a dog's bollocks about marriage. I dislike its heterosexist patriarchal history and connotations, and I objected to having to get 'married' the way I did just to be able to claim equal pension and inheritance rights for me and my girlfriend. I'm the sort of un-PC lesbian of yesteryear who comes up in a rash when human beings under the age of 10 are anywhere near me. My friends (and cats) are my family. But I acknowledge that many gay people do want the right to marry and have kids, and that's why I attended the rally recently - to give us all the option and to give queer people the same rights as heterosexuals. It's by far an equal rights issue, more than simply one of marriage.
I'm a Lesbian
Earlier in this magazine's special youth feature I discussed the first time I was called a lesbian. The second time it happened, it wasn't nearly such a positive experience. I was 14 and by this time, I'd developed crushes on Golden Age Hollywood stars Elizabeth Taylor, Bette Davis and Barbara Stanwyck. Although not sexual in nature, I'd written in my diary: "I think I might be a lesbian". It was a busy Saturday afternoon in the small town just outside South London where I grew up. I was sashaying through the local shopping centre in my new pencil skirt and four-inch court shoes (the high-femme thing was always with me, it seems). As I walked past a group of my peers, one of them, a nasty girl called Joelle, shouted my name. I swung around to be met with the evil harridan shouting accusingly at the top of her voice: "You're a lesbian!" I was mortified. As my cheeks burned red, I wished a hole would open up in the floor so I could disappear through it. Out of my peripheral vision I saw shoppers' heads spin round to stare at me and I felt a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wonder if it would have affected me differently if I weren't a lesbian, but all I could think of at the time was, "How does she know?" I honestly thought there must be something about me physically that screamed 'dyke' - I'd forgotten the time four years ago when my friend Susan and I had been innocently proclaimed as lesbians by a boy in our class because we told him we loved each other.
My experiences show that the statement "You're a lesbian" can be a positive or negative thing, depending on how it's said. In the first instance, it was a term Susan and I happily banded about. In the latter, it was a shameful insult. When I was a young girl there was no L Word, no lipstick lesbian chic, and gay female celebrities were less than forthcoming. My only role models were Beryl Reid and Susannah York in The Killing of Sister George and I didn't feel I identified with either of them. I did get rather excited at a film called X, Y and Zee, which I watched in secret on the black and white television in my bedroom one night, in which Elizabeth Taylor comes onto Susannah York (did her agent know something we don't?) as the latter lies in a hospital bed. While I was thrilled that two glamorous women appeared to be having amorous tendencies towards each other, there wasn't a Sapphic happy ending - Liz's character went off with Michael Caine, leaving me devastated.
If
Joan Collins had indulged in sex with girls as well as boys in Dynasty,
or Sue-Ellen and Pam had got it on behind JR and Bobby's backs in Dallas,
I may not have spent my teenage years thinking the word 'lesbian' was
something to be ashamed of. If there had been an SX Youth, maybe I'd have
had the courage to come out earlier. I'm hoping that today if a proclamation
of "You're gay/lesbian" is levelled at a young queer person,
that it won't be said as an insult, but if it is, that they'll feel confident
enough in themselves to reply, "Yes darling and how fabulous is that!"
Obsessions
I was inspired to write this week's column after watching a cable TV interview with UK lesbian comedian Rhona Cameron on Parkinson. She was describing her schoolgirl crush on a teacher and said it reached 'stalker' proportions. Apparently she would follow the teacher everywhere and was so besotted with her that she would look longingly at the pool of oil the older woman's car had deposited in the schoolyard. I'd been indifferent to Cameron until then, but after that confession, I liked her instantly and could totally relate to her experience.
When I was at school, aged 12, I'd follow certain sixth-form girls (17-18-year-olds), hiding around corners peering at them. Eventually I was hauled off to the headmistress and asked to explain my behaviour. I merely shrugged and said I didn't know. My punishment, bizarrely enough, was to be forced to spend a week with the very sixth-formers I'd been stalking. I had to sit with them in assembly, eat lunch with them and sit in their common room during break periods. What kind of trip my headmistress was on, I have no idea. If the plan was to humiliate me, well I guess it worked in a twisted sort of way - mixing feelings of embarrassment with hysterical excitement is a surefire way to turn a girl kinky, not put her off other chicks.
But it doesn't just stop at schoolgirl level for some of us. In my 20s I managed to persuade the (straight) contemporary dance teacher I was obsessed with to rent me a room in her house. I was convinced she was 'the one', that we'd fall in love and live happily ever after once I took her to see Desert Hearts at the cinema. Naturally I was devastated when she got a boyfriend not long after. Hearing them have sex for the first time produced feelings of ecstasy followed by despair. I cheered myself up by putting salt in his milk the next morning. Then there was the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art student to whom I regularly delivered copious amounts of flowers (who needs money for food when you can thrive on high emotion?) and who a few years later had her 15 minutes of fame by being splashed across the UK tabloids when she had an affair with a prominent politician whose toes she apparently enjoyed sucking (jeez, I know how to pick 'em).
Even now as a 30-something in a long-term relationship with a wonderful and glamorous older woman, I still have my obsessions. Now it's Debbie Harry. In my jam-packed life of work, writing and performing, instead of a relaxing drink with friends, my downtime consists of gazing longingly at pictures and videos of the blonde singer and experiencing an intense stomach-churning, chest-pounding, pussy-pulsating thrill. Some might say I need therapy, but I've got this column instead. Fortunately for me I live with a psychotherapist (no one else would have me). So I asked my girl (aka Dr Tracie O'Keefe) for her expert opinion on obsessions.
"Generally people obsessed with iconoclastic idols are trying to supplement something that is missing in their own life," she said. "There's a difference between fantasy and fanaticism for most people, but for the stalker, they are unable to understand the boundaries between reality and fiction."
Whatever - I'm with Rhona on this one.
Attraction
In last week's column I covered the thrill of obsession. Then I got to wondering why people are attracted to others and what particularly it is about certain physical attributes that turn us on. Why is it that my hormones are thrown into disarray at the sight of Debbie Harry's cheekbones, or Joan Collins' lipglossed red lips? Why does the oestrogen practically bounce off the walls whenever my girlfriend puts on 80s make-up?
My Scottish gay friend Martin who's lived in Sydney for the past four years is another Blondie geek fascinated and attracted to Debbie but not in a sexual way. He came up with a theory in answer to my first question. "Debbie's face is a perfect example of a loveheart-shaped face. If you start from the tip of her nose and follow a line up around her arched eyebrows and round her cheeks and finally to the bottom lip, it's a perfect loveheart shape-there must be some deep psychological implications there," he explained earnestly. Yeah, I know we both need to get out more (and pretty soon the ed is going to ban me from mentioning Debs' name and recommend me for a stay in the funny farm).
Explaining Joan's lips of course is easy: they are the ultimate vagina. Red, glistening and soft, leading to a moist, dark, mysterious place. It sounds a bit Freudian, I know, but all those games we play as young children sticking our fingers into each other's mouths and sucking them (other people do do that, don't they?) leave longlasting impressions on an easily corruptible mind.
My friend Konny, a German lesbian in her mid twenties, shares my fascination with and attraction to older women (and yes, she needs to get out more too). She told me that although she is "crazy about tits", they have to be part of the whole person. "If I like the tits, it's because it's 'her' tits," she said. "If I'm crazy about the thing between her legs, then it's only because it's 'her' thing. I don't want to see, touch or whatever anything between the legs of just any woman." I'm inclined to agree with her, although I'm not going to make any sweeping statements about it being a chick thing and guys being more likely to get turned on by isolated body parts. But on flicking through Penthouse once in a while, I'm not particularly excited at the close-ups of pink bits and buttock cheeks unless I find the model attractive, which is rare (Nancy Sinatra's nude shots in a 1995 edition of Playboy being the exception - her boots were made for walking and she can walk all over me in them anytime!). Other friends told me they found legs, arms, abs, hairy chest, breasts, butt, fingers, neck, eyes, lips, teeth and back of the head a turn on, although none could offer an explanation why - apart from Konny who mentioned something about breast-feeding and mothers - at which point I got a little scared.
Next week I shall take things a step further and look at fetishes - in particular sexual attraction to objects. Personally I find tinsel rather satisfying - while it doesn't quite induce multiple orgasms (yet), it's definitely been known to speed up my heart rate and put a smile on my face.
Sexual Objects
Most
of us have heard of shoe fetishists (heck, a nice stiletto can even get
me going if the right chick's wearing it!). But some people find pleasure
in all sorts of other everyday objects, the official name for this being
objectum sexuality.
My favourite is Mrs Berlin-Wall. She's among a group of people attracted
to various types of building or construction, such as fences. "For
me to be attracted to an artefact, it must be a construction with parallel
lines, usually horizontal," she explains. "I do also find other
manufactured items good-looking, such as bridges, fences, railroad tracks,
gates etc. All these have two things in common: rectangular, the parallel
lines and they all divide."
But although she may feel attracted to these items, she feels love for
only one - the Berlin Wall, which she 'married' in 1979 and changed her
name accordingly. Mrs Berlin-Wall is an animist - one who believes all
objects are living and have a soul. I'll let her explain her relationship
with the wall: "We've been in love for many years. I was attracted
to him ever since he was born. Yes, he is some years younger than me.
But neither of us feels that this age difference matters. It was very
much a long distance romance as neither of us likes to travel. For much
of the time, I had to make do with photos of him and of course seeing
him in newspapers and on the television. Like every married couple, we
have our ups and downs. We may not have a conventional marriage, but neither
of us cares much for conventions. Ours is a story of two beings in love,
our souls entwined for all eternity."
The 'attack' on her 'husband' by 'frenzied mobs' in November 1989 when
the Wall came down still affects her deeply. "Only one word adequately
describes my feelings - tragedy! I wish the fall of the DDR [former East
Germany]. had never happened, simply because it meant a personal tragedy
for me and for the Berlin Wall, which should be easy enough to understand.
It's wrong to attack the Wall because of human stupidity and disrespect
for objects. It's wrong to ship parts of him to the USA and other places.
The Berlin Wall is a German being and it's beyond all forgiveness to treat
him like they have done. I still can maintain the marriage with the Wall,
even if he isn't what he used to be in his prime. I will always love him."
Isn't she fabulous? Well, it's given me food for thought - come to think
of it, my front gate's looking's rather pretty.
A Little Bear
I couldn't help myself. I've succumbed. After moaning about the fact that my new mobile phone which I bought a few months ago had no plain and simple 'ring ring' tone in an earlier column, I've fallen prey to the phenomenon of polyphonic ringtones. I lay the blame partly at the feet (or breasts) of a friend in the UK who emailed me a website called ringtones2go. Out of curiosity and a desire to be knowledgeable about modern-day culture, I had a surf. It was like taking a recovering junkie to a crack house - the temptation was just too much. If there had just been current top 10 pop songs, I could have resisted, no problem. Not even Blondie classics Atomic and Heart of Glass were enough to push me over the edge and into upgrading to a new mobile that could accept these musical riffs. No, there was more. The theme tune to TV shows Dallas, Cagney & Lacey, Dr Who and Hawaii Five-O, for example, which got me feeling rather too excited, but I bit my lip and resisted. When I discovered 'We're Off to See the Wizard' from The Wizard of Oz, I could feel my inner sensible person crumbling and began to bite my nails anxiously. Black Beauty, Basil Brush and Magic Roundabout caused me to hyperventilate, until finally I stumbled upon the straw that would break the camel's back - the theme song from Rupert the Bear. As I played the sample, my inner child immediately started singing the words at the top of her voice: "Rupert, Rupert the bear, everyone sing his name; Rupert, Rupert the Bear, everyone come and join in all of his games". Images of Rupert's friends, Tiger Lilly and Badger Bill having adventures in Nutwood darted through my mind like acid flashbacks and sealed my fate into the dangerous and addictive world of polyphonics. I was high on nostalgia, logic nowhere to be seen, as I rushed to the shops in a state of euphoria to get my new phone which would be capable of delivering these melodies whenever I wanted them.
Impulse buying, my girlfriend called it, before mumbling something about mortgages, bills and spending more money than I make. I smiled sweetly and promised not to buy anything else for a while (except for NYE party and Blondie concert tickets and a pair of platform boots from an online store in Texas). Days later and I'm getting sideways looks and smirks from fellow bus and train passengers whenever my phone rings. I look at it as fostering a brief sense of community and bonding - with younger people in that I am 'with it' by having polyphonics at all, and with the 30-somethings who at one time in their lives, also lost themselves in the fantasy world of a little bear who wore tartan. Ooh, I can hear Barbra…"Mammaries…light the corners of my mind…misty water-coloured maaaaamaries." Hmmm, wonder if that comes in polyphonics?
It's Christmas Time
An online friend of mine posed the question recently on a forum we frequent asking what Christmas songs people actually liked. Being the cool dudes they were, most people listed 'alternative' numbers by artists such as Annie Lennox or Chrissie Hynde. But I've never claimed to be cool (only camp and glamorous which doesn't really go with cool) and when I thought long and hard about it I rather horrified myself by my choices.
I'll confess to having a fondness for Bing Crosby singing White Christmas. Only on the TV though - I object to hearing it in shopping malls as it doesn't sound right in those places. I also like It'll be Lonely This Christmas, Happy Xmas War is Over, and - this is where it gets really bad and my girlfriend is liable to disown me for admitting this in public - Cliff Richard's Mistletoe and Wine. It all stems from the time I was in my early 20s living in a bedsit spending a few Christmas days in a row on my own (through choice), when I used to put on my 'It's Christmas Time' tape (which incidentally I still have and it's sitting on my desk right now rather menacingly) and sing along to it at the top of my voice since all the neighbours had gone away. It's one of the most annoyingly catchy tunes with slushy, vomit-inducing lyrics: 'Christmas Time, Mistletoe and Wine, Children Singing Christian Rhyme'. I'm thinking of writing a twisted lesbian version of it. So far I've got the first three lines: 'Christmas Time, I'm going to make a rhyme, Of two women kissing in a line'. Ok, so it needs work, but I think I'm on the right track.
I also realised I have an emotional anchor attached to Oh Come All Ye Faithful. At school as a young teenager we used to have to walk up to the local church for carol service (Carol was ever so grateful). It started in 1978 when I was in the second year of secondary school aged 12 and had a huge crush on a 17-year-old sixth former called Alison Stewart, a stunning bleached blonde with bright red lipstick (I guess some things, including my taste in women, never change). On the second line of 'Joyful and Triumphant' I got one of those huge rushes that you get when you're totally crushed out on someone: all hysteria, dizziness and heart pounding. It still hits me today on that one line. Oh dear, my 'It's Christmas Time' tape is beckoning me to play it. My inner child wonders if there are any hymns available for download from Kazaa as she begins to hum the words to 'Oh Little Town of Bethlehem'. 'Fuck off!', the grown-up part of me screams at her. Fortunately I'm distracted from this distressing inner turmoil by my girlfriend calling for me to come and watch an old episode of Prisoner. Thank goddess, I'm saved!
Unusual Sexual Practices
There's nothing I like hearing more about than people's sexual habits. So in the interests of broadening my lexicon, I have been studying the Encyclopaedia of Unusual Sex Practices. Most of us will have heard of coprophilia (brown showers) or necrophilia (sex with or sexual arousal from dead bodies), but how about emetophilia (arousal from vomit or vomiting)? Or spectrophilia (arousal from sex with ghosts or spirits or images in mirrors)? Then there's symphorophilia (arousal from arranging a disaster, crash or explosion), and taphephilia (arousal from being buried alive).
Those are some of the more 'out there' practices, but even something like using food in sex play has a name - sitophilia. So if you've ever stuck a cucumber up your orifice, covered your partner in strawberry jam or given a banana a blow job, you're a sitophile. Instead of wasting oxygen using several words, I can now explain my attraction to older glamorous women by telling people I am a gerontophile (mind you, that only covers the 'older' part - how about a glamgerontophile?) Hey, who needs psychological qualifications? This is easy! Like to be watched? Congratulations - you're an agrexophile. Does your pussy pulsate at the sheer excitement of being on the crowded dance floor of your favourite queer club? You've got ochlophilia. And those of you who cut a hole in the bottom of the front of your trousers so you can masturbate in public with less risk of detection (you know you who are), are indulging in the practice known as sacofricosis.
It seems people get off on just about everything. Does booking a holiday so you can get in the car or on a plane and travel do it for you? Hodophile! Compulsive stealing is a condition in itself, but if it also turns you on, you're not only a kleptomaniac but a kleptophile. If you're mugged or arrive home to find you've been burgled and get an urge to have a wank, don't worry, you're just suffering from harpaxophilia. And, if, despite many years of practice and poring over sex manuals, you're still crap in bed, don't despair - there's hope for you yet to find true love. Just join a group for harmatophiliacs (those aroused by sexual incompetence or mistakes) and watch those multiple orgasms roll. No need to talk dirty to these folks either - the occasional 'whoops!' should be more than sufficient.
Hello Satan
Apparently, a Vatican university is to offer a diploma course in Satanism. I decided to find out if the myths of ritualistic child abuse, human and animal sacrifice and devil worship usually associated with the religion were true. According to the website of the Church of Satan, they're not. "Satan is an archetype, a representation of certain qualities that the Satanist embodies, including rational self-interest, avoidance of oppressive mentalities, the questioning of all, and a perseverance towards success and human potential." Sounds ok so far. Some of the nine Satanic statements encapsulated in The Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey, the founder of the Church of Satan, are actually quite appealing. "Satan represents indulgence instead of abstinence…Satan represents all of the so-called sins as they all lead to physical, mental or emotional gratification." High priest Peter Gilmore says: "We see the Christian Church's teaching about sin to be an insidious plot. They named seven deadly sins (lust, pride, greed, envy, anger, gluttony, sloth), which are things that everyone will do to some extent, and thus they made sure that every normal human could be defined as a 'sinner'. Then they set themselves up as being the only way to be saved from these 'sins'. So that is certainly one of the greatest con games in all recorded history." Well, he's got a point. Satanism, however, does have its own 'sins' which include pretentiousness, herd conformity and stupidity.
And while sectors of many religions condemn or forbid same-sex love and marriages, the Church of Satan welcomes people of all sexual orientations into its ranks, and despite accusations of racism and even fascism, which it refutes, the organisation also opens its doors to people from all races and ethnicities. Provided you are "truly beautiful and magnificent" that is. Yes, like most religions, it has its dodgy side, although in this summary of contemporary Satanism by Gilmore, it's easy to see the similarities with some factions of fundamentalist Christianity: "A brutal religion of elitism that seeks to re-establish the reign of the able over the idiotic, of swift justice over injustice, and for a wholesale rejection of egalitarianism as a myth that has crippled the advancement of the human species for the last two thousand years." In essence, you can't be a Satanist if you're weak, stupid, suffer from constant life failures and self-loathing, and fail to appreciate the works of artists such as Beethoven or Da Vinci. But if you're a woman who feels a bit nervous walking the streets alone at night or a queer person needing a motto on how to deal with potential gaybashers, the 11th Satanic Rule of the Earth may come in handy: "When walking in open territory, bother no one. If someone bothers you, ask him to stop. If he does not stop, destroy him."
Satanism may not be everyone's cup of tea, but in many ways it's no worse or better than other religions. And as Gilmore helpfully points out: "Satan has been the best friend the Church has ever had, as he has kept it in business all these years."
Find out more at www.churchofsatan.com
Maria Sharapova is gay
No, she's not. But wouldn't it be fabulous if she were, I thought, while watching some of the Australian Open tennis recently. Over the years, the media has set up the whole 'beauty and the beast' scenario in women's tennis, fawning over young, usually blonde, long-legged teenagers who look as if they'd be as comfortable on a catwalk as a tennis court, to the detriment of the dykey types who couldn't give a rat's arse about underarm hair. Although a high-femme myself, I've always found that 'straight pretty girl v ugly bulldyke' mentality annoying - right from the time I sat with my classmates at school in 1983 watching Billie Jean King play her last ever match at Wimbledon - the semi-finals against Andrea Jaeger (almost as famous for her long high bunches than great tennis). I desperately wanted 39-year-old Billie Jean to win. Everyone else in my class wanted Andrea to defeat her because "she's a dyke". Press reports at the time quoting the mothers of some of the teen prodigies complaining of predatory lesbians in the locker rooms added fuel to the fire of prejudice already burning in those 17-year-old minds. When they cheered at Billie Jean's mistakes and Andrea's winning shots, I sat in silence, mentally willing Billie Jean to come through as if my life depended on it. Fortunately it didn't because she lost. I was devastated and cried alone in a cloakroom up the hall until everyone else had gone home.
The message was clear: if you're pretty and straight, people will love you and you'll be a winner. At the time I was awkward, frumpy and ugly. Then Martina Navratilova came into her own. Whatever the press had to say about her, they couldn't fault her tennis. She ignored jibes about her physique, focused on her sport and blasted all the other chicks out of the water. Martina gave me hope - that just because you're a lesbian doesn't mean you have to be a loser. I had a little deja-vu during this year's Australian Open as I willed Martina to win the mixed doubles semi-final, but it was not to be. I wasn't surrounded by 17-year-old girls and I didn't cry, but still I wanted her to show them one more time.
How different would it be then, if Maria Sharapova or Daniela Hantuchova, the current pin-ups of the tennis world, came out and announced that they were raving lesbians who loved eating pussy as much as they loved winning tournaments? If nothing else, it would surely ruffle some feathers at the Women's Tennis Association which continues to encourage its lesbian players not to talk about their personal lives. Not that Martina needs to do that anymore. She can leave it to her ex-doubles partner Pam Shriver to make many a lesbian fan of the champion happy, as she did during her recent commentary on Channel Seven, with the news that "at the age of 48, Martina's still very quick with her hands". Game, set and match!
Parade With Pride
There's been much discussion recently in the gay press as to the appropriateness of scantily-clad queers putting themselves on public display for fear of giving the 'wrong impression' to nice people who apparently only see gay people once a year in the extravaganza known as the Mardi Gras Parade. This concern comes from the parts of the 'gay community' that want polite society to believe we are 'just like everyone else'.
Well, not all of us are, or aspire to me. So, to those 'nice people' who are shocked by near-naked hairy queens with moustaches simulating sex to the Village People anthem YMCA, I have just two words: tough titties! The right-wing facists who refuse equality to GLBTI people aren't going to do an about-face and embrace us just because we wear smart suits or Laura Ashley frocks. The few rights we have today came about because of radical trannies and queers who refused to conform and instead embraced their 'otherness' that made them special. For me, that's what Mardi Gras and 'gay pride' is all about.
I've gone on gay pride and 'lesbian strength' marches every year in London since 1987 before I came to Sydney in 2001. In 1988 I marched with a group of dykes through central London, flanked by a handful of cops, who wanted to divert us from our course because the National Front (pro-Nazi organisation) were also having a march and we were scheduled to cross paths. Some of us younger women, who were new to activism were a bit nervous at the thought of being bashed by a bunch of racist, sexist, homophobic yobs, but we refused to be terrorised into taking another route through the back streets. Led by a contingent of older butch dykes, we followed bravely behind. When the NF appeared on the opposite side of the road, we stopped, raised our fists in the air and began to chant gay-positive statements, despite the police trying to move us quickly along. It could have turned into a bloodbath, but I guess the sight of 300 or so pissed-off lesbians sporting Clytemnestra's axe earrings and 'Sisters Are Doing it for Themselves' t-shirts, screeching out a queer version of Doris Day's Que Sera Sera was too much, even for a group like the NF whose reputation for violence was well documented. It was an empowering moment that taught me the most important thing is to be willing to stand up for who you are. So, with that in mind, go out there next week and have a great parade!
Bicurious
Recently I got an email from a woman who described herself as a 'bi-curious straight fag hag'. She shares a flat with a gay man and therefore has regular access to SX and was enquiring about where to get a lesbian porno film starring Jenna Jameson that I'd reviewed last year. Naturally I was happy to oblige.
I suppose I must have been bicurious once - 1986 to be precise, although the term hadn't been coined yet. Even though I knew I was gay, I didn't want to be and was desperate to lose my virginity to a man, just to see what it was like, so when Robert, a tall, black muscular dancer who used to flirt with me during our contemporary dance classes, invited me round to his place, I accepted. He was a really sweet guy, but the sex wasn't up to much. He did his best, even went down on me for ages and almost convinced me he was enjoying it, but it wasn't right. We had one more go a couple of weeks later and then gave up. Years afterwards I bumped into him in a caf? in central London…with his boyfriend! We both found it highly amusing.
Later attempts at heterosexuality didn't fare much better, although some guys have made me come - not because I thought they were so gorgeous that I couldn't control myself, more because I was someplace else in my head. The imagination is a powerful thing, but not so much that it can induce me to enjoy giving a guy a blowjob - with a condom is ok, but raw cock has never been my favourite dish, not even when it's attached to a gorgeous blonde trannie with fabulous tits. Swallow is only ever a bird in my vocabulary and if I want a necklace, I prefer diamonds over pearls any day. And while I've done a good job over the years pleasuring latex-covered penises with my mouth, I never mastered the art of deep throat and have traumatised a few poor lads by retching, and in one case actually vomiting. No, contrary to the old adage, it's not always better to give than to receive.
But while I'm fairly clear where I am on the sexual scale, I do believe in experimentation, so to my lovely fag hag lady, go forth to the porn shops and learn from Jenna, who's openly bi and, just to make her even more interesting, is currently being threatened with a lawsuit by supermodel Cindy 'I'm so-straight I paid $30,000 for a full-page ad in a newspaper saying so' Crawford. In the porn queen's newly-released autobiography, How to Make Love Like a Porn Star, she claims Cindy made a pass at her at a party - something Cinders vehemently denies and is demanding a retraction from future reprints as well as a hand-written apology. I don't suppose could have had anything to do with the fact that Jenna was so surprised by the come-on that she knocked the supermodel back…
Celebrity Moments
When I was 18 and working in the local theatre as an usherette, I'd collect autographs of celebrities appearing there. After travelling to London around the same age to see Lauren Bacall in Tennessee Williams' Sweet Bird of Youth, I legged it out of the dress circle at the Haymarket Theatre and round to the stage door to be first in the queue to get Ms Bacall to sign my programme. I was thrilled when she did, so much so that I whipped out my camera and managed to take a photograph of her back as she got into her car.
More recently, when I went to two Blondie concerts, I witnessed similar behaviour among adults, some of whom were my friends - asking Debbie Harry to sign all kinds of items and to pose for pictures as she arrived at the Opera House, or at the after-show party. The next night, I drove up to Penrith Panthers League Club. Debbie arrived in her casuals and little make-up, but agreed to pose for two of the fans. I'm not one for following the pack as a rule, but some alter-ego inside me leapt out spontaneously and asked Debbie if I could get a picture with her. She agreed, somewhat resigned, and the resulting image is quite evil - she looks tired and grumpy and I look mental, like one of those hall of mirror images in fairgrounds, with my body twisted and a manic grin on my face. I had to ask myself: why? What is this need for signatures, photos, acknowledgement from a celebrity? Are we hoping that a little bit of their fame will rub off on us? Do we feel more important if we've managed to get 'close' to a famous person? I'll admit to experiencing elements of these, which began at the age of seven when I received a letter from Jimmy Osmond who signed off 'when I'm next in England I hope to meet you'. At such a young age, one is blissfully unaware of terms like 'standard reply' and I ran around the small-town neighbourhood showing the letter off to the other kids, thinking I was the bees knees.
Of course it's a good way of getting a bit of attention in company, showing off your signed CD or pic (unless it's evil), even though it's a somewhat sad state of affairs that one's status is often improved by who we are associated with, even if only for a few minutes. If you have a less than firm grip on reality, you can persuade yourself that you now have a 'relationship' with the celebrity, and the autograph or pic (unless it's evil) is proof of this. And if you're just plain pervy, with one hand you can hold the pic (unless it's evil) and put the other to more 'recreational' use. Next time, I'm asking for an autograph.
We're All Mad
What is the definition of 'madness'? When does 'eccentricity' turn into madness and who decides? These are the questions I pondered while walking to Coogee Beach recently, shortly after I interlocked my arm with my girlfriend's in a spontaneous moment and began to skip and sing 'We're Off to See the Wizard'. There was no hesitation on her part to join in immediately with this public display of gaiety. No surprise or embarrassment at her partner's sudden switch from dawdling along, deep in thought to a carefree impersonation of Judy and co on their way to Oz, just a natural and loving impulse to bond with me
According to the online Brain Dictionary, we are certainly eccentric - displaying 'strange or unconventional behaviour'. But are we mad? Among its definitions, the Brain Dictionary gives the following for madness: 'Excited beyond self-control or the restraint of reason' and 'inflamed by violent or uncontrollable desire, passion, or appetite'. Hmmm…been there. Maybe we're just lunatics. Lunacy is defined as 'insanity or madness - properly, the kind of insanity which is broken by intervals of reason, formerly supposed to be influenced by the changes of the moon'. PMS anyone? And 'a morbid suspension of good sense or judgment' - ahem…going back to an ex who treats you like dirt…it's not looking good for our mental health - or is it? There are certain clinical criteria to judge 'madness' based on statistical and social norms - among them extreme, unusual, exceptional, deviant, outstanding, odd behaviour (isn't that just a regular Saturday night out?).
But despite society's perception of madness and the stigma often attached to it, some experts believe it's good for us. British psychiatrist Anthony Storr says madness, though causing profound turmoil, can be "an enriching and renewing experience, deepening one's emotional existence". According to Storr, so-called 'mad' people can be unorthodox and pioneering. at the cutting edge of their particular interest or profession, as well as deeply spiritual, full of innate wisdom and compassion, bringing inspiration, hope and empowerment to others. The philosopher Hegel saw insanity as inherent in the soul's nature, having a psychological necessity and providing the soul with an experience that can't be gained in other ways. Scottish psychiatrist RD Laing, known for his LSD therapy in the 1960s and his 'anti-psychiatry' approach to mental illness, rather sensibly believed madness to stem from a dysfunctional society rather than the individual, suggesting that people's madness is an attempt at sanity, or is sanity itself, in a world gone insane. Come to think of it, bombing and poisoning the earth, stripping it of its resources and committing mass murder of human and non-human beings all in the name of profit by governments and corporations makes my Saturday night behaviour sound positively pedestrian. Gay men, however, are completely crackers though - it's official. Another definition of madness according to the Brain Dictionary is 'the name of a female fairy, especially the queen of the fairies, and hence, sometimes, any fairy.' Start waving those wands, boys.
Relationships and technology
Does technology have a positive or negative impact on our relationships? I was forced to ponder this question after spending most of last weekend shuffling between my computer screen or the TV. One argument is that technology leads to people spending more time alone which is creating a fragmented, chaotic society, in which traditional relationships are harder to sustain, and people's relationships to each other, reliant as they often are by machines, grow increasingly tenuous. TV and computers are cited as the chief culprits by proponents of this position.
My experience at the weekend appeared initially to prove the accuracy of this theory and I learned a valuable lesson: when your partner makes sexual advances towards you while you're watching TV, hit the 'record' button on your VCR and leap into the bedroom enthusiastically. I learned this lesson the hard way so am happy to share my advice with SX readers who may at some stage find themselves in the same boat. Do not commit the cardinal sin that I did last Sunday while watching the Eastenders omnibus when my girlfriend came over all fruity, I replied 'Oh let's just watch the final episode first'. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I was reminded of those huge roadside signs that proclaim 'Wrong Way. Go Back'. In this instance, the words 'Wrong Answer. Go Back' were ringing in my ears. But it was too late, the error had been made. Girlfriend went off in a huff for several hours while I thought of ways to redeem myself.
It's easy to take your partner for granted in a relationship, especially a long-term one and distractions like TV and computers can sometimes get in the way of real life. I was so engrossed with Dot Cotton's marriage troubles and what would happen to Robbie Jackson's dog Wellard if he went to live in India, that I quite forgot about my own domestic arrangements. Accusations of neglect were fired at me. "I'm an internet widow", girlfriend wailed. "You talk to strange people all over the world, but not to me. And if it's not the computer, you've got your head buried in the telly." Ooops.
The
other argument is that technology allows people to connect with a wider
set of friends and lovers, thereby increasing their sociability and potential
for relationships. I suppose, with most things, the best path is trodden
somewhere between the two extremes. After a somewhat heated discussion
that ended with me grovelling in apology and running into the house screaming
after being sprayed with water from the garden hose, all was quiet on
the western front again, as girlfriend and I settled down later that evening
- together - to watch Captain Janeway's latest efforts at getting her
starship back to the Alpha quadrant in Star Trek: Voyager. Naturally the
VCR remote control was not too far away.
Find Your Fetish
As Leather Pride kicks off this weekend, I thought I'd give this week's column a fetish or kink edge. While I'm not particularly hardcore in my activities, I do have a rich fantasy life in which power-play and S/M feature fairly predominantly - whether it's Geena Davis as President Mackenzie Allen punishing her press secretary Kelly for various transgressions in Commander in Chief, or reliving my schooldays where my old bag of a PE teacher, formerly a member of the England Women's Cricket team, gets creative on my arse with various implements. Too much information? Maybe, but as a journalist I don't expect people to share personal information with me in interviews if I'm not prepared to dish on myself now and then - and I am leading somewhere with this…really.
The Leather Pride week organised by the Sydney Leather Pride Association offers an assortment of workshops and events celebrating people's various fetishes and indulgences that are generally seen to be outside the mainstream. But it's not all just about PVC and whips, there's any number of things that can be considered kinky - like having sex while listening to The Seekers, as I did this weekend. After digging out some old albums, I was so excited by the protest song 'We Shall Not Be Moved' (currently my song of the week), that my long-suffering girlfriend - used to my occasionally bizarre idiosyncrasies - agreed to my bringing a compilation CD of the group into the bedroom on Sunday for musical accompaniment to our scheduled shagging session (yes, scheduled - we lead busy lives, ok!) . Oh, that's nothing, I hear you some of you say - background music while fucking is normal, even if it is saccharin-soaked, happy-clappy '60s folk pop. Well, that may be the case for songs about knowing you'll 'never find another you', but when you get into 'I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing' territory while licking your girlfriend's nipples, it gets a little out of the ordinary. And trying to enjoy cunnilingus to 'Morning Has Broken' and wondering if you'll come before Judith Durham belts out 'Kumbaya' is, in my books, entering surreal territory (try it if you don't believe me).
Why celebrate kink and fetish, some may ask - why not have 'vanilla' pride each year? Because 'normal' sexual practices aren't attacked so regularly or vigorously by right-wing fundamentalists, as the documentary Inside Deep Throat shows (whatever the 'truth' about Linda Lovelace's experiences in the infamous porn film of the '70s, it is a frightening account of a government censoring sexuality). While the original movie's plot was downright silly (a doctor discovers a woman's clitoris is in her throat and the only way she can have amazing orgasms is to give blow jobs), it brought discussions of fellatio into the open and dissipated shame around the practice. Gay Pride allows same-sex attracted people not to feel shame about their sexuality, and Leather Pride does the same for kinky folk. And no one should be ashamed of enjoying The Seekers…because we're on the road to freedom, people, and we shall not be moved.
I've joined this MySpace thing (www.myspace.com). Not quite sure why, really, but Debbie Harry has, so why not? Yeah, ok, so it's not really her, but her management company maximising yet another PR opportunity - and it appears to be working, with a plethora of fans writing messages beginning 'Dear Debbie' and adding 'her' to their 'extended network' (and no, I'm not one of them!). MySpace has become to online social networking what Google has to search engines. Not got enough friends? Vain creature who can only survive with a huge social circle and continual supply of real or feigned adoration? Then create a MySpace profile, upload photos, write a blog, and specify who you'd like to meet. In less than 15 minutes or however long it takes you to do this, you'll have anywhere from five to 500 instant new 'friends', with more signing up daily. The more generic your specifications (read 'less fussy'), the more 'friends' you'll accumulate. Even the most socially reclusive of people, can, it seems, find a way to connect with others through this virtual community. Except me. I signed up two weeks ago, and I've still only got one 'friend' - Tom - and he's the one everyone who joins MySpace gets initially (I guess it's a thoughtful marketing technique to avoid people feeling like total freaks if no one else pops up straight away). "I'm here to help you with MySpace," Tom proclaims. "If you try to view my friends list, you won't see all 24,000,000 million people. This was bogging down the system." Show-off.
I suppose I'm not really surprised. I only joined the thing because I was concerned I might be missing something, which is not like me at all. If that were the case I'd watch reality TV (The Starlet has become an exception in my viewing habits because it has Faye Dunaway as a panelist - and just to digress for a moment, check out http://worldofwonder.net/image1/faye-1.mp3 to hear a selection of irate answerphone messages the diva left recently on the machine of a producer trying to make a documentary about her, berating him for wanting to include "that awful cult film" Mommie Dearest. Oh dear). Anyway, the point is, I barely have enough time to communicate properly with the friends I do have (small in number, but I prefer quality to quantity), and I didn't want to be swamped with all sorts trying to add themselves to my list. So, I was very specific about who I'd like to meet: "Queer, lesbian, gay, bi, or transsexual/transgender vegans and animal rights activists; sex-positive queer, feminist writers; people who enjoy combining a sense of high-camp and glamour with ethical (cruelty-free) living". I expected just a few matches. But so far, Tom is my only 'friend' and he doesn't even fit the requirements. The annoying thing is, I'm a tad put out. I must be going soft in my old age. Damn - I can feel a 'Dear Debbie' message coming on…
Talent
versus beauty and which is more likely to help you get on in life is an
age-old debate, but in an era where Big Brother evictions are deemed worthy
of news headlines, and Paris Hilton can break into the music industry,
perhaps it's timely to revisit the subject.
Okay, with Paris, it's money that's bought her fame, but let's face it,
if she were a total troll, that sex video would never have sold so well.
Researchers in Italy have come to the conclusion that handsome or beautiful
people (as judged by Western standards of course) perform better in exams
and therefore later in life than those considered to be plain or ugly,
The Sunday Times reported this week. The study by Giam Pietro Cipriani,
associate professor of economics at the University of Verona, and his
colleague Angelo Zago found that those graded higher in the beauty stakes
achieved a 36% better performance than those graded 'homely'. Reasons
for this could, they argue, be due to discrimination (teachers giving
prettier students more attention), or the fact that attractive people
have higher self-esteem and are therefore more confident in their abilities).
Previous research, apparently, has shown that better-looking people have more success at job interviews and in finding a spouse. But if that's the case - how to explain John Howard and George Bush? Running the country could reasonably be argued as having 'got on' in life and both have managed to join in matrimonial harmony with a female of the species, but 'good-looking' is not among the adjectives that come to mind when describing either of them. 'Homely' is pushing it, and even 'boot' is being kind.
It's debatable just how useful this kind of research is. Telling kids they'll only do well in life if they're considered attractive is surely setting them up for a lifetime of insecurities. While it may benefit the pretty children in class at the time, it makes those of us with frizzy hair and middle partings (don't even talk to me about Crimplene) feel inferior. And if you're a frizzy-haired gal in a crimpo frock and grey duffel coat (some people should not be allowed to be parents) who also happens to fancy the pretty girls, it's a double whammy.
You're queer, which is bad enough in itself, according to the little bitches with nicely-chiselled features (like Marianne Shreeves, a budding beautician who got a Saturday job in a hairdressers' and put everyone else's hair in a French bun except yours), but to add insult to injury, you're stupid because you're not pretty and will never amount to anything. One of the things the research forgot to take into account, however, is that pretty children don't always grow up to be pretty adults. I joined Friends Reunited three years ago and found Marianne. Time had not been kind and there was not a French bun in sight. Revenge is sweet.
Vanity
versus self-esteem. When does a healthy pride in one's appearance or accomplishments
turn into narcissism and is the latter necessarily a bad thing? I had
cause to debate these issues on Sunday, after spending the whole of Saturday
daytime preparing for a night out on the town,
as well as analysing certain urges and behaviours which popped out during
the evening. My girlfriend, Tracie, and I had made plans to go to Pearl
Bar's women-only disco night, and when I say plans, I mean military-style
strategies to ensure things went smoothly and outcomes were achieved.
Yes, outcomes. There were four goals to be attained: dance the night away;
have fun; look fabulous; be seen to be looking fabulous. The first two,
for reasons beyond our control (namely DJs' definition of 'disco' music),
didn't come to fruition. With the latter two, however, we (and particularly
I) excelled.
Two hours of contorting myself into ridiculous positions to shave off every bit of body hair was followed by a further hour of blowdrying and occasional scalp-scalding as I applied straightening irons to the hair on my head, full drag make-up to my face and painted my nails, before sliding on a sexy silver mini-dress covered in 400 or so hand-sewn laser sequins and five-inch PVC platform boots. I convinced myself it was a bit like creating a piece of art, transforming a plain canvas into a glitzy masterpiece. That's the cerebral interpretation. Actually, it was merely a conscientious move on my part to embrace new-age positive mental programming to overcome negative messages instilled from early childhood, in order to make me a better person, willing and able to go out into the world and do good. I'm fully aware that it could be argued by some, unenlightened people that I was a vain lesbian determined to see how gorgeous I could still look, stop people in their tracks so they were sure to look at me, and to revel in a feeling of utter fabulousness. Honestly - me? As if.
I mean, come on, doesn't everyone make Freudian slips like "Well, I don't know about you darling, but I look fabulous," to their girlfriend while preening in the mirror, when what they thought they were going to say was 'I don't know about you darling, but I think I look fabulous'? After hours of preparation and self-torture, didn't I deserve that round of applause I got as I strutted onto the dancefloor? How could any right-minded person think I was conceited, when, sashaying to 'Carwash', I yelled out to Tracie 'Does my dress look fabulous under these lights?' How could I not succumb to erotic pleasure derived from contemplation or admiration of one's own body or self (dictionary definition of 'narcissism'), when most of the other dykes in the room had embraced the 13-year-old boy look? Some of us have to break stereotypes, and if a little vanity helps us do that…well, bring it on.
A few columns ago, I discussed the online social networking place, Myspace.com. I've managed to acquire an additional five 'friends' since then, but quite what we're supposed to do now, I don't know. I've never liked that initial polite conversation stuff you have to do with new people: 'nice weather', 'so, what do you do?'
That one always bugs me - what do I do when and which piece of information is more interesting to you? That I proofread the final pages for SX on Wednesday afternoons before it goes into production, or spend at least an hour most Sunday mornings masturbating while having slightly kinky fantasies set in downtown New York involving women wearing glitter eyeshadow? I also speak in a strange tongue when addressing my cat, with made-up words of affection such as 'choochy woochy ooboobooboochickitapussicatus'; shuffle my feet from side to side while singing the lyrics to Dr Hook's 'Who the Fuck is Alice?' to myself while waiting at traffic lights; and create my own social message T-shirts proclaiming such things as 'lesbian vegans will save the world' using an inkjet printer, special paper and an iron.
Being defined by your job gives an extremely limited picture of a person. The only time I've been truly interested in or impressed by someone's job and keen to know more is when I met a female Israeli fighter pilot 13 years ago at a party in London hosted by a gorgeous old dominatrix called Kate who, at only four-feet five inches in height, somehow got away with manoeuvring a large four-wheel-drive jeep through the city for 30 years while completely shitfaced on marijuana and not crash, even once.
Then there's the whole 'where are you from?' I know it's customary to reply with your city or country of birth, but aren't you so tempted to come back with 'my mother's cunt' every now and then, just to mix it up a bit and make the conversation less predictable? 'How are you?' has to be the most bland polite conversation opener since it's guaranteed to elicit a lie. We're like robots programmed with a small selection of acceptable standard answers, namely 'good', 'very well', 'great' or 'fine'. At least the last one as an acronym is more likely to offer some vestige of truth: Fucked-up Insecure Neurotic Emotional. I propose replacing the preposition now and then, again just to mix it up a bit - for example, 'why are you?' should be enough to induce psychological meltdown in your acquaintance and provide you with a few moments of amusement while they struggle with philosophical paradigms to try and come up with an answer.
I suppose I'd better get the ball rolling with my new Myspace 'friends'. You never know, one of them might also enjoy masturbating on Sunday mornings while having slightly kinky fantasies set in downtown New York involving women wearing glitter eyeshadow, and we can bond.
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